The crack is where the light enters

Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View, Cornelia Parker, 1991

I am almost done with this cycle of chemoradiation—I finished chemotherapy today and have two external radiation sessions left. It feels like forever since I left San Francisco, but I'm also gripped with the uncertainty of not knowing when I'll be back or when I’ll feel better. It's a time of waiting, a time of the unknown, and a time of realizing that any semblance of control I thought I had was an illusion to begin with.

I had so many ambitions for this rare time—time to reflect, create, dream, and spend with family and friends—but I neglected to foresee how much the pure burden of simply getting through the day would be. I am completely and totally exhausted to my bones; all I can do is manage my pain, manage my nausea and sleep. I find solace in Mary Oliver's words that this is more than enough:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on."

The soft animal of my body eats and sleeps. I hibernate, lying unaware of what else exists in the world. All of the energy I have goes to fighting.

It's been nothing short of a saga so far. On one hand, it's something to be expected—the doctors are intentionally causing harm with a longer-term view of healing. But I was utterly blindsided by the rest. Every week has brought a new opponent to weaken me: severe blood loss, anemia, low blood pressure, infections, colds. I fight on, power up with IV hydration and blood transfusions, and pray to make it another day.

I'm scared to write that I'm through the worst of it—the worst being unstoppable hemorrhaging—because I don't know what else awaits me. I'm a regular at the emergency room. The furthest I can walk without fainting is to the bathroom. But somewhere in there, I've adjusted. This is my reality. I have no option but to completely live in the now.

The next stage—internal radiation—is more invasive and more painful. It requires anesthesia and hospitalization. And all of the treatments are cumulative; they continue to affect my body long after I'm officially done. I don't know when I will feel better, but I know the darkest hour is always before dawn.

As bleak as it feels on any given day, I hang hope on the pure fact that my cancer is curative. There are varying odds of success for different outcomes, but there is a clear path where I emerge from this hell cancer-free for many years to come. My family and I have done everything possible to give myself the best chance of survival. I am with the best hospital and the best doctors. And so far, the treatment appears to be working. I'll know more in the next few days, but I had a scan recently where the tumor appeared to have shrunk.

I think about dying stars and how their light remains long after they've extinguished. I think about how many stars in our sky are still alive and how many are all spiraling toward their form of decay. All inner life runs at some delay. How long tumors remain once they've died, and what light fills the newfound space.