In the hours after my Ommaya Reservoir was surgically placed, I sobbed. A wave of grief and tears rushed at me, clinging to me as fiercely as the blood and the betadine that coated my scalp. I thought I had made peace with the fact that I would be a unicorn with an off-centered horn. I thought I was emotionally and mentally ready for this step.
It turns out that “ready” doesn’t exist.
“Ready” is the lie we tell ourselves in order to take the next, necessary step.
In the days after my Ommaya Reservoir was placed, I dry heaved. I slept a lot. I discovered that staring at screens for even short periods of time results in something akin to motion sickness. Writing this blogpost has been a form of medieval torture. Even reading is a hazardous pastime now. I have been told that these side-effects, so similar to those of having a concussion, should diminish with time. My brain and the Ommaya will eventually find some easy equilibrium. This—the pain, the slight swelling, the difficulty doing those things that usually nourish my soul—all of it is temporary.
And that, Dear Readers, is the mantra that carried me through the weekend: that this is temporary.
This discomfort is temporary.
This treatment, although a thousand times more arduous than my first cancer treatment, is temporary.
This cancer is temporary.
What do I mean by all that? Well, the first thing you should know is that at this hospital, Hematology/Oncology inpatients are visited daily by a team of attending physicians, fellows, medical students, and nurses. The faces comprising the team usually cycle out on a weekly basis. Team members also change every weekend (because even superheroes need days off). It was during this last weekend rotation, that the Hematologist/Oncologist that cared for me likened my cancer relapse to a temporary and oh-so-beautifully ordinary situation: that of a clogged sink.
At some unknown moment during the past few months, my bone marrow began to flow with cancer blasts, just as an open spigot would. Normally, leaving a faucet running might not be a problem, but sinks sometimes plug up. Sometimes, they stop draining altogether. My spinal cord, Dear Readers, stopped draining. It plugged up with a tumor. Water sloshed over the sink’s basin, spilling onto the floor in the form of pain, lost flexibility, impaired mobility.
Like any clogged sink, though, there are things that we can do to resolve the situation.
There are towels down on the floor, now, sopping up the spillage. Each injection of chemotherapy into my Ommaya Reservoir will clear still more of the tumor from my spinal cord, allowing the sink to drain down. Each dose of systemic chemotherapy administered through the power port in my chest will clean the cancer out of my bone marrow, shutting off the spigot’s flow.
Eventually the sink will drain.
Eventually it will dry out.
Eventually it will be ready for a bone marrow transplant.
So, yes, in the hours after my Ommaya Reservoir was placed, I sobbed. In the days after the surgery, I have struggled with nausea, fatigue and pain. But, eventually—in the weeks, in the months ahead—while shuffling one, unsteady foot in front of the other, I will regain some semblance of equilibrium. I will remind myself that “temporary” is, in actuality, a beautiful word. And, when I am too tired or in too much pain, I will simply close my eyes and conjure light. I will let it radiate within me, and out of me, flowing from the crown of my head like a unicorn’s silver and gold mane. I will let the love and strength you have gifted me, Dear Readers, gather in my newborn legs. I am, after all, a creature being remade.
I ask, once again, for you to send kind thoughts this upcoming week. Send light. Send love. Send strength.
This treatment plan is ugly, Dear Readers, and the days ahead of me are not easy ones. Now that the Ommaya Reservoir has been placed, the treatment regimen will intensify. I will be receiving harsher chemotherapies, nearly every day. This cancer will be shown no mercy…which means neither will I.
For now. Temporarily.
With Love, Laura