Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.
April 7th, 2020
I woke up at 5 o’clock this morning, feeling the effects of the 5 FU (Fluorouracil) that I won’t be getting tomorrow during chemotherapy because it has surprised me and my medical team, with side effects that harken back to the early days, when I was at full concentration, which, over time, has been lowered incrementally by 6 % (at least I think that number is correct).
All this really means is that my body has been struggling. A severe recurrence of swelling and burning in my hands that are now difficult to close into a fist or do much else with painlessly, and their almost mummified skin which, when it splits open, turns the newly exposed patches into areas especially sensitive to the alcohol-based hand soaps I had to use 20 times yesterday at the CHUM. And, something akin to being desiccated from the inside: burning corneas and sinuses that ache and fill with mucus that seems to petrify on contact with air; the interior of my mouth swollen and heat sensitive and unable to produce much useful saliva.
When I awoke, all of this hit me, all of the discomfort at the same time so, rather than get up and quite likely wake Simon up if I moved around, I stayed put and entered a cycle of trying to fall asleep, almost succeeding, being awoken by snorts that I was responsible for with my saharan nasal passages (so undignified), and starting over again…
(My complaints are now officially finished)
At 9 am, just minutes ago, my phone pinged (with an interesting COVID-19 related article link sent by Simon), and I looked at the time, and here I am. I dislike feeling that a few extra hours of life, bright and early life, escaped me. I am so happy to greet each morning.
But I didn’t awaken to a quiet house because Simon is at home, teaching his college-level biology students online, holding office hours online, orchestrating “labs” online. Minutes ago, he was online with a student, and though I couldn’t hear everything—the door was closed and their voices slightly muffled—I could hear the younger man’s voice, and his questions, and I could make out bits of Simon’s data-supported answers. Simon was clarifying some of the confusion surrounding our coronavirus infection rates in Quebec, and why our numbers are what they are. They bantered back and forth and I could hear understanding in the student’s voice, the deliverance of knowing more, of making sense of the mess out there…
He seemed a lovely young man. His teacher, my son, is only 36. They are in it together, aren’t they? Their individual fates will play themselves out in much the same time-space.
Sitting here, it also occurs to me how different the two obvious threats to my own life are. Covid-19, a virus, is an INVADER. It’s out there, in other bodies, in the droplets that the latter produce when they sneeze and laugh and spit. It covers surfaces for a brief while before it dies. It attacks other people’s bodies and, if given a chance, will do the same thing to mine, because it is ALIVE and seeks to remain that way, and needs “living vessels” to do that. It can also mutate.
And this, from a human standpoint, makes it merciless. It’s alien and aggressive and our bodies single it out quickly and attack it ferociously, and we humans feel terrible in this predicament of having become a furious battleground. But it also offers, in most cases, the very strong likelihood of our survival. Death rates from COVID-19 are between one and ten percent, I think. It depends more on where it emerges and how prepared humans are to treat it. So we hate it for the fear it causes us, and the terrible loss of life that any percentage ALWAYS represents, as we wait for our bodies, all of them, everywhere, to win this fight to the death, leaving behind a life-altering perspective on the precarity of human civilization; bringing about, I HOPE, a sea-change in human attitudes toward each other and the life that surrounds us. What matters; what was only ever superficial and ephemeral; what can be taken away by a microscopic pathogen doing what it is programmed to do, nothing personal.
And then there is cancer, my cancer, which, in contrast with COVID-19, is NOT an invader, is not alien. Whose purpose is NOT to harm me. All of our bodies contain cells that can potentially change just enough to make us sick as they continue to reproduce and make more dysfunctional cells, as though they are the one and only cells. Mine were able to reproduce and cling to each other and sustain each other for a long while before I felt ANY ill effects whatsoever. YEARS, in fact. My body supplied them with everything they needed, not sensing that they would, in time, kill me. My cancer cells have no “reason” to kill me: they just could, and likely will. Sooner than I would wish.
And yet, when humans see a person whose complexion is sallow, often yellowish, whose hair is thin or almost gone, whose weight has dropped visibly and whose clothing just hangs on their shrunken body or who seems to be in constant pain, we feel as great a fear (perhaps even greater) of them and their sickness as we would of a person with flushed cheeks and a cough (though probably not these days). And we feel revulsion. We would prefer to occupy a minimum safe distance. But we don’t become hysterical, run out to hoard toilet paper and medical masks, and buy up so much more than what we need and what is our fair share.
We are each other’s keepers. Have we begun to internalize this deeply yet?
My long commute to the CHUM and my time spent there allows me to observe the emptiness of our city under lockdown. What it means to be living without life around us. Large cities spell this out in the most awful way. Montreal has become an architectural ghost town. The buildings still reach up to the sky, still posture and preen for our attention. But they mean nothing, until you remember that at least some of them, apartment and condo complexes, are actually human hives—swarming with social beings trapped there for a while yet.
When I reach home in Hudson, its birdsong and plant life—it is spring after all and nature is bursting with reproductive energy— remind me instantly that life is everything. Not objects, not buildings, not a pantry or garage overstocked to the point of bursting with hygiene products, flour and sanitizers.
Life. People. We miss each other! We miss being touched by each other. We miss the astonishing, reassuring proximity to each other. And we’re learning to live in a decelerated, hushed world.
The appearance of a person at the end of the road with cancer very much resembles the appearance of things that humans have done to each other. That is, the way we found humans in prisoner of war camps and concentration camps, or exhausted and hollowed-out refugees, eyes wide in the dark, piled into boats like so much trash: emaciated, starved bodies that can’t take any more suffering. And maybe that’s part of what terrifies us about cancer: it’s also a reminder of what we’re capable of doing to each other…
But when we enter stores and empty out the shelves, piling our carts full of “stuff”, to the detriment of everyone else around us, not caring; shoving, pushing, losing our shit in parking lots and aisles, then I think we’ve become cancer cells too, and it’s a horrible thing to witness: each person-cell seeking only its own survival, oblivious of the needs of the community—the social body. How ugly is this breakdown of human solidarity and this intensely focused desire to self-protect!
At the end of their lives, people with very advanced cancers, they just fall…they fall from life, the way the leaves on the trees do in late autumn and early winter.