Sorry to have kept you waiting for an update... it is finals week at school and unfortunately is coinciding with the low point in this chemotherapy cycle. I've resisted posting during this time because I don't want to complain or even document too much of the negative part of this process, but I guess it's just feeling necessary this morning. Yesterday, I turned 34 and it was generally a good day. I had to go to school to turn in a project and help clean a few studios and then I came home a took a birthday nap with the cats. I then met up with a friend who shaved my head. Mark joined us to, and was very helpful in managing the videocamera and took some great stills, too. It was a great process of letting go. I'd given my hair a chance to fall out as much as the chemo was going to facilitate, and was ready to take the plunge into baldness. I'm still getting used to the sensations involved in having a bare scalp- it's been rainy and a little cold so having to come up with different strategies for staying warm and dry while having hot flashes every once in a while, too. After the haircut, I went to a great board meeting at the co-op and then came home.
As my birthday was approaching I realized that I was stuck between two ways of thinking about the length of my life. In the past, I've noted my age on my birthday in relation to an assumed life span of 100 years. So this birthday in the past would have automatically been indicative of entering the second third of my life. I've had to challenge that assumption over the last few months, and I'm now much more aware that none of us knows when our life will end. With the looming threats of this cancer sticking around or another type of cancer showing up in the future, I could still just get in a car accident tomorrow and be gone. And it's never been any different than that, but what's different is my awareness of that fact. I feel a little lost not knowing how much time I have left, but it's also strange that I'd been living with a potentially false assumption about my life expectancy. The take home message for me with all of these confusing thoughts is that it's how well I live each day that really matters, not so much that I collect a hundred years but that the years I collect are well spent. It's not an easy thing to digest, and I feel overwhelmed at the idea that I might not be fully taking advantage of each day. These thoughts make it hard for me to stop, rest, and breathe, because I don't want to miss out on an opportunity to do something important. The ironic thing is that I'm missing out on existence by not stopping to breathe!
The cold that I picked up a while back seems to have migrated into my lungs a bit, so hopefully the antibiotics I'm on will keep that at bay. I'm reminded of a strong memory from fifth grade science camp when I got laryngitis and laid in bed at night listening to the sound of my lungs wheezing. It is grey and cold outside today, and I would love to just stay in bed so maybe I will. This is no fun. What brings me some solace is that I know it will soon pass. I won't feel like this forever, and it could be a lot worse and it's not. I struggle with finding a balance between honoring the negative emotions and painful body sensations that come with a need for positive outlook and hope. I'm scared that I will continue to feel worse as treatment goes on, which is a little silly since almost every doctor I've talked to said that is what I should expect. I guess it's just feeling more scary now that I have a sense for how it physically feels. I'm used to being able to do anything at any time and I don't like having to admit that I need to stop and rest, to let things go like turning in a final paper on time for an A. So I'm going to practice stopping right... now.
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