Dear Me

For the most part, Facebook Memories has been mercifully kind during the past months. Yet two photos, five years apart, popped up into my feed recently and struck me because I’d been feeling the same thing when they were taken. One was from six years ago. It’s of me smiling on a vacation. You wouldn’t know anything was off in the photo, but I’d felt weird about posting it. At that time, I was clinging to something comfortable, yet I had felt deeply shaken. I felt like wasn’t being true to myself. (A few months later, my ribs would push themselves out of my chest because of the Hodgkin’s lymphoma tumors. I would be glad then I hadn’t upended my life.)

Another photo showed up from last year. I was in the exact same predicament as five years earlier. I wanted to do the easy thing and was afraid to do the hard thing. Still.

I wondered what I would say to those women.

Dear me:

It’s going to be OK.

And it’s not.

You’re going to get cancer, and it’s going to take a long time to get better, and they’re going to have to rebuild you and you’re going to think you beat it. Then one of your cats dies, your mom will need hip replacement surgery and then you’ll feel a weird stomach pain and end up in the hospital with pancreatitis. You’ll feel like your life is falling apart. This will be the beginning of your second cancer, not related to the first. Most people get it when they’re older than you are. They don’t know why you’re so unlucky. Steve Jobs died of it. Aretha Franklin will die of it. The doctors will operate and the cancer will come back and they’ll do a procedure and tell you it’s all gone, a rarity. You will be so lucky. For one day. Then they will tell you that they hadn’t seen on the scan that it’s come back and it’s going to keep coming back. You’ll always have cancer. You will die of it like Steve Jobs and Aretha Franklin, but also not, because you’re not famous and it’s much too late to become famous now. Oh, well.

You’ll spend your 39th birthday in Iceland and Scotland. You’ll have a nice trip and you’ll finally get to relax but something will feel off. You’ll soon develop peripheral neuropathy that will cause painful twitches and muscle cramps.

You’ll spend the end of your 40th birthday in tears but you’ll still have a good birthday weekend anyway, thanks to your friends.

You have really good friends. You know this too. But you’ll be genuinely and sincerely touched at just how much people will do for you: friends, co-workers, neighbors. People will send you silly gifts and cards. They’ll send notes and texts and postcards. They’ll chip in for Seamless and for prescription medication. They’ll travel with you.  They’ll visit. They’ll host. People will be so good to you. You have made so many mistakes, but you will take comfort in that you must have done something right to have these good people in your life. You’ve met and gotten to know a lot of really amazing people over the years. You shouldn’t be so cynical.

But then again maybe you should, because you’re not always the best judge of character. Some people who you assumed would be there for you won’t be at all. It’s OK, though. Don’t be hard on yourself. You sometimes try to see the best in people and sometimes it’s not there.

Someone you thought would always be there for you will betray you and you’ll feel blindsided and yet as if you’d always known this was coming. You know this is coming, don’t you? That’s why you look so uncertain in the those photos. Why don’t you do something now? Because you’re scared. I know. All you wanted at one point, in fact, was to be in a relationship, and you did it for so long at the expense of so much, sometimes even yourself. Maybe you’re bad at relationships. Maybe you’re bad at this relationship. Maybe this relationship is bad.

Once you get through the first month or so you’ll wonder why you wasted so much of your time and energy on being unhappy to try to make someone else happy who isn’t going to be happy with you anyway. You’ll have some happy times though; it isn’t all bad.

You’ll get to be happy. Remember the independent woman you used to be sometimes? Or you’d pretend to be? Here you are. You’re finally pretty comfortable with who you are, and you’re going to die soon. Alanis Morissette would maybe label this “ironic” but that’s not true. You’re not dying alone; you’re living the rest of your life on your terms.

It’s sometimes tough though. Sometimes like today you’ll be cleaning up cat vomit and diarrhea while feeling exhausted yourself and you’ll cry. You’ll stare off into space for about 20 minutes trying to muster the energy to go to the bodega to get cleaning wipes. You’ll feel depressed and lonely sometimes, but you often felt that way for the past four decades. It will pass.

You will fulfill your destiny as a cat lady and have three cats now. Your cats who you loved so much are gone, and then you had a kitten who died, but she had a good few months and you loved her. You have her brother: an eerily smart and very funny pink-nosed tabby, and a brother and sister set: a sweet and gentle little tabby and a black cat (after wanting one as a goth girl for so long).

You’ll be really sick and convinced you are dying for awhile, and you pretty much are, but they have a new treatment that will buy you some time. Not a lot. You’ll try to find happiness and meaning in church pews and meditation centers, on yoga mats, at hypnotism. You’ll try to live life to the fullest.

You’ll try to not worry about how much time you have left, though it’s something you’re always dimly aware of.

You had a re-housewarming party and a fun summer of Josie.

And you had a nice European vacation with a friend and you saw some of your friends in Dublin and Copenhagen, and you went to Amsterdam and you met up with your mom in France, and you went to Paris and Lourdes. Your mom stayed with you for a week in your newly rearranged apartment and it was nice and cozy.

