Darkness

SEPTEMBER 22, 2020

Darkness
Migraine arrives
Holes in my vision
Blind spots

My words are gone
Anxiety spikes
Can’t spell made
Instead I write take
It’s not the right word
That much I know

Art Deco Neon blindness
My poor right eye
I’m scared
Can’t think straight
Words are jumbled
Heart pounds
Migraines fuck me up

Crying
I don’t want to be alone
I don’t want more chemo
I don’t like facebook
Or social media

I love old photos
Better times
Mini snuggles with me
Maybe sensing
Despair
Fear

It’s been an extra rough week
I tried to have a life line
Something vital
I could count on

A friend line
A phone line
But that proves too much
For people

I’m sorry I forgot to call
Almost everyone
One call a week
One call a day
It’s too much

So I call myself
Hello...
You’re not alone
You have you

Something is wrong
with my body
I say to me;
I have weakness
And neuropathy
And numbness
And loss of sensation
Loss of desire
Loss of motivation

This numbing of me
It’s hard to track
Tomorrow I will draw
Every area that is
-Not Right-

I will mark what is wrong
Drawing with lipstic
Up and down my leg
My torso
A real time body map

I will write a legend with
Lip liner and bare minerals
For my doctors to read
For big pharma to read
And cc: the FDA
Body Breakdown:
Real life Effects from 24 Years
Breast Cancer Drugs
Radiation, Chemotherapy
Surgery and Depression

Right foot numb
Right big toe numb
Bottom of right foot numb
Ankle feels tight
Right knee cap
Kind of numb

Pins and needles
Fire ants dance
Right inner thigh
Right quad weak
Right quad numb
Right groin numb
Right hip pain
Right pain right side (Slide to the left)

Back feels weird
Spine
Pain
Slipping out
And Weak

Stomach pain
Weak
Distended
Diaphragm locks

Right breast
Fire Ants march
Edema
Not good
Right arm skin
“weird sensation”  

Shut the fuck up -
don’t you dare judge me
I never asked for any of this

Neck hurts
Degenerative disk disease
arthritis
Stiff and achy
Sleep disrupted
Cough non-stop
Air quality or lung mets
Allergies or anxiety

Pulmonary doctor hiding
Sends letters for money
But doesn’t see me
When I say I can’t breathe
LISTEN TO MY LUNGS
(george floyd)

Listen
Breathing
Coughing
Wheezing
Crying
Grieving
Breast Cancer is winning
The fight was never fair.

###

I Didn’t Mean to Get Cancer on the Weekend

SEPTEMBER 26, 2020

If you believe in Murphy, then you know Murphy’s Law rules. It just never fails. A weird symptom, a fever, not feeling well or a UTI always show up after normal business hours. “If this is an emergency please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, please press one and a doctor will be paged.”

3-day weekends used to be a source of pleasure, anticipation and delight. Three days off in a row! An extra day to just relax. Or maybe 72 hours for a quick getaway.

Now 3-day weekends fill me with anxiety. Which of my doctors might be going out of town? Who might I call in an emergency? Can I go three whole days without needing medicine or medical guidance?  3-day weekend? No thank you. I’ll take extra weekdays along with more business hours; then maybe I can relax. 

I never let symptoms or side effects build up. I don’t like to wait till it’s three in the morning, two in the morning or Saturday morning. Like today. Today, The Weekend, I wake up not feeling okay. UTI relapse? It sure feels like that. Ugh. I’ve only been off antibiotics for 24 hours. Do I resume for a few more days or do I need to switch?

 I wait another hour for 9 AM, not wanting to bother anyone too early.  I spend time reading online, pacing around my house, trying to think what I should do.  What I need is medical advice; it’s not a life-threatening situation but a definite urgent situation. And I don’t want things to get systemic, into my kidneys. I’m still recovering from a rough chemo cycle and am worried about my counts. And while I may not have had a lot of (UTI) colonies, the settlers I did have wreaked havoc and I felt cruddy.

Finally at 9:00AM I make peace with the fact that I’m going to text my nurse practitioner.  I make peace with the fact that I hate to bother her but I’m going to bother her. I am so fortunate and grateful for her guidance and support. She’s been helping me for over 10 years.

