The doctor’s office just called. My platelet count is down to 40 (normal is 150-400). They warned me to be careful with knives, not to operate a chain saw, etc.) I said I wouldn’t. I may have another blood test before the weekend. My hemoglobin is way low also. I am so tired I got dressed this morning and flopped down on the bed in exhaustion from the effort. I sat down three times changing our king-sized bed on Sunday. I sat and read all day yesterday, including an hour-long nap. Walking up stairs makes me huff and puff.
I also feel icky. “Icky,” in case you’re not sure, means “messy, disgusting, horrid, nasty,” according to my computer thesaurus. My IPhone app, a bit more idiomatic, says “crappy, lousy, rotten, shitty, stinky, probably from 1935 icky-boo, ‘sickly, nauseated,’ probably baby-talk elaboration of sick.” My friend Anne-Marie gets pretty close in guessing what it’s like—like unto the feeling you have the next day if you’ve had way too much to drink the day before. Your body buzzes. It feels, well, of course, poisoned. Every cell is in rebellion. The skin’s sensitive. There’s a slight sense of nausea and food is wretched to contemplate. The air around you is unsettled, kind of a “whump, whump” feeling, as if you were in a car with one window a little open in the back.
The inside of my mouth feels a bit numb as well as bad-tasting. The taste buds aren’t working right. Oh well, I’ve said this before. Nothing new.
That’s the thing. “How are you?” people ask. They’re hoping to hear, “Oh, better now.” or “Not bad, doing okay”—something to which they can then respond, “So glad to hear it.” I sometimes imagine a tendency for people to want to pull away if I say “Not good at all. I still feel awful.” People like me, who’ve always wanted to fix things, feel frustrated when we can’t. But we can’t. What we can do is just be present. Just be concerned, say we’re sorry.
This blog has put me in touch with several people who’ve had their endometrial cancer return, or who have other life-threatening illnesses. And a couple of people who are clearly dying and know it. They’re me. And they’re not me. I can’t explain that, but I know it to be true. I’m deeply sad, thinking of the pain and fear I see. And those (at least 50%) who’re well now, who’ve had no return of the cancer, those I’m also separate and not separate from—where are they? I figure they’re quiet about it. Maybe they don’t want to alert the gods! After all, nothing’s sure. At any moment. . . .This is the way it is, whether we see it or not.
I’m also thinking about those with chronic illnesses, those who constantly feel bad. I’ve been at this for nearly six months and already I feel like a bore saying how I am. Let’s talk about writing, politics, anything else, okay? But really, how I feel is registering with me every minute. So when I talk about something else, this is lurking, waiting to take center stage again. Think of those who hurt or feel sick all the time! No wonder there’s a withdrawal. First of all, there’s no energy to shop or go to concerts or read complicated essays, and second, the attention must keep rounding back to “me, me,” my illness, how I feel.
I’ll feel better in a week or so. My experience has shown me this is the case. My blood counts will start to improve (I might end up having to have a transfusion to make that happen!). I may have to postpone the next (last) chemo. But it will happen, and I will start to get better.
Still, I’m giving up my always-anticipated-with-joy teaching in the residency of the Rainier Writing Program this summer. I don’t think I have the energy to engage all day long, day after day, with the necessary intensity. I’ll miss the faculty and students, a lot. I’ll miss the mental stimulation. But I think of this as temporary. I see myself jumping back in, full force, next year.
And I keep writing stuff, which has saved my soul over and over again. I can’t say why, but it’s what necessarily emerges from what I call “me,” and shapes this “me” as much as any damn fool collection of errant cells.