Cancer Meditations IV

On the Battlefield

The battlefield surrounds me. The enemy is multi-dimensional, multi-modular. I duck from the bullets whirling past me. I hear the cacophony of sounds, the vibration of attack. I just need to hang on.

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What worked yesterday doesn’t work today. Cancer is a game of pivots and whack-a-mole. Victory is measured in breaths.

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102-degree fever, no cancer:
Take a Tylenol.

102-degree fever, cancer:
Full sepsis, COVID-19, infection work-up, chest x-rays, urine samples, stool samples, blood samples, CT scans, and in-patient hospitalization for days. A five-alarm emergency that mobilizes an army of white coats. Life amplified.

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I’m on so many meds that the world doesn’t feel normal. I float between star-studded darkness to a watery lucidity where I cower from nausea. I am a visitor in my own body.

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There is no time in hospitals or casinos.

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I was finally able to stomach a sandwich today. It felt like one of my most significant accomplishments - in line with awards I've won and races I’ve raced. My how quickly perspective shifts.

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I’m dehydrated, but all I do is drink. My body is a leaky bucket; I’m accidentally drowning myself in futility.

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There is no greater luxury than a private hospital room.

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I’m one of the strongest people I know, but this fight isn’t about strength. It’s clearing my mind, expectations, and sense of self. All I can do now is be receptive to change.

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I can’t bring myself to eat. It feels insurmountable to surpass the nausea, the pain, the looming diarrhea. I can feel myself wilting.

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I love the sound of IV machines - I picture a train whirring through rainfall in a distant countryside, the water splashing at every turn.

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I laughed when my radiation oncologist told me, but the Koch Cancer Center truly has the best gift shop.

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I used to be afraid of needles; I no longer have that privilege. Necessity trumps all.

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All of the doctors have been telling me not to worry about my anti-inflammatory, cancer-free diet and to eat white bread. I finally understand that it’s because it’s the only thing my body can handle.

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Wheelchair-bound, I watch the runners along the water every day on our way to treatment. I’ll never take a run for granted again. I promise myself I’ll be back.

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I’ve come to embrace the moment before fainting. Darkness closes in, and you can hang on and withstand it if you lose your body and hold onto the pace of your breath. You will always come back to the light.

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Too exhausted to exist, to connect, to think. Chemoradiation is a forced time-out, a time of silence. A silence too heavy to bear fruit.

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Every time I speak to another patient here, I am completely humbled. The body can learn to endure any suffering. Everything normalizes with time.