You’ll spend your 41st birthday in Bermuda. You made it back! You always thought you would, and then when you were dying you thought you wouldn’t see those pink sand beaches ever again. But you made it!

You’ll still have so many conversations about everything: life, politics, friendship, love, philosophy, cats, pop culture. After talking with several old friends recently, you’ll realize how much of  life doesn’t turn out how you plan.

Today is one of those days, where little things go wrong. You just spilled salsa on one of the cats, and that’s one of the better things. You’ve spent too much time by yourself and are probably too emotional. Yet you’re filled with gratitude and hope still that life, in its shortened state, provides more joy.

It’s going to be OK.

And it’s not.

PRRT, Part 3

A lot of people have asked me how I am feeling the past few days. I feel outraged by most of the news. I feel concerned about the upcoming midterm elections. I feel hopeful that I’ll win the Mega Millions jackpot. I feel excited to have friends in town soon for my birthday party. I feel happy that I had two great vacations back-to-back.

People are asking about my health, though. I had my third PRRT treatment yesterday, and now I’m back to feeling pretty good. This afternoon was a rare time of feeling bad. I feel fatigued. My stomach and bowels feel a little weird. I made a long list of things I wanted to do today, when I’m stuck at home and radioactive, and I spent my afternoon curled up on my bathroom floor.

While on the floor, I had time to reflect on how much more fun my other recent Saturdays have been. Last Saturday, I was in Bermuda, on pink-sand beach, basking in the sun. The Saturday before that, my mom was in town, and we took a tour of my neighborhood that included Key lime pie, a stop at the local winery, barbecue, and ice cream. (Plus a bonus trip to Marshall’s for comfortable shoes. Though we received condescending service from my once-favorite local restaurant, it couldn’t mar the fun week we had together.) The Saturday before that, I was in Paris with my mom and a friend, popping into museums and churches, and attending an opera at Palais Garnier in my wig and a new dress I bought in five minutes at the train station. The Saturday before that, my friend and I had spent the morning at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam then angered a shuttle bus driver and boarded a plane for Copenhagen, where we met up with a good friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. He made us dinner and we went to Octoberfest, where we watched drunken Danish people dressed as Germans drink large steins of beer and sing “Time of My Life.” The Saturday before that was my 10-year New York City anniversary and my cat’s birthday, and I started the day out soaking up the last of my free week trial at a fancy gym, taking a treadmill/strength class, then sitting in a sauna infused with essential oils, followed by a dip in the mineral pool. Then I met up with friends in town and we ate pizza and then took the ferry to my neighborhood for that Key lime pie and view of the Statue of Liberty before heading to a local bakery for a treat to put my cat’s birthday candle in. At my apartment, my second set of friends in town briefly overlapped for a rendition of “Happy Birthday” to the cat. (He received treats and a David Bowie shirt that he appeased us by briefly wearing for photos, proving himself to be a very patient creature who will do anything to ham it up for attention.) Then we went to a bar with a bunch of wax figurines and ate some paella at a food court and ran into some other friends and then we played Chutes and Ladders at a place in my neighborhood that I went to a decade earlier after I spent the day looking at apartments.

In fact, sometimes I forget I’m sick. I was surprised to come back from Bermuda and have a bloodwork appointment on Tuesday in preparation for Thursday’s treatment. I tried to cram as much fun as I could before this weekend of relaxation and radioactivity. On Tuesday night, I went to see some bands and then on Wednesday night I saw David Bowie’s Lodger performed (for free!) in a mall near my workplace.

I prepared my things for Thursday, setting aside my laptop and my clothes and workout clothes. I decided to go to an early workout since I will be radioactive and can’t be sweaty around people for about a week. I was worried I wouldn’t make it to the class (the trains!) but I made it and was feeling good about my decisions until I showered and realized that the rest of my clothes were still on my bed at home. I put my workout clothes back on and went to the hospital for treatment.

By now, I know the drill, so I was given graham crackers and put on my pre-medications through my accessed Mediport. The IV took a bit to put in, as my veins are all used up. When my veins were finally cooperative, I had the treatment again. I wasn’t quite as sleepy as before so I was able to talk to the doctors a bit.

Initially, I was slated to have a half-dose again, like last time. My platelets and hemoglobin dropped after the first full treatment, and remained steady after the second treatment. However, this time it was agreed that I could have the full dose for the PRRT benefits. I think if my blood counts are still off, I might get a transfusion. (I’ve had them before. It’s Halloween! Let’s get the vampire stuff going, I say.)

As before, I’m radioactive. I maximize my distance for others for a few days. No eating or drinking off the same plates for six days. I have to wash my clothes separately for six days. No gym for six days. (Though I managed an ab workout at home under the skeptical eyes of a tabby cat.)

I’m not supposed to hold infants for longer than 30 minutes per day for about 10 days, something that isn’t a problem. “What about the cats?” I asked last time. They are small. I’m told their lifespans aren’t long enough to worry about effects. But they’re young. I worry.

