Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series
Begun on October 15th 2019—while waiting for blood tests and my appointment with my oncologist (which both took place) and a CT-Scan, which was postponed to next week because the machine broke down.
I’m close to the age when I could have retired from teaching—but I wouldn’t have.
I would have kept at it for many more years, though I would likely have become a little pickier about the contracts I accepted, not wanting to drive around the planet anymore in winter.
That was the story of my life “before-cancer-moving-from-Pointe-Claire-and-separating-from-my-husband”.
I now associate the train with life since “my-cancer-diagnosis-moving-from-Pointe-Claire-and-separating-from-my-husband” and with the hospital and treatment. I sat in the train this morning considering how routine my existence has become and yet…
As I lined up to confirm my registration for blood tests on the 14th floor this morning, I had this thought: What if you had skipped the last 15 months and just suddenly –ZIP!—found yourself standing in line here at the CHUM, feeling exactly as you feel right now?
I would of course be terrified.
The altered condition of my eyesight, my skin (I’ve had two nosebleeds while sitting here in the first floor eating area, scribbling these notes down and running out of kleenex), my hands, feet, nails…The overall condition of my body would likely cause me to jump, startled, and perhaps shriek. My body–joints, spine, the works—is stiff and sore and rickety and alien. Without the fourteen-month-long, gradual erosion of my wellbeing, surely I would cry out in shock. Howl. And then just probably cry, frightened and uncomprehending.
Adaptation is a marvel and an obfuscator.
What human beings can get used to… Maybe that’s limitless. Or maybe it’s like the frog that sits in the gradually warming water until it boils to death.
These past fourteen months of cancer treatment have been a kind of immersive simulation of aging, with its sprouting of aches and pains, its limiting of movement, its incremental losses.
I like to think that aging is a gentler process; that it sneaks up on you slowly, though inevitably, and that for this reason, is less cruel than advanced disease in middle-age.
I’ve been observing the oldest among us. I would say “the elderly”, but that expression often comes with a hint of being patronizing. And yet, it’s a lovely word. I have been paying closer attention to our elders of late (nos aînés). Strangers as well as people close to my heart. I’ve felt that we are on the same path, mine shortened by the surprise of a new cancer in my family’s gene pool.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought of 80 as the age at which I would consider a person old. No scientific reason. Perhaps the simple fact that when you enter your eighties, you can pretty much figure you have less than 10 years ahead. Several of the people I love the most on this earth are in their eighties now. They’re among the fortunate, because they still have health of mind and body. It’s biomechanics that’s messing with their lives. They ache in places that have just worn out.
I often wonder about their relationship with time. Do they see every day as expansive and open—though their remaining years are numbered—and simply push death into a muted space in their minds?
I can’t do it. This has everything to do with the tight time box in which I live. I can’t break out of the two-week cycle of treatment and the disruption and disturbances that drag along behind it. And I don’t dare think about what will happen when the cycles of this clinical trial come to an end. So…
How should I count time now?
– By the number of chemo sessions—24 equalling roughly a year?
– By the number of grey hairs that have appeared on my sons’ heads since this all began?
– By the expansion of my love for my grandchildren—those born and those I hope to see born?
– By the mountains of books I’ve been able to read through all this?
– By the friendships cemented through this ordeal which is NOT a wasteland?
– By the number of seasons that have passed: mindful of the sounds of each, the smells of each, the beauty of each?
– By the people I’ve met online as a result of reaching out blindly?
– By the length of the list of chemotherapy side effects I now live with?
– By the quality of the regrowth of white baby hair that now covers my head?
– By the number of evenings spent in the den with my sons and friends, wrapped in soft blankets and binge-watching shows on streaming channels, and DVDs?
– By the number of Dungeons&Dragons sessions I’ve participated in since my diagnosis?
– By the number of times I’ve stepped out the front door of this house in Hudson, inhaled deeply, and felt the goodness of the air?
– By the losses of loved ones that have come to pass these last 14 months, each a warning, a wake-up, a reality check?
– By the number of days’ endings, during which I snuggle into my bed propped up by a sultanic mountain of pillows and read till my eyes can no longer stay open?
– By the recurring meltdowns I’ve experienced—all fight drained out of my mind and body and sadness moving in?
– By my increasing, constant resistance to being trapped inside a small life of two-week cycles?
– By all of the lessons I’ve learned since having the wool peeled away from my eyes?
– By the degree of my transformation into a wizened and hopefully wiser woman?
– By the growing sense of an ending that I am moving toward ?
– By the increasing understanding that pain and love are a two-sided coin: the more I have experienced sadness and anguish, the more I have turned to love and the state of grace it makes possible?