We go back and forth with an information exchange.  And decide to resume the antibiotics that I just stopped, hoping a few more days will kill the remaining colonists.  Or at least discourage them from staying.  I’m back pushing fluids, trying to flush my system.  It’s exhausting.

I hate Murphy and his law. And I hate having a disease that doesn’t care about business hours.  And while I am playing whack-a-mole with smacking down metastatic breast cancer, I can’t afford to lose time to a UTI.  Hoping Murphey and his law leave me alone until Monday! For now it’s me against those settlers.

Slow Motion Moments

JULY 20, 2020

It took me over six months of weekly therapy, to work on my hysteria at the thought of walking my daughter down the aisle. I was so overcome with emotion, never expecting to get to see that moment. The last thing I wanted was to sob the whole time.

During my toast to my beautiful daughter and handsome son-in-law, I relayed a story about having some slow-motion moments. Moments when time slowed way down. In that freeze frame, I was flooded with feelings of deep love and gratitude.

One of those times, was shopping for wedding dresses with my daughter. I sat where the waiting mothers sat, waiting for her to ‘round the corner in one of several gowns she was trying on.  As she came walking out in one dress in particular, I knew it was THE dress. A slow-motion moment, my emotions choked me as I looked at my daughter as a beautiful bride. 

Looking absolutely gorgeous; the expression on her face said it all. Her eyes reflected all the magic of a little girl wearing a fairy princess dress, and at the same time her face as a grown young woman admiring her own beauty in this gown. I could see the child within her absolutely sparkling. And I could see her the young woman with the glow of a bride.  I took a deep breath as I was flooded with feelings of love and gratitude. 

 She asked me what I thought, and I asked her back the same question, what do you think? She said she loved it but it was expensive. I said I loved it too and I had an empty credit card just waiting to hold that dress. 

 The first time I had this slow-motion experience with my daughter, was when she was born. She was a very tiny baby, and her birth was easy. As they put her in my arms, everything and everyone ceased to exist except for me and her. Time stopped and was silent. Flooded with love and emotion, I knew in that one moment I’d give up my life for her in a blink, no questions asked.  As they cut the cord I realized cord or not, we would always be connected. Basking in that slow-motion moment, motherhood spilling from my eyes.

Sometimes my slow-motion moments, are as simple as the joy I feel while watching the dogs play.  There are more videos than photos of my dogs. I can recall visiting my son in law’s family in Temecula. They have a home on a stunning five acre spread. Everyone brought their dogs that day, and at some point, I was playing with all the dogs. Time stopped for a moment and I said out loud “I love dogs”.  And then I laughed at myself and how grateful I felt to be playing with this pooch pack.

Once in a while, while I’m having a great dance, I will also have a slow-motion moment. Feeling the dance, feeling my partner, and not thinking. After the song ends, I leave the dance floor close to tears.  Grateful for the dim lighting as well as the slow-motion moment. Grateful that I learned to dance, and grateful that I have this community, comradery and ability in life.

Sometimes I look around at my house, and I can see all of its charm, all of its beauty, I see the home I’ve created and I feel that familiar stopping of the clock. A slow-motion moment, filled with love for my home. And appreciation.  Truthfully, that is the rarest of my slow-motion moments since my home is a never ending to do list, and more often than not, I feel the burden of living there alone.

I’ve spent the better part of a year, adjusting and anticipating my impending death. Dealing with a very harsh chemotherapy, which is working and now it looks like my death is less impending. I have had zero slow motion-moments this year.  Adding in the pandemic, only served to accelerate my anxiety.

 My goal now is to get back to living in a way that I can find myself again. I’m finding ways to connect with friends and some family, using social but not emotional distancing. I’ve taken some time off from chemotherapy and it’s allowed me clarity.  Along with days of feeling well. I’m using this time to get back to me.

Slow motion moments; I’m waiting.

Polio and the Ocean

MAY 2, 2020

You would think that after contracting the polio virus “down the shore” at age 12, my mother would grow up to become a lifetime ocean-hater. But thankfully she managed to remain an ocean-lover. I’m not sure that she ever went back to that Jersey shore after her year-long recovery from polio, most of it spent being paralyzed and in an iron lung.

