Thursday, November 11, 2010

Survivor

I had this idea today that seemed like a good one at the time.

A day with no vicodin, no ibuprofen, nada, nothing, no how, no way. I am tired of not pooping despite taking stool softeners, and sick and tired of all that comes with being on massive doses of pain killers. I've had it.

I decided to take matters into my own hands and go commando, just to get an idea of where I really am in my recovery.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I'll tell you where I am.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

This body hurts like hell and looks like hell.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

and then I had this epiphany.

It occurred to me what they really mean about being a cancer survivor.

It all makes sense to me now.

IT'S NOT ABOUT SURVIVING YOUR CANCER.

NOT AT ALL.

IT'S ABOUT SURVIVING EVERYTHING THEY DO TO YOU TO KILL THAT BITCH.

Holy Mama. Holy. Holy.

Seven months now I've been poked, nuked, bled and cut.

I've been mamogrammed, MRI'd, ultrasounded, x-rayed, CT'ed, and PET scanned.

I've had ports inserted and removed, twice. Hello Vena Cava. I've had a PICC line threaded in then yanked out. Hello again Vena Cava. I've had drains threaded through deflated breasts, and aquarium sized tubing coming out of my body at the top of my tummy.

I got battle wounds and scars as good and ugly as any Civil War Soldier, except I did it without whiskey, or a bullet to bite, or a lady in a hoop skirt fanning me saying "Oh my, poor poor dear."

I've been given drugs that made me sick, made my hair fall out, made me sleep then wired me up, and just generally jacked me up so that it required even more drugs just to cope with those.

I've been radioactive enough that they didn't want me hugging small children or touching anybody's penis.

I've had pieces of my precious boobies, first clipped out, then scooped out, then tossed out with the morning paper.

I've got veins so bad now that they stumped a six-figure a year anesthesiologist who said finding a vein on a preemie was easier than me.

My body aches like it has never ached before, and without the vicodin, my neuropathy in hands and feet is back in full force.

I have never done anything remotely as challenging, trying, stressful, exhausting, frustrating, and sickening in my life.

They say what doesn't kill you, strengthens you. I don't think that's true of cancer treatment.

It takes out of you every single thing you got and just when you think you can't give anymore, it demands more than that.

HAND IT OVER.

I am so far into my reserves now, I don't even know where I'm getting it from at this point.

I really don't.

I am hanging on by a whisper.

She whispers.

Help me. Help me out of this valley Lord. Let me sleep. Let me rest. When do I get to feel better? Oh this hurts.  What is the lesson?  Wasn't there some other way?  Did we kill that bitch yet? Please say yes, Lord.  Please say yes.

This is what it looks like some days, no illusion, no vicodin, and let me tell you, it's sobering, and I ain't through it yet.

I remember the days in my life where I felt the worst I have ever felt physically.

Passing a gigantic kidney stone without pains meds, that my doctor said would have had a 6', 300 lb. linebacker whimpering like a baby crying for his Mama down on his knees.  Been there.  Done that.

Recovering from a C-section. Twice, at the end of October, and still cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.

You know what?

Piece of cake.

Like eating Twinkies for breakfast.

Are you scared for the boys in this house?

You should be.

Somebody warn em.

1 comment:

rochambeau said...

Hello Sacred Ordinary,
Debra of Wagon wife sent me to visit. Thank you for your honesty, I really do thank you. My heart breaks reading your words. For you Sacred Ordinary I pray that Divine Love floods your consciousness with health and that every cell in your body will be filled with light.
With love and appreciation for you openness to share.

Constance

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