Losing myself in slow motion
It is getting harder. Everything. Waking up. The nightmares. Being present in everyday conversations. Just existing.
I missed the season finale of Poldark because I couldn't keep my eyes open. Ended up going to bed at 7:15. Luckily, we can watch it anytime. I thought I used to sleep a lot....it is much worse now. I go to bed around 8 usually and sleep until 10:30 the next morning. 14 1/2 hours. I nap every afternoon from around 2:30 to 4:30. Add that up to 16 1/2 hours per day! Sometimes more.
And the sleep is deep and dark, filled with crazy nightmares and surreal dreams. I dream that I am in a hotel with my family and a few cousins. All I want to do is sleep but I keep being brought children to take care of. Crying children whom I do not know. I am exhausted and want to give the children to someone else to care for, but no one will accept them.
I know what the dreams mean. I'm a long time expert on dream interpretation. I am given burdens that I do not feel capable of handling. Yet, I always manage. I never drop that baby.
The other day, T and I were driving in the car and I suddenly knew exactly how I felt. Remember in Back to the Future when Marty realizes that he is fading away? That parts of his body are missing? That is how I feel. As if I am slowly but surely fading away.
It doesn't hurt, not really. It just is. My world has been carved away little by little. We don't go out much anymore. The chemo leaves sores in my mouth and makes it hard to eat. No matter. I'm not hungry anyway. Yet, T constantly nags me to eat, so I try. Last night, she made me an egg for dinner. I ate that. It made T feel better.
"It's protein anyway," she said.
On several occasions, we have gone out to eat and I have come perilously close to falling asleep before the end of the meal. The warmth of the restaurant and the lull of voices sent me into a somnambulant state. As we walked out to our car, I had to hold on to T's arm. The fatigue had overtaken me.
Sometimes after a shower, I am too tired to dry myself off. I stand shivering as T towels me off briskly. My arms are simply too tired to raise. She leads me to bed and gently, gently sets me in and then sits on the edge telling me how much she loves me. Most of the time, I fall asleep before she leaves. The pull of sleep is just too strong.
I was reading an article the other day that 82% of oncologists who get metastatic cancer decide not to get treatment. That surprised me. When asked why they felt this way, most said it was because they had watched their patients suffer so much with treatment that they felt it was not worth it to have a few extra months but not have the quality of life that they wanted.
I am beginning to see their point. Is this worth it? All the mouth sores? The puking? The bone pain? What is my quality of life? I don't really enjoy feeling as if I am a sliver of my former self. I do try to stay involved. In my awake hours, I read and watch the news. I talk to my loved ones. But, if I am honest with myself, the truth is that I am only partially there. The other part of me is in this gray hazy place where all I can think is that I am so very tired. Or that I need to find a bathroom NOW.
I have moments where I am so totally gobsmacked by a sunset or something lovely. I believe that I see everything in a heightened state now. I love those moments. But, I always have to sink back into that hard, tired place.
I think it is probably worth it.
But, one day I fear I will awaken and find that my arm is gone or my leg. I feel as if I am losing so many bits and pieces of myself in slow motion. It is frightening.
But, I go on. Because there is still coffee to look forward to. My loves. The way the bed feels so warm and inviting. That book waiting for me to finish it.
I pick up the sword and move on.
I missed the season finale of Poldark because I couldn't keep my eyes open. Ended up going to bed at 7:15. Luckily, we can watch it anytime. I thought I used to sleep a lot....it is much worse now. I go to bed around 8 usually and sleep until 10:30 the next morning. 14 1/2 hours. I nap every afternoon from around 2:30 to 4:30. Add that up to 16 1/2 hours per day! Sometimes more.
And the sleep is deep and dark, filled with crazy nightmares and surreal dreams. I dream that I am in a hotel with my family and a few cousins. All I want to do is sleep but I keep being brought children to take care of. Crying children whom I do not know. I am exhausted and want to give the children to someone else to care for, but no one will accept them.
I know what the dreams mean. I'm a long time expert on dream interpretation. I am given burdens that I do not feel capable of handling. Yet, I always manage. I never drop that baby.
The other day, T and I were driving in the car and I suddenly knew exactly how I felt. Remember in Back to the Future when Marty realizes that he is fading away? That parts of his body are missing? That is how I feel. As if I am slowly but surely fading away.
It doesn't hurt, not really. It just is. My world has been carved away little by little. We don't go out much anymore. The chemo leaves sores in my mouth and makes it hard to eat. No matter. I'm not hungry anyway. Yet, T constantly nags me to eat, so I try. Last night, she made me an egg for dinner. I ate that. It made T feel better.
"It's protein anyway," she said.
On several occasions, we have gone out to eat and I have come perilously close to falling asleep before the end of the meal. The warmth of the restaurant and the lull of voices sent me into a somnambulant state. As we walked out to our car, I had to hold on to T's arm. The fatigue had overtaken me.
Sometimes after a shower, I am too tired to dry myself off. I stand shivering as T towels me off briskly. My arms are simply too tired to raise. She leads me to bed and gently, gently sets me in and then sits on the edge telling me how much she loves me. Most of the time, I fall asleep before she leaves. The pull of sleep is just too strong.
I was reading an article the other day that 82% of oncologists who get metastatic cancer decide not to get treatment. That surprised me. When asked why they felt this way, most said it was because they had watched their patients suffer so much with treatment that they felt it was not worth it to have a few extra months but not have the quality of life that they wanted.
I am beginning to see their point. Is this worth it? All the mouth sores? The puking? The bone pain? What is my quality of life? I don't really enjoy feeling as if I am a sliver of my former self. I do try to stay involved. In my awake hours, I read and watch the news. I talk to my loved ones. But, if I am honest with myself, the truth is that I am only partially there. The other part of me is in this gray hazy place where all I can think is that I am so very tired. Or that I need to find a bathroom NOW.
I have moments where I am so totally gobsmacked by a sunset or something lovely. I believe that I see everything in a heightened state now. I love those moments. But, I always have to sink back into that hard, tired place.
I think it is probably worth it.
But, one day I fear I will awaken and find that my arm is gone or my leg. I feel as if I am losing so many bits and pieces of myself in slow motion. It is frightening.
But, I go on. Because there is still coffee to look forward to. My loves. The way the bed feels so warm and inviting. That book waiting for me to finish it.
I pick up the sword and move on.
Long time, no see. Thinking about you...
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