By the time she had married my father, at age 20, she was back in boats with him and back on the water. Her love and her trust in my dad was so evident by her return to the beach, to the water and eventually to them buying a small sailboat. 

My own earliest memory of the ocean was summer of 1962; we had just moved from New Jersey to California. I was 5 ½. My sister was 2 ½. My mother was 25 ½. And my dad a few years older, 32!

Although I never felt poor, I know that we were not rich. It took my dad over three months of being here without us, to save up enough money to send for my mom, my sister and me. He wanted to make a better life for my mom, one that was void of snow and ice. And it took my mom selling nearly all of our furniture and toys, leaving her parents, her friends and family, and lastly leaving her beloved baby grand piano - to pay off all their debt. She bravely boarded that flight to LA alone, with two little kids and $16.00 in her wallet.

After we were settled in to our new apartment, we took a lot of car rides on the weekends. Exploring our new home and what seemed like paradise, especially to my parents who were born and raised on the east coast. California was so clean my parents would often say. I was allowed to play outside barefoot, and my summer shoes now consisted of what we called “stickin’toes or zories”. Thin vinyl flip-flops in bright colors, bought cheap at Fedco.

I remember very distinctly our first ride to see the beach. We drove from Baldwin Hills to Santa Monica. I held my dad’s hand for that long walk from the parking lot to the sand. I’m sure my mom stayed in the car with my little sister. The walk would have been too much for her. I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, but I was wearing shorts, and my stickin’toes. Walking towards the water, I can remember the bottom edge of my dad’s blue beach shorts, and the side of his thigh in my peripheral, and me keeping one hand on the hem of those shorts as we walked down towards the ocean.

When the parking lot and car were no longer in waving sight, I put my hand in my dad’s hand and I can remember being quiet for once, and taking it all in. He was silent, too. When we got to the wet sand I stopped to dig, to feel it, he said “come on bubby, let’s go down to the water”. I remember the smell of salt in the air and the power of the waves and the roaring sound with the spray as they crashed in front of us. We walked a few more feet, to stand in the water, and my grip on my dad’s hand tightened.

Standing next to him in the water, the strangest thing happened; as the waves came in they passed by us fast but calmly. But when they pulled out going very fast, I experienced the weirdest sensation of motion and I felt like I was moving sideways, away from him, and going very fast! I could feel the sand moving under my feet, but was I moving, too? I didn’t understand what this flying on the sand was all about! I was both terrified and in love, I screamed and grabbed my dad who started to laugh.

I watched a few more waves trying to figure it out. Each time I tried to keep my eyes in a place so I would know I wasn’t really moving. The water was not past my calves. I felt safe, until I was sure I was moving and I’d scream and grab onto my dad with both hands wrapped around his legs.

Again, my dad laughed, “don’t worry bubby, it’s just an optical illusion”. This explanation seemed to satisfy me, although as I grew up I realized my dad knew two technical terms. One was “optical illusion” - I’m sure due to his love for all Las Vegas-type magic shows, and the other was “super-imposed” due to his love of TV watching.

We must have headed back up to the car soon after the sand-flying, because my mom would have been waiting with my sister in the car all this time. She was physically handicapped from polio, so it would’ve been very difficult for her to walk so far in the soft sand.

Because of their love of the ocean, we wound up finding Mother’s Beach in Marina Del Rey. Back then in the 60s, before ADA and ramps and accommodations, you could park curbside at Mother’s Beach and the walk to the sand was short. Plus, that sand was densely packed and easier for my mom. My sister and I were happy playing at that little beach. My parents sitting on lounge chairs and reading the Sunday paper, I have such nice memories of our early days in California.

To this day I love being at the ocean; it is the only place I can truly relax. It’s where I can finally breathe.