“Some people treat their pets like children,” the radiation officer said to me when I asked again this time. I just nodded. We ended up talking about Halloween and when I told her that I had dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and one cat was the woodsman, one was the wolf and one was the grandmother, I feel like maybe she got a better sense of my relationship with my cats. I have tried to keep my distance. I put a stepladder and handweights against the door of the bedroom, but they pushed it open. Last night, I put my nightstand against the door and I awoke to the smallest cat mewling in my face for breakfast. I think the radiation is turning them into super-strong mutant cats. Tonight I will try something larger as a barrier.

After I started to feel better today, I put on pants that I’d worn over my hot yoga (hot yoga, something I thought I’d never do again) clothes on Monday and went to the drugstore.

Today was a reminder: I have cancer.

It feels so good to forget sometimes though. There are reminders: the surgery scars, the Mediport in my chest, the bouts of fatigue or digestive issues, the bruises that seem to appear from nowhere, the hair loss.

Having my life back, even for a short time, has been so good. In four short months, I feel so different from the woman I was when I first received the treatment.

The doctors estimated about a year from the outset of treatment. I’m one-third through that. Tick-tock goes the invisible clock. As with anything, even time that feels stolen isn’t enough. It’s not the loss of time that scares me; it’s the taste of the inevitable end that haunts my thoughts sometimes.

Do we ever have enough time? There’s so much more I want to do. That feels better at least, than the deeply sad resignation I had earlier this year.

In reading that item from July, however, as I plan to buy some Mega Millions tickets, I realize I also haven’t given up on winning the lottery.

One Year Later

If you would have told me exactly one year ago what was in store this past year, I would have said, “No thank you!”

It’s been a weird year, for the world and for me. The world has become such a weird place I’m convinced we’re some alternate universe project and we’re actually in a jar somewhere, forgotten in a teen’s bedroom after the science fair or we’re in some kind worst-case scenario simulator. (The plot isn’t even plausible anymore with these Vanilla Ice and Kanye West twists. I think the Cubs made some kind of dastardly deal to win the World Series two years ago.)

As for me: I was deathly ill and rushed to the hospital in January, and remained sick for five months. My boyfriend of 12 years is gone. Sometimes I think that I’m doing pretty well, and then I remember that it was actually a year ago that a big portion of my life fell apart. A year ago is the last night I went to sleep with an illusion of my life intact, though I had known by that point that I would always have cancer. I worried it was the last birthday I’d be able to celebrate, and if it weren’t for PRRT treatment, I think I would still maybe have been too sick to have much of a birthday this year.

Last year didn’t go as planned.  I spent the evening of my 40th birthday crying and devastated, wishing I’d never been born, in fact. I was told I ruined everything. A year ago, I started to see the truth that I felt maybe I already knew deep down. Once I saw it, couldn’t un-see it, though I was willing to do so until that choice was taken away earlier this summer.

A year ago, my left middle finger was still intact but my spirit was broken. I walked on eggshells all the time. I felt stifled. I tried to be happy, yet I often felt disappointed in who I’d become. I felt a duality, which only worsened after my birthday weekend last year.

I’ve been told my broken finger is all my fault. OK, then. Fine. I don’t have the energy to disagree. I went to the doctor the day after it was broken and I had a finger splint but it healed crooked. I bite my nails so it’s not like I’ll ever be hand model. It’s barely noticeable. I see its misshapen form whenever I do yoga and am in warrior two. I feel like a terrible warrior when I think of all I put up with and how it got broken. It hurts on rainy days like today.

It’s funny that it’s my middle finger.

I don’t say much about it anymore. When I’ve told the story, I tried to tell it in an impartial way. I don’t tell people much about the breakup because I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. I don’t care much about it anymore. I sometimes feel like I’m not being true to myself to stay so quiet, but it’s also not worth thinking about when I want to and need to move forward. I’ve held my tongue so much it physically hurt. I would grind my teeth at night from stress and my tongue hurt when I woke up.

I’m much less angry than the person who has been bottling things up for years. I don’t have time left on this earth and I don’t have time to be angry anymore.

Also, I wear a mouthguard at night.

Sometimes, I feel like I have no choice like today, an anniversary of sorts. Today was kind of tough.

I am happy to be able to surround myself with people who love and support me. This year I have a getaway planned. I’m not going to pay for my own birthday dinner or for a hotel room I didn’t sleep in. I can look towards the end with a sense of peace and I can treasure the limited time I have with people who make me smile and who sometimes make me laugh so hard, I worry I’ll pass out. Sometimes, they make me cry with their generosity and thoughtfulness. That’s the kind of crying I have room for in my life.

I’ve felt a duality for years between the person I feel I am who was stifled by trying to be in a situation I shouldn’t have been in.

I often feel misunderstood. Since May I worried that people would mistake strength for indifference or coldness. I worried that people would mistake kindness for weakness. I worried that people would mistake assertiveness for meanness or pettiness.

But I also don’t have time to worry. If anyone thinks I deserved this or that I haven’t been fair or that I should stay quiet, then allow me to close the rest of my fingers on my left hand and extend this crooked middle finger skyward.