Courage and Bravery, With a Side of Noodly Knees? Please...

I have been mightily blessed by so many people sending prayer, positive thoughts, and well wishes my way lately. It is humbling to hear people talk of their perceptions of my courage and bravery.  This is in part, because even managing the mental piece of this situation is a daily struggle, sometimes on a minute-by-minute basis.  I often feel more like a scared little mouse than a roaring lion.

Today was a really stellar day. I drove out of town to do some work for a client. My driving companion and I had a blast on the way there. And, good news, I didn’t even get sick. That alone was enough to make me feel like Wonder Woman by the time I got to the job site.

It was really nice to spend the day thinking and focusing on something besides a body that’s trying to fail me. While I don’t really see myself as a control freak (any more… that’s what my 20’s were all about), I do tend to do better when I can occasionally delude myself into thinking that I am the master of my own little universe. Today was one of those days. It was fun.

On the way back from the mountains, my ride buddy JC and I stopped at Whiskeytown Lake for a quick swim. Winding around one of the paths near Oak Bottom, we swam, unfettered by others, and enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings. JC amused me with details of his raft trip down the Trinity earlier in the day, and his angst over whether or not to call the ‘smokin’ hottie’ who was in the raft with him for most of the trip. Just how many people on the planet get to end their work days in such perfect surroundings? I fully realize how fortunate I am, and resolve to remain focused on those kinds of joys in life.

I am also in awe of just how well 150 SPF sunscreen works. I didn’t even know sunscreen could be that protective, and yet, here I am with the same uneven truckdriver tan I’ve had all summer, no darker, no lighter.

By the time I got home, I was tired, but in a really good way. I made it through the day only getting sick once. I was overjoyed. As I began to unreel through the evening’s rituals, I received a phone call from my doctor’s office. This week’s tests are not what any of us had hoped. Tumors have showed no additional shrinkage, and according to the doctor, my bloodwork doesn't indicate that my "body is fighting the fight the way it needs to be.”

I couldn’t believe that the doctor used a fighting metaphor, because his words, at that moment, threw me the equivalent of a sucker punch. My mind raced as he continued talking, and I began readjusting my strategy and game plan as he explained things in loathsome medical jargon.

Bottom line, I will be doubling my medication for the next three weeks. Increased and new side effects will likely follow.

I’ll be honest. These are the moments I don’t feel so brave. It is extremely difficult to not succumb to fear, despair, sorrow, anger, and righteous indignation. Since I've started treatment, I've had to learn to adjust to life's interesting indignities, like apologizing to a high-ranking official for vomiting on her at a meeting in the Colorado state capitol.  And dealing with the laughter and horror of a group of teens in Target when I threw up into my own handbag, lacking any other discreet means of managing the situation.  I've lost all my hair, I can't drive on my own, sleep comes only in doses of too much or not enough, and the list goes on.  And maybe that's part of what keeps me in the mental game of this-- do I really want to add unmitigated whining and blubbery tears to the list of personal embarrassments linked to this situation?  I think not.

Ever the planner, these moments make me want to start working on plan B. What if the drugs don’t finish the job at all? What if chemo after that doesn’t work? What if surgery fails, too?

It is practically a physical effort to put that kind of speculative planning out of my head. I’m an analyst by nature, designed to constantly be looking at options, trade-offs, building contingencies. Then I remember that at the beginning of all this, the one thing I decided to predicate all other decisions upon was the fundamental notion that I WILL NOT GIVE THIS ‘THING’ PLACE OR PRESENCE.

In all of my contemplation over how best to deal with this situation, I resolved that I would stick to that one principle. As such, I do my best to only talk in terms of this thing leaving my body. I have refused to even let the doctor tell me the ‘formal’ name for what is bugging me. I decided that it would be easier to eradicate it if I don’t become friendly with it. I told the doctor, “I don’t really need to know who the invader is, just help me tool up so I can kick its ass.”

My logic is similar to how we deal with unwanted humans. If someone invades your home, you do what must be done to remove that stranger, up to, and including killing it. Shooting someone, harming them, or otherwise incapacitating them, are not normal actions in our daily context of life. In the same vein, I can’t imagine pointing a gun at an intruder and saying, “Hey, before I shoot you, can you tell me what your name is? Exactly how long were you intending to stay? Do you have an ETA on when you were planning to kill ME?”

With human relationships, a whole different social order exists once you become acquainted with someone. You learn names, you discover backgrounds, you find common points of interests, you begin to compensate for them and sometimes even justify their behavior. In no way do I wish to establish that kind of kinship with what’s inside me. I just want it gone.

So, despite today’s news, I’ve decided to see this as an opportunity. A former co-worker encouraged me last week by saying, “This trial you’re going through will change you, and it’s up to you whether that change is for the better or for the worse.”

I’m choosing ‘better’, come what may.