I visited two different mental health counselors a few years ago, in the hope the conversations would help enable me to cope with or shed—or, at a minimum, reduce the intensity of— feelings of deep emotional turmoil. After just three or four sessions with the two of them, my level of confidence in their ability to help guide me through my mental struggles dissolved into a strong sense that I was wasting my time with them. They were nice people who wanted to be helpful, I think, but their approaches quickly seemed ineffective and inappropriate. I struggled to find reasons to believe I would ever develop a sense of trust of the first one. The second one talked about herself in an attempt to illustrate that she understood the issues I was facing; she did not. My chief reason for selecting the two of them was that they accepted Medicare clients; they were among the very small number of counselors I found that both accepted Medicare clients and could accept any more such clients. So I abandoned my search and persuaded myself I was perfectly capable of dealing with my own emotional warfare with myself. For a while, I think I was successful in hiding them from myself. But over time they periodically stepped out of their hiding places and into the open where, again, I tried to resolve them in the same ineffective ways I had tried before. These latter attempts, though, I kept (and keep) to myself. Failure invites well-meaning but unqualified would-be psychologists to offer advice that feels embarrassing and patronizing to the recipient. Perhaps I should abandon my preoccupation with finding counselors whose bills will be paid by Medicare. I ask myself whether I would stop trying to deal with cancer if I had to pay all the stunningly high…almost obscenely high…medical bills associated with the battle. That question is harder to answer than it should be; terminal cancer has little chance of being reversed. Maybe some forms of guilt and one’s emotional reactions to them cannot be “cured,” either. Maybe guilt and emotional upheaval simply are the legitimate prices one must pay for being the person one has allowed oneself to become. The same thoughts may have a great deal of relevance to criminal justice, as well. “Commit the crime, do the time.” Yet our society is leaning further and further to the side of favoring rehabilitation, rather than revenge. Philosophies are not jut mental exercises; they result in real responses to the physical world. If for no other reason, an intense study of one’s own philosophies merit close examination.
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My hopes, that yesterday’s chemo treatment would include steroids, were dashed. Past chemo treatments included steroids, which gave me a few days of energy after the treatments…and before the side-effects involving intensive tiredness kicked in. Not so, this go-round. The port in my chest received only re-hydrating fluid, an anti-nausea drug, and two new (to me) drugs intended to slow the growth of cancer cells. Prior cancer drugs were expected to kill cancer cells; when I return for next week’s lab draws and infusions (a change in frequency of treatments), I’ll inquire about the reasons the “slow-the-growth” drugs are to be used, rather than some forms of “kill-the-cells” drugs. This morning, I read about a MDA patient who achieved complete remission of his Stage 4 lung cancer after surgery (which I had), followed by a pill regimen involving “alectinib.” Though I think it’s highly likely that my oncologist has already considered that drug, it can’t hurt to ask.
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Despite my understanding that this morning’s Annual Physical lab draws require me to ingest “nil per os (NPO) or nothing by mouth” beforehand, I have been unable to exercise sufficient discipline. I’ve had a few sips of water, regardless of the implicit instructions. Had I adhered strictly to the rigid NPO expectations, I might have become weak with dehydration during the two hours I have yet to wait for the procedure. And I plan to attend the church’s board meeting this afternoon—or, at least, to participate by Zoom—if my fatigue holds off long enough. Without water and without the steroid, I would expect a much earlier decline in energy; maybe a touch of water will postpone that decline.
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I feel rain approaching. It’s miles away for now, but I sense that it’s heading my direction. Purposeful rain driven by the winds of intention. Get out your umbrellas and your perfectly-made counterfeit passports…dozens of them.
