The Unexpected Confluence of Torture and Pleasure

Neither the sun nor the moon looks on us with compassion. Their emotionless stares seem to bathe us in indifference. On occasion, though, their fierce glares far surpass apathy, offering evidence of unrestrained animosity—the kind of hatred ignited by betrayal. But if a judgment of betrayal is appropriate, we are the ones in whom that emotion should rightfully reside. After all, we glimpse skyward only to see a vast expanse of unfulfilled promises. We are the ones teased by celestial objects that appear so big and so near that we should be able to touch them—only to be ridiculed when we reach out and try to grasp them. One day, though, we will secure our vengeance. One morning, the sun will stumble out of the night sky into a world blinded by eternal darkness. Smothered in ashes and dust and blackened by cooling embers, the sun’s long-standing privilege and aristocratic elegance will have vanished. At the same time, the moon’s source of light will have grown cold and distant. How long, I wonder, will the vengeance last? Will we look back and wish we could have calmed our rage? Only time will tell…but, no…time, too, will be long gone. It will have turned to invisible vapor and moved on to other galaxies in other dimensions.  Time will not tell. Time, too, will have suffered the consequences of our revenge.

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My two most recent chemotherapy treatments instantly reminded me how I responded to most, if not all, of the previous treatments. After a brief period in which my energy level experienced a modest spike, a longer period of fatigue-exhaustion-tiredness ensued.  My nephew and his wife arrived on Saturday morning—two days after my chemo—for a brief visit. By late Saturday afternoon, my energy was sapped. I took a “nap” several hours before dinner time and slept until about 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.  Though I had recovered just enough stamina to go out to breakfast with them and with mi novia and mi cuñada, my energy did not last very long. Again yesterday, after I napped in the morning, I woke for a while, then repeated the previous day’s routine. Unfortunately, I allowed napping to interfere with taking scheduled pain medication, which derailed their intent. But, the pain was not intolerably bad; just annoying and disruptive. It’s what chemotherapy does; better from my perspective to tolerate it until it becomes intolerable than to reject it and, in the process, accelerate the decline.  Despite the intensity of my fatigue, I was very glad my nephew and his wife came to see us. They are good people, through and through.

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We have been invited by friends for a dinner of smoked brisket this evening. It has been far too long since I have eaten a good brisket fresh off the smoker.  I think there will be six people (including the two of us) at the gathering; a small enough number to encourage conversation and enough people to minimize the likelihood of intrusive silences. I wish I could contribute to the dinner effort, but I have become unreliable in providing kitchen support, much less in taking on the role of lead chef. Going “out” has become very rare for me for a variety of reasons. Fatigue, of course, contributes to my preference for spending time in my own house, but a compromised immune system is a stronger reason than mere preference. In spite of my preference, though, I realize on those fairly rare occasions when we leave the house for something other than medical appointments how energizing (at least mentally) they can be. I can say without the slightest bit of irony that my favorite activity is spending time with friends and family. That probably has been true all along, but for many reasons I recently have given the matter considerable thought.

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My calendar teases me by showing me several consecutive days with no obligations. But then, suddenly, commitments begin to form, filling in the blank day with reminders that any claims I make about being in control of my own schedule are delusions. I dare not reject a “friendly reminder” of an upcoming appointment with a pulmonologist known for his expertise in the surgical suite—it is unwise to upset someone whose scalpels are custom fitted for his grip, so I will see him on Thursday afternoon.  My appointment for tomorrow morning’s massage, though, is not one I would be apt to reject—I might prefer her to make a house call, but the inconvenience of driving to her office is not sufficient to merit making a big deal out of it. And the Wednesday appointment at the cancer center has become almost routine and not particularly intrusive. Still, I want a two-week vacation designed for maximum relaxation. Sitting high on an ocean-side cliff sounds ideal: watching the sunset, sipping a New Zealand sauvignon blanc and burning calendars over a wood-burning fire just might soften all of…or, at least, some of…the hard spots in my psyche.