###

Sacred Places

JULY 20, 2020

My most sacred place
Takes a ritual of steps
Patience…
Deep breaths
Getting quiet

The lighting of a candle
Smoke and Smoldering
of Sage

I call on my spirit guides, Zebra, Yellow Bird
The energy of my ancestors
I silently talk to the universe
“I am here”

And crystals; Pink quartz
A Beautiful amethyst (the color of my mom)
A carved angel from Judi
A striped feather from Linda
An iridescent piece of abalone
And my tiny brass Buddha

I walk the sage
Circle three times
Asking the universe
“See me”

Choosing the sheets (of paper)
Do I want thick or thin?
My hands land on a sheet
A small piece
Thick ragged edges
I love it

Opening the Pans (of paint)
In my own sacred case
Rests pans of every color
A mist of water
wakes them up!

Then time disappears
dips out of sight, or
Blends with the light
I am no longer thinking
I am human, being
I am in process
My Sacred Place

Wet paint on the wet sheet
I’m mesmerized
as color spreads
Blends, moves slowly

My breathing and heartrate slow, too
I like the edgework;
the place where color stops
And shape is defined
The place where colors cross
And new colors emerge

Getting out my magic bottles
Of rich India Ink
Adding ink, point by point
Finding those edges
Where color and paper meet

More spray
Mesmerized by the Sacred patterns
Of India Ink
Roots spreading wide
Flowing through the mist

Surely THIS is the universe
Making itself known!

People often share
what they see in art.
Their eyes dart to mine,
Looking for confirmation

Art is not what you see.
Art is what you feel, when you see
Art is the universe
Making itself known.

Murder by Cancer

MARCH 31, 2020

When someone from the Metastatic breast cancer community dies, we don’t say they lost their battle.  We don’t say they passed away.  We say another beautiful soul was murdered by Metastatic Breast Cancer. We use the term MURDER; it is the only word strong enough to express our outrage.  Technically, murder is not the right word.  But emotionally it is exactly the right word.

Metastatic Breast Cancer stalks us like a skilled assassin.  We never know when it will strike but we feel its constant presence.  And we do fight back, with super-human power.  Enduring harsh infusions, pills, and chemicals. Amputations. Radiation. Treatments.

We know from the beginning that we are fighting a losing battle.  We accept that, and we fight not against cancer, but we fight instead for our quality of life.  And for time.  We mostly fight for time.

Time to spend with our beloved family and friends. Time for advocacy; to make things better, easier, accountable, available, equitable, safer, and transparent for those walking behind us. 

We stand tall.  We lead with a big flag.  Or a bus.  A Facebook community.  We light buildings.  We show up at conferences.  We lead with poetry. With art.  With words.  We lead with truth.  Agency.  Accountability.  Community.  We lay down to be counted.  We stand up to be heard.  One voice.  MBC.

And when one of us dies, we say MURDERED!  Our condolences end with Rest in Power. 

And we mourn together; online-- socially distanced but emotionally connected.  We share photos, stories and grieve together.  Gone but not forgotten, memories will serve as blessings, and tears to ease pain and give relief.  Clichés are suddenly gold.  We remind each other to breathe.  When we return to our own front line, we push back with more resolve.  Reminded of our assassin.  Try to get further away.  Too many murdered. 

Yes, Rest in Power. 

In memory of the 116 people who die of MBC, every day.

Mentors & Menstration

OCTOBER 27, 2020

Mentors
Men-Tor
Tor, Toro, the bull
Bulls, bullies, bull-headed
There have been many men-tors in my life.
Earliest was my dad.

He taught me the value of hard work, of being honest, and having a good sense of humor.
I believe he was the earliest recorded metro-sexual to hit Baldwin Hills, way back in 1962, when being gay was called being fey. Or worse, feygellah. And my dad never said he was gay, but he sure would have been called metro-sexual by today’s standards. And we have a lot of gay men on that side of the family. So gay, fey or straight, he was metro and of that I am sure. That’s why I’m attracted to tall, thin, clean, metro-sexual men with a great sense of humor and a gorgeous smile. I was a daddy’s girl, until I became a “woman” at age 13.

Ma, I yelled, I think I got my period! She came into the one bathroom we all shared, she slapped me across the face and said Mazel Tov! And then she kind of laughed and kind of cried. And when I said, ARE YOU INSANE? She laughed harder and said “I don’t know, that’s what grandma did to me.”

