I'm halfway through chemo. I haven't been posting as many musings lately because I've been busy with other things. Some of those things are "figuring out if this joint pain is normal" (the answer is yes, and it's not that bad), some of those things have to do with my work (which is super fun and going well, actually), but I'm awake (the premeds in taxol have steroids in them and the first night after receiving treatment is a little tricky) and I want to talk about how weird it is to have cancer with a very positive prognosis. To have cancer and to not really be worried, at this point, about having cancer.
Mostly I want to talk about two of my friends.
One was a friend I made on Twitter, very casually, a number of years ago. She had cancer, she was dying, and she knew she was dying. Many, many people, people she'd encounter in daily life, friends, some of the many medical professionals she encountered regularly (not her doctors but the various people you encounter as you move through a hospital -- there are LOTS), wouldn't acknowledge this. They would tell her that miracles could happen, that you should never give up hope, etc. etc. She would post about how frustrating this was, and how strange it was to move through a world of people who really did know what her situation was, where she knew what her situation was, and they couldn't look her in the eye and sit with her in the reality of that. She talked about how isolating it was, and I felt so bad for her. I still feel terrible for her. It must have been very lonely in those moments to have to try to break through this discomfort that people have with death, which is a thing that will happen to all of us, and to not be clearly seen by the people who really needed to see her.
When I left Twitter, we exchanged email addresses, and we corresponded a bit, but she preferred the casual nature of social media sites, where you could see how someone was doing without either person having to do yet another thing to maintain that connection. She was really cool, and I liked her a lot. Dying can take longer than you think, so I figured maybe we'd meet sometime, eventually. She did die. I found out because she stopped posting, she didn't respond to emails, and another friend who lived in the same city as her posted to let us know that she was gone. I wish she were still here. I wish I had asked her more questions, sent her more cat photos. Having spoken to our mutual friend since initially writing this post, I've come back to edit it. I think she'd be happy for me that I'm not dying. You never get to know how the dead feel, but maybe they're more forgiving than we initially imagine. Hearing from our mutual friend, and thinking back on the ways that she moved on social media, she was a person who was frustrated by what she was going through, and always happy for other people when they got good news. I don't even manage this now. I wish I'd known her better. It's strange to think so much about someone that I didn't know for that long, or very well. But I get the feeling that she was that kind of person. Someone you remember.
I had another friend who had a different kind of cancer and responded remarkably well to treatments, and lived well beyond the projections (years and years beyond a monthslong prognosis). He did so well for so long that I think he thought he'd just keep doing well, and getting those miracles, and having those medical procedures go as well as possible. Inevitably, he began to decline, and I'd visit him every week. Initially we'd go for walks around his neighborhood. Later we'd hang out around his house. As things got worse, I'd sit in the room they converted to be a bedroom, because he couldn't manage stairs. Eventually, he passed away. And he really didn't want to go. He intended to live, he had plans, he did not acknowledge that he was dying, ever, to me. Even when it was very clear that he was.
He wasn't alone, he had a wife, a cat, lots of friends, a brother who would visit on the same schedule as me but earlier, and we'd say hi as we'd pass each other going to and from our cars. I need to see how that guy's doing, actually, but I'll probably forget tomorrow, and when we do inevitably run into each other at, like, Costco, we can both honestly say, "Oh, I meant to reach out, but you know how it is!" because that is the nature of being alive.
Lest you think that I am a perfect friend, or a big weirdo who loves to befriend and spend time with people who are dying, I am neither. I just know that a lot of people can't sit in that situation and not make it worse. I can do it, and so I do. It's really, really useful to know what kind of person you are when your friends get sick! For everyone involved. The person I was seeing at the time would always say, "Oh that's really heavy," or "That must be really hard," if I mentioned that I was going to visit, and no, actually, it wasn't. It was just adjusting to where that person was, acknowledging that reality, and not trying to make it better, or fix it, or pretend it wasn't happening. It was the new normal way I spent time with that person, and while it was different, it wasn't bad. It was just nice. Those were great visits, and I'm really glad I got that time with that person. It is not a terrible, brave burden to <checks notes> hang out with your friends. It can be a little strange and awkward sometimes, but you figure it out. This is true of most social situations, regardless of whether any parties are actively dying!
I've been very lucky to have so many friends who have made a point to stay connected to me in the ways that they are able, and see me clearly. Some go for walks with me. Some ask if I need food (and I tell them they'll have to fight my mom). Some check to see if I need rides to treatment (and I tell them that they'll have to fight my parents). Some send texts or emails or postcards, etc. etc. My partner is sleeping in the other room right now, and it's entirely likely that he'll wake up before me, take care of my cats, make coffee, allowing me to sleep in, which is a thing I don't get to do when he's not over because the smallest cat will hassle me for breakfast until I get up. He doesn't have to do any of that. He reminds me that this is a thing he can do for me, and so he does, and if and when I need him to do more, he will. I built a life that happened to include a lot of lovely people, and I'm so grateful.
So having said that, and now all of you who are my friends know I'm not talking about you here, I think that a lot of people are very uncomfortable in situations where you have to 1. acknowledge that things are weird and bad and you can't fix them 2. be close to illness and possible impending death 3. watch those you care about decline. And when I say "people are very uncomfortable" I mean everybody, including the people who are going through the difficult things. Even when you're not dying, if you're going through something that changes you, the acknowledgment of what you once were and what you are now can be a slow, painful process. I have spoken about this in my own journey in previous blogs.
I don't know what the point of any of this is, other than to remind readers of this blog that: 1. I am not dying 2. I would tell you if I were dying because I'm just like that 2a. I would hope that you could sit with me in that reality and not try to make it something else in an attempt to "make things better" 3. People die unexpectedly all the time (ask me how I know), and they don't even get to reckon with how they feel about it before it happens. (In certain cases, perhaps they do, but maybe they should have reckoned with it MORE.)
In conclusion, having cancer is not great. But for me, personally, it hasn't been what I thought it would be. It's a thing I'm going through. It's a lot of time at the hospital. It's full of physical and mental changes (none of which have been particularly cool or fun, though everyone assures me that I look really good bald, and I agree. Like a tiny Telly Savalas. Or, as one friend said, "A sexy Yul Brynner"). But I know where I'm at, I know what I need to do, I believe my doctors when they take my hands and look me in the eye and tell me that I'm doing well, and I'm going to continue doing well, and at the end of this, I'll be better (my medical oncologist is both great and VERY intense and I love her). And I know myself well enough to know that if it's true, I'll be happy. And if it doesn't go the way we all hope it will, I'll still be happy.
I think constantly about how much time is enough time. (I do this because I adopt elderly cats.) The answer to this is "whatever you get. However much time." I've said this before. I've said this since the beginning. This is an answer that resonates with me, and it makes so many things easier.
No comments:
Post a Comment