First Person Problems

After waking for an hour this morning at 4, I returned to bed for awhile at 5; waking almost 3-¹⁄₂ hours later, just an hour before my appointment at the oncology lab. While getting my IV fluids and a couple of injections, another patient experienced a reaction (anaphylactic shock?) to his treatment, exhibiting some stroke-like symptoms. His speech became unintelligible, his lower lip swelled, he vomited, and seemed to be extremely confused. The medical care team converged on him instantly, quickly determining that an ambulance should be called. While that was happening, a member of the team went to get the doctor, who came in; she participated in the treatments and made some decisions, but left the lead nurse in charge as the primary caregiver. I was impressed by the entire team; especially the lead nurse and the doctor, the latter who provided strong but unintrusive leadership. The patient responded quickly, physically, to the medical intervention. He did not want to go to the hospital, but the medical staff and ambulance personnel were firmly but gently insistent that he needed to go for observation, at least, and treatment if necessary to keep him alive. Ultimately, he (and his wife, who was summoned from walking their dog in the parking lot) agreed to go. The ambulance attendants, both rather slight young women (who were obviously stronger than they looked, considering how heavy the guy must be), were impressive, as well.

+++

It occurred to me that—though not necessarily an epiphany—every time I focus intently on a personal memory, I experience myself as another person. Essentially, I become the person I was at the time the memory was recorded; my present self standing by as a non-participant observer. Assuming this recent perspective/realization to be true, to one extent or another, that means we (I, anyway) have the potential of seeing the world through another’s eyes. Admittedly, this “semi-epiphany” does not necessarily mean I have empathy for others. But maybe I have the capacity to have empathy for myself?

+++

Theory and practice sometimes collide in spectacular ways. In theory, killing a human being, even one who is mindlessly sending other human beings to slaughter, is immoral. In practice, the same act might well be a supremely moral one, especially under the same conditions. Vengeance, mercy, and justice can overlap in extraordinarily complex ways, making judgments extremely difficult, convoluted, and uncertain.

+++

It happened to dinosaurs. It happened to passenger pigeons. It happened to the Sicilian wolf. It happened to the Great Auk. The Whooping Crane is still struggling. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (the IUCN Red List), more than 47,000 species presently are threatened with extinction. One million more are likely to be threatened in the coming decades . Scientists estimate that nearly 1 million species face extinction in the coming decades, with rates of loss 1,000 to 10,000 times higher than the natural background rate due to human activities. It can happen to us. And perhaps it should.

+++

I have not yet heard back to confirm an appointment for my first new radiotherapy treatment, tentatively scheduled for tomorrow.  Assuming it’s on for tomorrow, I’ll not have chemo for the next two weeks. If not…who knows?

+++

The steroids I am on seem to have caused my cheeks to puff up a bit, so I look a little more like my old, fat, puffed-up self. I noticed that just this morning. That may last for awhile, as I’ll probably be on steroids for a while during and after my treatments with hippocampal avoidance, during whole-brain radiotherapy. All these recent cancer treatments and the terms used to describe them seem increasingly constricting; suffocating. One of the most maddening aspects of it all is that I have no idea whether the treatments truly are lengthening my life or just intruding on the remaining tranquility I might otherwise have had. I know, this is just a mood I’m in. I’ll get over it and will return to my usual only-moderately-grumpy self. But when I’m in this place, I get mad. Mad at myself for having smoked so much of my life (more than half, as it stands) away with cigarettes. Mad that I allowed myself to expose others to the dangers of second-hand smoke. And I get mad at suddenly and with no discernable reason getting weepy over things that do not merit such emotional reactions. And then I realize my problems pale in comparison to so many others; mine are not just “first-world” problems to make fun of; they are “first-person” problems that deserve no more than mockery.