She then proceeded to pull out a large wrinkled brown bag stuffed way back in the ugly blue vanity drawer, a heavy old wood drawer that you had to coax and wiggle open. The bag was a thousand years old. Had she saved this bag all 13 years of my life, waiting for this moment? Inside was a lace “belt”, and several large safety pins, the actual SAFETY type pins that you used for a diaper back then, along with a giant box of Kotex. These Kotex could stop a brain hemorrhage.

I was a wild and juicy skin-tight-white-jeans kind of girl back then. Fully developed, curvy, tall, thin and had great tits - at least that was the buzz on the school quad. (No one had touched them yet). I was in 7th grade, Junior High and I wasn’t a baby anymore AND now I was a woman. I had my period. My “friend.” Along with an old brown bag of special supplies.

I was still sitting on the toilet when my mom came into our small bathroom. She opened the bag and said here, you pull this belt on, and then put the ends of the JUMBO Kotex thru the belt clips, and then using these huge safety pins, you pin the ends of the “napkin” onto the lace belt. Okay, I got the pad, the belt, the pins and my underpants all pulled up. And when I pulled up my jeans, I started to cry.

I can’t wear this thing. This is like wearing diapers! I can’t wear this! I can’t go to school. I cannot leave the house. HOW OFTEN DO YOU GET A PERIOD? HOW LONG DOES IT LAST? No, this is completely unacceptable. I want to wear Tampax - give me your Tampax.

Tampax? NO, my mother exclaimed! You can’t wear a Tampax until after you’re married and have had a baby. Married with a baby???? I cannot wear this fucking thick diaper every month for the next 20 years. MA!!!!! My mom never discussed sex with me, and she was uncomfortable discussing menstruation. She never once in my life said the word vagina. "Schmunny" was as close as she came. And that was in context to cleaning, as in “don’t forget to wash your Schmunny”.

The next day I made her write an excuse for me to skip gym class. And I had her take me to the Guild Drug store. While she waited in the car, I went in and bought a box of Pursettes, tiny Tampax for 13-year-old virgin vaginas. At home I took the box into the bathroom and unfolded the “how to use” diagram, clearly the early work of IKEA. With one leg up on the toilet seat like the diagram showed, I tried to align my body with the light blue line drawing of a side elevation of my private parts. What was that loop? And where in the loop did the pursettes fit in?

It was confusing as hell. Why did one leg need to be up on the toilet? I went thru try after try, unwrapping and wasting more than half the box. I decided to lay flat on the floor, seemed more natural for insertion and FINALLY I got one of those little fuckers up there. But it wasn’t really up enough so while it was better than the pad, it was giving me a very painful pinch with every step and I definitely couldn’t sit down. After my mom saw my pained expression and limp, she finally said, “give it a good shove and push it up higher, and it will be comfortable!”

She was right! That was a real game changer. From that point on I became the Mentor, the Pursette’s Mentor.

Good-bye Cousin Florrie

JULY 25, 2020

There are crumpled blue masks on the floor in the back of my car.  It’s unlike me to be so messy but I’m scared I’ll accidentally put on a used mask and it will kill me. 

Speaking of death, one of my mom’s beloved cousins died yesterday. Like the rest of the first cousins, she still lived on the East Coast. Most of her first cousins, which includes my uncle, have remained close throughout their lives.  They even have a monthly “cousins club”.

In the past few months, this beloved cousin has had some episodes. It was unclear whether it was some strokes or seizures. But it was clear that she was not doing well. She and I kind of shared a first name. Her real name was Florence, but for as long as I can remember, she went by Florrie.  And it was pronounced “Flahrie” which to my ear was distinctly different from how my name is pronounced. 

Sometime in the last decade she decided to adopt my spelling for her name. It was another little bond we shared. Throughout the years we kept in touch via Facebook, or the occasional email and every blue moon a phone call.  

I get important family news in phone calls filled with information bursts surrounded by comedy IF the news is good. Bad news is delivered via early morning calls with cryptic and vague information.  All spoken in whispers and low hushed tones, as if the FBI was listening on the line.  

