i have had plenty of tests of my strength over the past month, as the reality of my illness slowly sinks in, turning from being a set of symptoms into a story being written for me, with treatments stretching into the summer and with an unknown conclusion and even though the future seems hopeful, there is still a sense of uncertainty about what happens during the in-between, where i am being warned about the treatment itself, where as it comes closer, it becomes something that i increasingly dread. the thing that will make me better will be a trial in itself, something that taxes my body and psyche both.
while in the hospital over the holidays, i was administered my first chemotherapy dosage, even though i was still struggling to recover from covid, but heavily experiencing cancer symptoms and eager to begin my road to recovery. having been admitted during the most recent spike of the pandemic was not easy. the nursing staff was overtaxed and i was relegated to a single room without the ability to even walk around that room while i was tied to a IV machine. while i consider myself an optimistic person, isolation of that kind has a particular effect on your mind.
as the ability to distract yourself from your circumstances becomes increasingly difficult, there is a kind of dull realization that begins to form. i am me and i am inside a body that is failing, that is struggling for life. when i received my treatment, an unfortunate miscommunication between departments of the hospital meant that i spent the majority of my first day totally without medications to deal with the consequent side-effects. in reality, this meant that i was experiencing the worst nausea of my life without any assistance, without anyone to witness me, to hold my hand, to complain, or to talk to. i was vomiting so violently that at times i couldn't breathe and when i asked for help, i was left alone in my room for five hours, without any sense of whether help would ever actually be given.
i remember crying for my mother like a child, one of the only things that helped me to process what was happening to me, because i wanted and needed someone to care for me so deeply that i reached out to some memory of childhood in desperation, as though my mother could help me or save me from my experience. i called for her even though i knew she couldn't come and even if she did, that she couldn't help me. it took me three days to lessen my symptoms, during which time i continued to vomit, unable to eat, unable to speak to anyone, being trapped in my bed. in addition to the chemotherapy, i was also on a high dose of steroids, which made me itchy, twitchy, and emotionally unstable. i was tired and sick, restless, sleepless, and agitated.
i can't articulate what kind of hell it was to be in that situation without feeling that i sound dramatic, but there it is. it was hell and i have spent the better part of three weeks trying to process, or perhaps forget that experience and move on with my life. i have never experienced physical symptoms so severe as during my time in the hospital and the near complete isolation, the lack of proper nutrition (classic with hospital food), and the inability to bathe for the entirety of my 12 day stay made it nearly impossible to stay balanced and centered.
i meditated instead of sleeping in my desperation, because you also can't sleep in the hospital. there is screaming, beeping, lights, constant bi-hourly checks with a flashlight and people waking you up, turning on the fluorescent lights in the middle of the night to insert IVs into your arm to take your blood (a daily occurrence).
i suppose i am still thankful for the support in allowing me to get better, but i left the hospital with a sense of fear of the medical establishment, fear of my body breaking down, and a heart-breaking sense of isolation that hasn't fully left me since.
during the intervening weeks, i have thought about those moments when i cried for my mother and felt very weak indeed, somehow wanting myself to remain stoic in the face of my pain and discomfort, against the unravelling of my own mind when disconnected from everything i knew. i wanted to be stronger than the person i became who began to feel like the life i had known was actually an illusion and the pain and terror of the hospital were the only things left. but i wasn't. i wasn't stronger than that. i couldn't suppress the terror and i couldn't muster or summon optimism in those moment. they were breaking me.
i started to think about strength and the expectations i had for myself while in an extreme and life-threatening situation. i wanted myself to be able to work on my writing (which i still did). i wanted to be sunny for my family and friends. i didn't want to scare or tax anyone. i didn't want to give in to depression or desperation no matter what happened to me.
my expectations of myself were themselves extreme and in robbing myself of the esteem of strength, i was also contributing to my own dismantling, not acknowledging or valuing the strength that i did have, while looking at the clock ticking away the minutes and telling myself, "one more minute and then another" until a whole day had passed in utter agony and i remained alive, damaged but ultimately unbroken.
i wonder about a strength that claims never to crack open, to never cry out for our mothers. am i weak because i felt like a child who desperately needed comfort? am i weak because i felt afraid? am i not strong because i feel shaken by the experience, unable to express myself? am i weak because i am afraid of facing it again, on my own, without immediate support, a city so far away from my family?
i put so much pressure on myself to present a veneer of strength, when what i have really relied on during this time, is my ability to bend, to grieve, to weep, to shake, and to stand up afterwards and carry on, to continue to live, to continue to walk unsteadily and face a future that is uncertain and terrifying.
i feel fallible and a bit broken by my experiences, humbled by the extremities of my condition and the ultimate delicacy of my own life. as it continues to sink into my bones that i am going to face five months long of that terrible day, i think maybe that i am strong just by facing it, even if i cry for my mother, feeling like a lonely child all over again. i refuse to give up even though it is difficult and terrifying. i feel alone even when there are people around me but perhaps i am strong also because i am also trying to take down my walls and to connect even when people can't understand what i am going through.
i can't allow my notions of strength to revolve around the idea that i will never break, that i will face my fate sunnily, never being afraid. it's unrealistic to force myself to a standard which involves a willful denial of reality. i cannot be fearless; i cannot go on without breaking simply because the circumstances of my illness are consistently and constantly breaking down both my body and mind and will perhaps continue to do so as i face the horror of the treatment itself. perhaps, in fact, it would be foolish not to be afraid.
i realize now that I am terrified and strong, sad and strong, broken and strong, unwilling to give up on myself and my life, my enjoyment and love of living just because it is horrible right now and just because i am forced to face the potential of my own mortality. that is my path and no matter the reaction, i continue to face it, to weep and face it, to shake and face it. this is how i am strong right now. this is how i am strong.
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