Friday, June 22, 2018
Emerging from the vortex.
My husband and my son's fiancée sat with me that evening, and my husband spent the night sleeping in a chair next to me, a reversal of our experience after his stroke. And then they discharged me around lunch time. I was so glad to be home and wrote a post on Facebook saying so.
And then all hell broke loose. Five days later, I came up for air long enough to post this:
"I was just glad to be home from the hospital. Sure, I was in a lot of pain and had limited mobility, but I had help and encouragement and I was ready to heal. And the Universe heard and said “You think you’ve got this? Ha ha! Fuck you! How about I see your breast cancer and raise you unrelenting migraines? How about I put your skull in a vise for days and reduce you to a shivering, puking husk of a person? Then how about I finally ease up for a few hours to give you hope that you’ve turned a corner, then wallop you again? Still think you’ve got this?”
Well, Universe, I can only say that If I were a prisoner of war, I’d have long since given up any secret I knew just to Make. It. Stop."
And then I retreated again, pulled back into the storm. I had spent nearly a week throwing up everything I ate and reeling in pain. Finally last Monday, my surgeon told me to come in and she suggested that maybe my narcotics were actually triggering the migraines. I switched to ibuprofen and very gradually life started to feel a little more like life. But only a tiny bit. I still hurt like crazy. I hate sleeping propped on the couch and maneuvering around drain tubes and having them flushed out twice a day. I hated setting an alarm to take an antibiotic every four hours around the clock. I hated lying awake with my skin on fire and counting the minutes until daylight. In some ways I hit bottom Wednesday when I wanted to punch anyone who was telling me to be strong. Because I have discovered that people can react pretty badly when you aren't. I think it's overwhelming to be exposed to someone else's pain and many people just pull away. And hell, I didn't like me either. I didn't know if I even wanted to make it. I will tell you plainly that I was in a very dark place.
But yesterday rolled around and I went in to see the plastic surgeon. She was able to remove two of my four drain tubes, which helped a little, in spite of the fact that it was a remarkably painful procedure. It was quick, but an astoundingly sharp pain. I may or may not have yelled, "Fuck!" Even so, I am eager to get the other two removed and get on with the reconstruction process.
Even beyond the pain, which rolls over me in an electric way, it's just hard. I can't look at myself. I don't feel whole. I can't reach things or lift. I have a schedule loaded with appointments with surgeons and oncologists and decisions ahead about treatment. I have procedures and surgeries still to come and a long path of healing. I find myself reassessing relationships and thinking a lot about how I want the rest of my life to be.
Before you encourage me to look at the bright side, let me say that I am keenly aware of the blessings in my life. And I'll get to those. But this cancer business truly sucks with a suckage unimaginable. I feel like I am slowly making my way to calmer waters and letting myself just float for now.