5.24.06b, [Guest blog, by Princess] Fear is the Heart of Love

“Fear is the Heart of Love”
21 May 2006

If the price of a plane ticket comes with a guest blog slot, then here I am to claim my prize. Oboy oboy. I got to come for the restaging, which in and of itself was worthwhile for the great news that was disseminated. When presented with the opportunity to write something, I have to admit my initial reaction was that of the student to her professor, "Ugh, what do I have to write about?? I have nothing to say . . ."

Then, too many allergy pills and one Ambien-fuzzed red eye flight later, here are my reflections on the trip, if they might give anyone insight into the experience of being a 'cancer groupie.'

It is a strange moment in life, looking at someone you think you know well and realizing that something is wrong. It gets more complicated, because it's not readily obvious (beyond the flamingly obvious) what the problem is. Small, barely perceptible things . . . new facial expressions that I haven't seen before, new grunts, moans, and sighs through the course of the day, restless motions and twitching throughout the night. The strain of day to day that becomes so pronounced, you'd do anything to help shoulder the burden if it'd lighten his load.

It's the cancer talking and its got a whole new vocabulary. A three dimensional volumetric mass, egotistical and needy, spouting words like 'metastasis,' 'locally advanced,' and 'unresectable' . . . constantly making its presence known. Questions like "Does it hurt?" become superficial, as the answer is usually yes. Better to ask "How does it hurt?" or "How much does it hurt?" and try to deal accordingly even as there is no way for me to understand the pain.

And then comes the balancing job, many balancing jobs for everyone involved. How to be encouraging without pushing too hard? How to be optimistic and not cross the line into unrealistic? How to make plans around a three week chemo cycle, live life from one restaging to the next, possibly even enjoy life when the cancer looms omnipresent.

That's looking forward, to a future that's about as promising as hitting the Mega Millions jackpot. But then looking back: It's the end of May. That puts us at two months down, two long/short months post diagnosis. The rhetorical question of "if you only had __ number of months to live . . . " isn't so rhetorical anymore, and even at this point the process of reflection is rife with thoughts of coulda this, shoulda that, and other such regrets.

Even more complicated than the physical pain that I can't begin to understand, there's the emotional tumult that I am too inexperienced with to even broach. I want to scream at him, like Sam to Frodo in LOTR, "Don't go where I can't follow," but he's already gone it seems. I just have to learn that nothing between us is personal anymore . . . I can't try to read the intent behind his words and actions because there is none– his mind is elsewhere, consumed with more 'big picture' thoughts and battling the daily drudgery.

Somehow, from a vantage point of 3000 miles away the questions only get louder and more insistent. I wonder and doubt, how I can be strong for him when I feel so scared, and really need him to be strong for me? These are moments when the best I can muster is to turn away, or leave the room so at least he doesn't have to see me cry. The voices in my head pontificate on whether it'd be safer and wiser, emotionally, to plan my life with him around, or with him gone. For how long? 6-8 months? Ten months??

There's this unintentional habit that I've adopted of late – I see cancer everywhere and I can't seem to escape it. I try to read a book and one of the characters falls ill. I try to watch TV and all the characters are suffering from bowel distress. There's been a lot of reference to the HBO series "The Sopranos," and I will conclude with yet another. Ever notice how there only seems to be two routes of exit from that series? You can either 1. get 'whacked,' or 2. die of cancer. It's a prevalent theme and coincidentally, all the cancers are GI (gastrointestinal) related. One character in the third season actually dies while sitting on the toilet doing his 'business.' As a threat to a doctor who won't operate on Uncle Junior's cancer, Furio makes the comment "You know, there are worse things than can happen to a person other than cancer." Let's hope this bit of infinite TV wisdom rings true.