During the actual radiation, I don’t see anything. I sorta feel it. I was told I wouldn’t, but I’m not entirely sure I agree. Sometimes I swear I smell the scent of burnt popcorn. I wonder if it’s the tissue in my chest burning.
I figure the interstellar space around my Deathstar is littered with radioactive poison and remnants of cells. I imagine them floating like sparkly dust particles in my body. I wish my brain would allow me to go inside myself and see everything microscopically. I’m unsure of what it truly looks like in there. Aside from the initial x-ray with the looming mass overtaking my left lung, I don’t have a good picture in my head of it all. Perhaps this could be remedied. My squeamishness has flown out the window after this past year. I might not enjoy having blood siphoned out of my port for example, but by God, if it necessary, I will just friggin’ deal with it. Surely looking at photos of my insides won’t incite any additional paranoia.
During radiation, my nose sometimes runs a bit too. I was told it might hit my esophagus and I could have trouble swallowing. I haven’t noticed this so much. The nausea and fatigue hits about 3-4 hours after the treatment. I get smacked with this narcoleptic exhaustion. I have to remind myself not to drive my car around 6 at night because I might just collapse. It usually goes away in about an hour unless I fall asleep first. If I fight through it, I seem to be okay, but there is a moment or two when all I want to do is succumb to the sweet, sweet sensation of fading away in tiredness. This is perhaps the only similar sensation I had during chemo: the moments when you just give in and let your body do what it needs.
The fading in and out of my body and consciousness envelops my entire daily existence. Am I here?
I recall the sensation of falling backwards. There was that uncertainty of whether I’d hit something or just keep falling. I don’t know which is worse: knowing when it will end and dealing with the consequences or not knowing when or if it will end at all.
This pretty much sums up my feelings on my cancer journey thus far. The shadows of it are always near me. I don’t think they will ever go away. It is an encouraging thought to realize that many before me have gone through this and recovered and living fine, productive lives. I doubt anyone truly thinks about the processes that people who have had serious trauma go through in recovery. It can be disheartening to watch someone you care about go through those things. I still maintain that I think this has been harder for my friends and family than myself. I know what I am feeling and I know when it is good or bad, but that uncertainty is a mainstay for those close to you. They can only gauge your reactions, expressions, and words.
I have this fear that the momentum of my experiences will backhand me so fast I’ll have whiplash. I have to keep moving one step ahead of it before it reaches me.
Taking in the little moments helps immensely. I have to realize that the treatments affect your psyche as much as your body. Therefore, I hold this thought close to my heart: there is beauty in the abstract even if it doesn’t always make sense.
