Chemo's lost its charm

It's hard to describe the kind of "illness" I felt most accutely on Sunday and Monday, and a little less yesterday, because it's not like any other illness I've had.

I even hesitate in using the word "illness" because it implies being sick against my will, which I'm not.


The real illness I barely even know/knew I have/had. (Let's hope it's "had".)



 Theodoric of York-Medieval Barber

 I was informed of the real illness after a series of consultations, biopsies by Medieval barbers  involving leeches, scans, injections, and pokings and proddings.

I had no idea there was a problem until my annual mammogram "indicated an architectural abnormality", as announced by one of the first radiologists to offer an opinion.

I love listening to the communication skills of medical professionals delivering bad news. Their gracelessness can be fascinating.

Another phrase this radiologist offered was "it looks like early cancer".

How young and naive I was when he used that hopeful phrase!

"Early cancer."

This phrase was like a voluptuous seed about to sprout in my mind, and when it sprouted, it carried many expectations that later proved false...

Expectations such as, if it's early, it must be small, discreet and require little treatment.

*******

The fake illness is the result of the treatment I've agreed to subject myself to. It's the result of the poisons I'm allowing into my body to kill the illness I can't even tell I have.

The effects of the fake illness are far greater than the real illness, although I'm told that if I didn't subject myself to the fake illness the real illness's symptoms would have been the harbinger of death.

The fake illness is like a bad flu without the fever. It's like a cold without the respiratory symptoms. It's disturbing and depressing. It's unnatural and alien. It's exhausting and unkind. It smells bad. It's got all the pleasure of a rat's nest.


An imp


It's like being assaulted by imps and demons out of an Isaac Bashevis Singer story.

I feel like holding my body at arm's length, but I can't.

I have the ability to both observe and experience.

I like to watch, as they say. But this fake illness makes me feel so bad that I get little pleasure out of observing my body's anomolies.

I'm starting to think that I just want this all to be over. I want to hunker down and wait for treatment to pass. Unfortunately, there's lots yet to come.

*******

Yesterday I drove to work. I don't normally, but I felt bad enough to know that I wouldn't want to crawl to the bus stop, do the whole mask gig, work a number of hours, and then do the same crawl-mask-bus routine at the end of the day.

While at work, one of my favorite coworkers who circumstantially went through breast cancer treatment about ten years ago came by my desk and asked me how I was. I told her.

She said "Chemo's lost its charm, eh?"

That made me laugh.

She's the same one that old me "You've fallen down the rabbit hole," when the stress of diagnosis was starting to get to me.

Now, she's a communicator.

*******

After work I drove to the cancer temple to drop off some paperwork. I had to go to the Oncology department and as I stood waiting for the receptionist, I realized how much I dislike that place. When I go in for treatment and/or consultation, I'm there out of necessity and I can smother my repulsion for my disease and its treatment.

Being there voluntarily and not for treatment, I was caught off-guard and hadn't mustered my psychological defenses against how much I don't like what's happening to me.

Ugh.