I have been an inpatient on the cancer floor for over 3 weeks now.
I’m not sure where the time has gone…or, really, how I’ve spent it. I’m at a loss for what I’ve been doing or how I’ve been surviving this. Time seems to move both slowly and quickly here, measured not so much by the date on the calendar but by blood counts and chemotherapy drugs. It’s measured in new hardware—a chest power port and the Ommaya Reservoir in my head—and the fact that I can now strap on my own leg brace without assistance. It’s marked by meals that are starting to taste like metal. It’s spent coloring and reading three pages at a time (because the Ommaya still gives me bouts of motion sickness).
I look out the window a lot.
There’s an office across the courtyard and at this time of day, when the security lights are on but before the sun rises, I can see inside of it. There’s artwork on the wall and a vase of giant red flowers. I think I can make out the corner of a well-stocked bookshelf. It’s the sort of place that’s perfect for writing, for quiet contemplation.
Contemplation is something that I have been avoiding recently. True, being ill might be the perfect time to take stock of one’s life, reassess goals, make bright and happy plans for the future—but those hopeful thoughts have shadows.
What if the treatment stops working?
What if I never get to go home?
What if this is what the rest of my life looks like—tubes hanging out of my chest, 6 am blood draws, massive doses of steroids?
I want to live. I want to see what life is like on the other side of this…but, if I am being honest, I still don’t have the strength to endure this treatment. There are days when I think that I might have the resolve to do it—that there’s some steel left in my soul—but then there are mornings like this morning, and I know I am drained. There’s barely enough fight left in me to take a sponge bath or choke down a carton of milk. I know I still need you, Dear Readers, spoon-feeding me encouragement and strength. Prayers work. Good vibes mean something here; they permeate the hospital walls, they chase gloomy thoughts to the far corners of the room, they make the minutes pass a bit more gently. And I wouldn’t be here without them.
Without you, I wouldn’t be making progress.
The week ahead may look different for me. There’s chemo involved, of course—and heaping helpings of steroids still—but there is a small chance, Dear Readers, that the next step in the process has arrived. I may be discharged from the hospital as early as this afternoon (if treatment goes smoothly and if we can be exceptionally persuasive).
Am I excited? I am so very excited at this small measure of freedom! I will be free to leave the confines of the hospital, returning to the outpatient cancer clinic at least three times a week for both the heavy-hitting chemotherapies and injections into my Ommaya Reservoir (because, although the tumor is shrinking, it’s still there, circulating cancer blasts in my central nervous system). I will reside at the wonderful Hope Lodge—a move that will allow me to share the same room with my significant other, to have some comfort even though I am far, far away from our apartment, from Wallace the Wonderful, and from Alderaan.
Please pray that this change happens, Dear Readers. I will miss my inpatient care team, but in many ways, since this possibility was first mentioned, I feel as though I have become more and more horse-like, chomping on my bit. It’s as if the windows that don’t open now have drafts and I can smell the promise of spring. I need more of it. Please continue to send well-wishes. Please keep us in your thoughts.
You are carrying us through this process—one step at a time.
With Love, Laura