Stop that, wouldn't you?
Funny, nobody's there
That was really me
Who made me feel that way?
But I didn't feel a draught,
And the windows are all closed
Pull the covers over my head
'Cause it's so damn cold
It comes all of a sudden
Up and down my spine
Like a xylophone
Played in ice cold chimes
Make my teeth chatter
Close tightly my eyes
Curl up in a ball
Hands clasped inside
I wish that it had been
Someone close behind
A soft and gentle touch
Send ripples through my mind
A hand upon my shoulder
A different place and time
Pull the covers closer
The only hands are mine
Settle under the sheets
To relaxation, I'll resign
Give myself to rest
Body, soul, and--
No, not again!
!@&% mother#$&*ing sonofa@%$& *##% @%^&!
Shivers, you know, it's fine
My body's own frozen stabbing from behind
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Timing's a Bitch, Isn't It?
When I was eleven or twelve, I was named to the Little League Baseball All-Star Team in my town. After the regular Little League season ends, the assembled group of All-Stars has a chance to play the All-Star Teams from the neighboring towns and their associated Little Leagues. The goal is obviously to win and keep on winning, and to eventually have a shot at reaching the Little League World Series. Our team had won a few games early in the summer, and we were gaining confidence as we neared a big showdown with a local rival.
Our Little League fields are about a minute and a half from my house, not very far at all, so naturally I was a few minutes late to practice the day before the game. I ran up to the field, and our coach was already hitting balls around to the team as a warm-up. He told me to join the outfielders, though I played infield, and I remember him saying something along the lines of "take it easy" for a little while at the beginning of practice.
When my turn came to receive a fly ball off of coach's bat, I didn't anticipate the sinking liner that was hit my way. I closed on it, and obviously neglected the notion of "taking it easy," as the idea of letting it fall in front of me never crossed my mind.
I made a sliding catch, impressing nobody since it was just the warm-up drill, and when I looked down I saw the small rock that had lodged itself into my knee. And, after a few seconds, my leg and sock were soaked with blood.
I had made it through maybe fifteen minutes of practice before I was forced to leave by that vindictive stone. I needed stitches to pull the skin on my knee back together, and my agility was severely limited at the big game the next day.
We lost the game, and I think it was close, though the final score is pretty inconsequential at this point. But that was the first time I can remember wondering how a single moment could be so significant, yet so dependent on alignment and perfect timing. I was late to practice that day, so I wondered if I would have fallen on that rock had I been on time. I wondered if I had been even a few seconds later to practice than I was, would I have been in the exact same spot in the outfield, or would coach have hit the same line drive that led to my slide which landed a jagged pebble in my knee?
I wonder sometimes about the moment when my body made its mistake and created this tumor. I'll never know exactly when it happened, but I still wonder about the timing of it, and if I was doing something physically stressful or otherwise that prompted my body to send the wrong signals and deviate from the recipe that had worked for so long and brought me so far. If I had been a few moments late for whatever it was that I was doing that day, would the mistake have even been made? Or was it inevitable that I would eventually screw up the formula, regardless of timing or my activities on that fateful day?
I understand that this is simply postulation, and my situation is what it is regardless of the answers, though I'll never find them anyway. But timing dictates so much in our lives; whether we catch the bus or train, whether a quarterback connects with his receiver on a touchdown pass, whether we cross paths with our soulmate or narrowly miss them on the street, never knowing how close we've been to things being so different.
I'm sure timing has worked in my favor as well, though I find it rather unfortunate that I happened to stumble upon a rock that ruined my summer baseball experience. And in a single moment, my body created and released a tumor that has landed me in my current situation.
I'm fairly convinced that I'm owed the good fortune of some favorable timing in the future, though I really don't think it's worth occupying my time worrying about it. But it is interesting to look back on things that have happened and realize how close they were to happening differently, or not at all. It's funny how the unfolding of a few short moments today can bear so strongly on our tomorrows.
Our Little League fields are about a minute and a half from my house, not very far at all, so naturally I was a few minutes late to practice the day before the game. I ran up to the field, and our coach was already hitting balls around to the team as a warm-up. He told me to join the outfielders, though I played infield, and I remember him saying something along the lines of "take it easy" for a little while at the beginning of practice.
When my turn came to receive a fly ball off of coach's bat, I didn't anticipate the sinking liner that was hit my way. I closed on it, and obviously neglected the notion of "taking it easy," as the idea of letting it fall in front of me never crossed my mind.
