the first treatment

On Tuesday they gave me chemo. Since my liver is ragingly infected with tumors they hit it with one of two waves. First to the right side addressing on of the primary blood supplies and then, once I’m recovered, in the left, to go in and address the other half. This is a very aggressive treatment that leaves me feeling rather worse for wear in the meantime; when I stand I buckle slightly on my right side and wonder at which point my soreness will cause be to clutch my side and fall back, I never seem to be quite ready for the long spasmy stretches of pain the accompany these breakdowns. The good news is that my advanced treatment has also rather simplified many of the priorities in my life on the short horizon; I worry conspicuously less regarding my life plan and much more towards my short-term survival goals.

Although I am sore and quite considerably less active that a week ago I feel measurably positive regarding this week’s activities; namely that I participated in any. I feel moderately inclined to continue doing things as well which I take to be encouraging, though life has not seized my hand for a frenzied romp into the unknown I’ll settle for a stroll through the early strains of a sunny Sunday afternoon particularly well shot through with long breaks for beauty naps and thinking breaks. I tire very quickly these days, perhaps due to the sickness, perhaps I just take myself too seriously, but regardless, the beautiful still moments where I can catch my breath and peer into life around me I catch myself watching and wondering, finding the time to look around and inquire, to wonder and appreciate. I believe that I am truly lucky in that my wonderful family allows me to most fully experience this time to its fullest. They have held me up limb by limb and carried me through this process unfailingly. As the true seriousness of my condition has become apparent from passing to serious to threatening and finally even stretching into a reaching unknown wrongness I have had to come to increasing terms with the fact that things might not be okay this time. While this kind of thinking limits many of your horizons it also takes a certain amount of pressure off of your psyche, when you have to accept less it comes with a bit more grace.

           

I hope that this doesn’t kill me. I am not familiar with feeling like my life is soon to be over; while I’m not nor have I ever been enamored of the idea of growing old, it is equally strange to think I might not exist sometime soon, that I won’t live to bear a family of my own or see my friends grow old. I want to think that my young age, my fiery personality, my stubborn tenacity, and my will to win will carry me through this fight but the fear lingers like the clammy sweats that have plagued me since the chemo: maybe things have changed. Maybe this will beat me.

            

In the meantime I try to recount my blessings.  I remember my youth and the rarity of my case and hope it makes me eligible for case studies or experimental treatments that might change my final answer. We are not meant to accept the certainty of our own deaths as natural and at 25 such a thing seems inconceivable. The progression from sick, to in-treatment, to dying is a surreal one that shies away from logical check-ins along rational roads. When I open my eyes in the morning, I wake to pain that flares its fingers underneath my right ribcage. It grabs the edge and twists as I sit up, reminding me that all is not well. With each inhale or turn to the side it digs a bit deeper into my flank like a deep breath I can’t quite catch. The slow progress, positive or negative through my treatment, makes it bearable.  While I don’t have leaps and bounds to draw strength from, I can breathe through the recovery pains, breathe through the spasms until they stretch and pass. As the days roll on I am hoping to build a resistance, build up a fight to the drugs and the pain as the stakes get higher.