My weight began to creep back up during the past weekend, barely topping 150 pounds for two consecutive days. Mi novia…and others…urge me to eat more. Protein-laden foods, especially, but anything that will pump calories into me. I understand their concerns and I share them, but I doubt anyone who hasn’t experienced my specific set of circumstances can fully appreciate that “just eating more” is not a matter of simple choice. Most foods usually have no appeal whatsoever; those that do are acceptable only in very limited amounts. Cancer probably is not to blame; I suspect the treatments are responsible, though skipping recently-scheduled treatments has not yet improved my appetite. The chemicals involved in attacking cancer, I am told, stay active in one’s body for quite some time. So, even without the regular infusions, they continue performing—the functions of both treatments and side-effects keep going for a while after they are stopped. My reactions to food are not easy to explain. It’s not that food is actually intolerable, physically, but that my body sends me messages that suggest the results of eating more would be contrary to all the hopes and expectations that drive people to encourage me to consume more food. It’s impossible to explain in a way that is understandable…even to myself.
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This afternoon, I go into town for a brain MRI, a procedure intended to determine whether there’s evidence that cancer might have metastasized to that vital organ. No one thinks it has, they say; it’s only to rule it out…the fact that I tend to “wobble” a bit when I walk could conceivably indicate such metastasis. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the oncologist for the treatment that was to be given last week (but was withheld for reasons that are no longer clear to me). And one week from Thursday I will get a massage, courtesy of the generosity of mi novia’s ex-husband. I haven’t had a massage in so very, very long—I’ve forgotten the protocols associated with the practice. I do remember, though, how relaxed I usually felt after getting a massage…except when the therapist placed heated stones on my back before they had cooled enough that the risk of second-degree burns had dissipated.
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I hibernated again yesterday, off and on, which had the unintended side-effect of keeping me from sleeping for as long as I would have liked last night. I woke just before 3:00 a.m. this morning. It’s now almost 5 and I finally am beginning to feel like I could get some sleep again. I suppose I could try to find a movie that would hold my interests, but my efforts along those lines have not been especially productive of late…other than No Country for Old Men. A film that might transport me to an era before my time…a time when the grittiness of life was unavoidably educational…might be what I need. Something that would thrust me back to a place and time I’ve not endured—living again through experiences I’ve never had. In spite of the welcome attention and loving support I regularly receive from family and friends, I sometimes feel very lonely, as if I spend all my time at the bottom of an inaccessible well, miles from…something. But that loneliness is almost soothing, an anchor I can count on if I find myself in need of absolute solitude. Describing a unique, unshared emotion for which no descriptive language exists is impossible.
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I could keep thinking and writing for days if I let myself do it. But there seems to be no point in documenting confusion, misunderstanding, chaos, and repetitive mistakes. So, instead, I will finish my Miralax and swill my Ensure and celebrate the impending end of a dark and disappointing night. I will consider the night a success, though, if I avoid spending time before it ends by filtering the air through a wet Brillo pad.