I made a sliding catch, impressing nobody since it was just the warm-up drill, and when I looked down I saw the small rock that had lodged itself into my knee. And, after a few seconds, my leg and sock were soaked with blood.
I had made it through maybe fifteen minutes of practice before I was forced to leave by that vindictive stone. I needed stitches to pull the skin on my knee back together, and my agility was severely limited at the big game the next day.
We lost the game, and I think it was close, though the final score is pretty inconsequential at this point. But that was the first time I can remember wondering how a single moment could be so significant, yet so dependent on alignment and perfect timing. I was late to practice that day, so I wondered if I would have fallen on that rock had I been on time. I wondered if I had been even a few seconds later to practice than I was, would I have been in the exact same spot in the outfield, or would coach have hit the same line drive that led to my slide which landed a jagged pebble in my knee?
I wonder sometimes about the moment when my body made its mistake and created this tumor. I'll never know exactly when it happened, but I still wonder about the timing of it, and if I was doing something physically stressful or otherwise that prompted my body to send the wrong signals and deviate from the recipe that had worked for so long and brought me so far. If I had been a few moments late for whatever it was that I was doing that day, would the mistake have even been made? Or was it inevitable that I would eventually screw up the formula, regardless of timing or my activities on that fateful day?
I understand that this is simply postulation, and my situation is what it is regardless of the answers, though I'll never find them anyway. But timing dictates so much in our lives; whether we catch the bus or train, whether a quarterback connects with his receiver on a touchdown pass, whether we cross paths with our soulmate or narrowly miss them on the street, never knowing how close we've been to things being so different.
I'm sure timing has worked in my favor as well, though I find it rather unfortunate that I happened to stumble upon a rock that ruined my summer baseball experience. And in a single moment, my body created and released a tumor that has landed me in my current situation.
I'm fairly convinced that I'm owed the good fortune of some favorable timing in the future, though I really don't think it's worth occupying my time worrying about it. But it is interesting to look back on things that have happened and realize how close they were to happening differently, or not at all. It's funny how the unfolding of a few short moments today can bear so strongly on our tomorrows.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
4..3..2..1..
4..3..2..1.. I can finally see the light at the end of the chemo tunnel, and I'm hoping that these last four rounds will disappear without much trouble. Over the past two days, number four came and passed, so I'm left looking at three remaining rounds of chemo on this torturous schedule.
Over the next few days, I'll be expected to take four times as many Neupogen shots in order to spike my white blood cell count far beyond the threshold of adequate recovery. The doctors are intent upon harvesting my stem cells, freezing them and keeping them available on the off chance that my body forgets once again how to make new, healthy bone marrow. At this point, such a development seems unlikely, and the vaccinations I intend to receive at NCI will cover the purposed accomplishments of a stem cell transplant, anyway, but I suppose I'd rather be safe than sorry.
Harvesting my cells will entail connecting two IV lines, one from each of my arms, to a machine constructed for the very purpose of collecting blood content. For me, it's a "been-there, done-that" kind of experience, though I hope that this time it doesn't quite last seven hours and I can manage to walk away from it without any ruptured veins. When I went through a similar procedure during my first stint at NCI, I had a tumor fever, the actual procedure took three hours longer than anticipated, and one of my veins popped like bubble wrap and bled profusely. I'd like to believe that I've already seen the worst that can happen, and while I hope it goes more smoothly this week, at least I know I'm prepared for anything.
Either a stem cell transplant or the administration of these vaccinations down at NCI in Bethesda, at least one or the other, will inevitably come to pass. The intention of such procedures is obviously to keep me healthy for as long as possible, and realistically to save my life. Unfortunately, they each require that my immune system be beaten and battered, broken down to a level of complete vulnerability, which can conceivably be dangerous, and will most definitely be uncomfortable for me, to say the least. My guess is it will be just like the beginning of chemo all over again, when I routinely yearned for death and an end to what seemed like never-ending, inexplicable misery. I'm hoping that this time I'll be better prepared for it, though I really don't think it's something for which I can realistically prepare myself.
Preparation can really only take us so far, and pain will feel like pain regardless of how ready you are to be overcome by it. Being prepared is far from being able to protect oneself, which is damn near impossible as far as I'm concerned.