Overall, bits and pieces of family news morphed as in any good game of “telephone”.  I have to talk to at least two different first cousins, to confirm any story.  And if you are at the end of the line, as in Pacific Standard Time, the story was just that - a story.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to ask too many questions - literally no one was in the same loop! I learned to just “feel” the phone call, did it feel like good news? Bad news? Gossip or a cry for help? Sometimes I’d call my sister and we’d try to compare notes.  But, to be honest she didn’t have the decoder ring either. 

Florrie was not the first of my mother’s cousins to die. She was among the youngest of the cousins, or as my aunt said today, second youngest of “the bloodies”.  I’m not sure there if could be a worse descriptor of the cousins, “bloodies” meaning the related by blood cousins, not the spouses. All I asked was for the age order; was Florrie the youngest of the cousins?  It took me a minute when my aunt said, “you mean youngest of the Bloodies?”  But, it’s an excellent example of the warped and constant sense of humor, even in the midst of the Saddest Sad. 

Florrie was alone in the hospital when she died.  I have given a lot of thought to the subject of being alone. I’ve decided that I am not all alone--because I have myself. I have ME. I’ve also given a lot of thought to being alone because during this fucking pandemic, anybody going to the doctor, or into the hospital is guaranteed of being there alone.  This might also include dying alone! Dying alone is hardly the “dying peacefully surrounded by family and friends” or “dying peacefully in our sleep” that we all love to read, write and imagine.

When I think about Florrie, most of my best memories are from when we were all much younger and when her mom, and MY mom were still alive. That side of the family is warm, loving, noisy, musical, fun and funny. Maybe even zany.  

Florrie also had an amazing capacity for love; for being a caregiver, for being a nurturing mother and an uber-supportive wife. She was a giver, not a taker, and probably to a detriment. She was as funny as she was kind.  I know she will be dearly missed.

I like to think that in her last days, when she was alone in the hospital, she was feeling fully cared for.  I believe that the nursing staff during these pandemic times recognize the need for human connection, they recognize that patients only have themselves.  I like to imagine that Florrie was at ease, relaxed, and felt cared for.  I hope she felt a small reprieve and got to feel what it’s like to just let go and let someone else take care of you.

Last night during (online) Shabbat services, I said the Misheberach for her, a prayer for healing.  But what I was really thinking was that I hoped she would pass peacefully and without much suffering.  And that she was deep in rest and would rest in peace.  

### 

Texts In Times of Covid

MAY 10, 2020

People love to text. It’s not just young people, it’s all people. Texts with little emoji‘s or worse, texts with bitmojis and gifs.

It’s is the most we can be bothered with. A way to contain our interactions with others. We can even copy our texts and just send them out to each person as if they were an original. Who would know? I will also acknowledge that many people are using their phone for FaceTime, for zoom gatherings to learn share and discuss different things during quarantine and isolation.

But I also contend that for things that matter the most, like feelings, hiding behind texts is still the preferred method.  It’s also the worst method. I’d rather get nothing, than a bunch of empty texts. It’s like getting a card that contains only a signature beneath the pre-printed message.  Why bother?

On Mother’s Day, a Hallmark holiday at best, it triggers a lot of feelings for most people. I think of the last time I spent Mother’s Day with my own mother in 1994. We went to Chase Park in the Marina. My kids were little, I was still married, my mother was still alive, but it was not the best day.  If I had it to do over again I wouldn’t bother changing a thing because it really is just a Hallmark holiday.

This year it’s backfired on Hallmark, because we are not shopping and we are not sending flowers and we are not even gathering with family and friends to share food. We can’t share life and we can’t share death anymore.

My feeling is why bother with the celebration? What are we really celebrating? Our mothers? A complicated and strained relationship at best.  A relationship we look at and evolve with over our entire lives. Even when we become mothers ourselves, our relationship issues with our own mother continues whether they are dead or alive. I think of Mother’s Day like Valentine’s Day; it’s a day that makes most people feel shitty. And a day that costs a lot of money for nothing of value.

I cannot make the best of a bad situation; I’m just trying to stay alive. I feel trapped and overwhelmed. I am sick from chemo too much of the time, and unless you are too, you cannot understand.

People are suddenly relaxing their isolation rules. But how am I supposed to relax mine? Nothing has changed. There still can be asymptomatic carriers. The virus is still spreading. There are 80,000 people dead. After being in quarantine for so long, it seems foolish to suddenly decide to mix with people especially when the people I would mix with are mixing with other people.

 Fuck all the text messages from today. They do nothing to lift my spirits. They offer no chance for an exchange of energy, for truly being seen or heard.  I hope they make the sender feel good, they certainly don’t make me feel good.

Crossing the Threshold

NOVEMBER 9, 2020

I could hear them calling me from the other side. I bent down and looked and I could see them way up ahead. They were waving me on. Come on, come on!

It was darkness like a dream. But the sun was shining. And the moon was bright. Throwing shadows from the trees. Vines hanging all around me. I could hear my pounding heart. I was walking forward but turning in all directions, I didn’t feel safe. It was like a dream but it wasn’t a dream. I was wide-asleep.

They were calling me. Using my name. My Hebrew name, how did they know? I was shaking from adrenaline. I didn’t know where to hide. The room was so cold. I wish I had taken more Ativan. My heart was in my throat. How can this be happening again?

OK this will just feel just like a facial the technician joked. Joked! The nerve of him making a shitty joke jolted me out of my fantasy.  I wanted to stand up and strangle him. But instead all my suppressed anger came pouring out of my eyes.

He placed a jumbo sheet of hot wet woven plastic over my face. It’s too hot I said, but he said just relax and they started washing me with cool water. Rolling down my neck. Into my ears. Mixing with my wet anger.

Hold still Flori, hold still everyone said. I was strapped to the table, what choice did I have? SHIT why didn’t I take more Ativan for this face smothering? The warm plastic was starting to harden, it was fitted so tight, it felt like a wet helmet with a hole for my face. But my jaw was locked in and swallowing was not an option.

I began walking then running. I could hear the loud laughter, sounds of a huge party up ahead. C’mon c’mon they called to me! I don’t wanna be here I screamed.  I want to leave this cancer shit behind. WAIT FOR ME!

What do you mean I have mets in my brain? I feel fine. How big are they, where are they, what will they affect?  There are films up on all the monitors. Is that my skull?

They said don’t worry. FUCK. Don’t worry we can target them. We have the TRUE BEAM. Our state-of-the-art radiation machine. We can sculpt the beam, control it and target the tumors. Within one millimeter. All in one session, less than an hour. You won’t feel anything.  Don’t worry - you won’t feel anything.

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

Don’t worry, you won’t feel anything? I have never not felt anything. I already feel everything. And I am angry and I am terrified. I see my daughter out of the corner of my wet eye.  I try to pull it together and stop acting like such a baby.  She deserves better I think, but I am too flipped out to rein it in, too angry. Too petrified.  

Why is this happening to me again?  I’ve got to get out of here and off this table and out of this helmet. I am panicking. FUCK!

My thoughts are interrupted by noise from the party people, again I see them through the jagged portal in my head.  I see my grandmother, the one from Florida, she is tan and smiling and dancing and waving me in.  I don’t know if I should cross that threshold. 

The True Beam radiation set up begins. They move me to a cold metal table. There’s a flying arm swooping around me. Fuck!  Everything in the goddamn room makes a whirring noise. They place the torso mold under me so that my position cannot change. They place the smother mask helmet over my face and they bolt me to the fucking table. CLICK. Lock jaw, and I’m freezing.

I lose peripheral vision from the helmet, and as the table turns I feel waves of motion sickness. I asked the technician to stand where I can see them so when the table turns I can orient and not feel sick. The room is dark and the cross beams cut across my face and head. OK Flori-we will be right outside, we’re going to get started. What a bunch of chicken shit pussies.  WHY ARE THEY LEAVING ME ALONE IN THIS MORG? Who thought this was do-able with just one Ativan?

Once again, my fear and anger pour out of my eyes, into my ears, down my neck, onto the table, soaking the mold, but they are right. I cannot move. I am sandwiched and bolted to the space-age machine.  How did I wind up here? After 13 years of doing all the treatments only to have 4 little fuckers pop up in my head.  I’ve heard that to look back is to lose the soul.  Regret. It will fuck you up every time.  Time moves forward.  Until I cross the threshold, I have no choice but to keep moving forward.