When my grandpa had a stroke, I knew his time was limited, but I couldn't prepare myself for or protect myself from the pain of losing him. When my girlfriend first spoke of leaving New York for a job and a life in Boston, I was made aware that our time together might have begun to dwindle, and despite my denial, I don't know what I could have done to protect myself from that impending pain. And now, having met someone who has lifted me from the depths of sorrow and taught me to believe in this life again, I'm constantly reminded that despite my deepest wishes, I can do nothing to protect her from her own cancer. For me, I can remind myself what it was like to have my body broken down to nothing, the way it will be again, but I know there's no feeling like the real thing, no camouflage behind which I can hide, and nothing I can say to myself that will fully prepare me for it.
It is, nevertheless, a part of the process, and I'll gladly take my beatings if it means surviving this thing. I still have three rounds of chemo before I undergo more scans to determine the length and intensity of the proposed radiation I'll receive prior to the vaccinations or even the notion of a stem cell transplant, so I'll continue to proceed one day at a time. (I've learned that this is the best, or really the only approach, since my requests and attempts at falling asleep for days or weeks at a time have gone for naught. Honestly, at this point, I'd gladly settle for sleeping through an entire night.)
There's a lot we can never be prepared for, but I'm going to do my best to run through these final three cycles like a bull. Chemo is one obstacle for which I feel as prepared as I'm ever going to be. And I'll keep treading towards that light at the end of the tunnel, because with each passing day, it can't come anywhere but closer.
Over the next few days, I'll be expected to take four times as many Neupogen shots in order to spike my white blood cell count far beyond the threshold of adequate recovery. The doctors are intent upon harvesting my stem cells, freezing them and keeping them available on the off chance that my body forgets once again how to make new, healthy bone marrow. At this point, such a development seems unlikely, and the vaccinations I intend to receive at NCI will cover the purposed accomplishments of a stem cell transplant, anyway, but I suppose I'd rather be safe than sorry.
Harvesting my cells will entail connecting two IV lines, one from each of my arms, to a machine constructed for the very purpose of collecting blood content. For me, it's a "been-there, done-that" kind of experience, though I hope that this time it doesn't quite last seven hours and I can manage to walk away from it without any ruptured veins. When I went through a similar procedure during my first stint at NCI, I had a tumor fever, the actual procedure took three hours longer than anticipated, and one of my veins popped like bubble wrap and bled profusely. I'd like to believe that I've already seen the worst that can happen, and while I hope it goes more smoothly this week, at least I know I'm prepared for anything.
Either a stem cell transplant or the administration of these vaccinations down at NCI in Bethesda, at least one or the other, will inevitably come to pass. The intention of such procedures is obviously to keep me healthy for as long as possible, and realistically to save my life. Unfortunately, they each require that my immune system be beaten and battered, broken down to a level of complete vulnerability, which can conceivably be dangerous, and will most definitely be uncomfortable for me, to say the least. My guess is it will be just like the beginning of chemo all over again, when I routinely yearned for death and an end to what seemed like never-ending, inexplicable misery. I'm hoping that this time I'll be better prepared for it, though I really don't think it's something for which I can realistically prepare myself.
Preparation can really only take us so far, and pain will feel like pain regardless of how ready you are to be overcome by it. Being prepared is far from being able to protect oneself, which is damn near impossible as far as I'm concerned.
When my grandpa had a stroke, I knew his time was limited, but I couldn't prepare myself for or protect myself from the pain of losing him. When my girlfriend first spoke of leaving New York for a job and a life in Boston, I was made aware that our time together might have begun to dwindle, and despite my denial, I don't know what I could have done to protect myself from that impending pain. And now, having met someone who has lifted me from the depths of sorrow and taught me to believe in this life again, I'm constantly reminded that despite my deepest wishes, I can do nothing to protect her from her own cancer. For me, I can remind myself what it was like to have my body broken down to nothing, the way it will be again, but I know there's no feeling like the real thing, no camouflage behind which I can hide, and nothing I can say to myself that will fully prepare me for it.
It is, nevertheless, a part of the process, and I'll gladly take my beatings if it means surviving this thing. I still have three rounds of chemo before I undergo more scans to determine the length and intensity of the proposed radiation I'll receive prior to the vaccinations or even the notion of a stem cell transplant, so I'll continue to proceed one day at a time. (I've learned that this is the best, or really the only approach, since my requests and attempts at falling asleep for days or weeks at a time have gone for naught. Honestly, at this point, I'd gladly settle for sleeping through an entire night.)
There's a lot we can never be prepared for, but I'm going to do my best to run through these final three cycles like a bull. Chemo is one obstacle for which I feel as prepared as I'm ever going to be. And I'll keep treading towards that light at the end of the tunnel, because with each passing day, it can't come anywhere but closer.
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