Archive for the 'love and the power thereof' Category

Oct 22 2011

Battling Despair

I have wonderful people at every turn telling me good things, sending me unsolicited but supportive emails, leaving awesome comments on my blog, helping me out in every way, and still I feel poised on the brink of collapse into a deep dark place.  I think part of it was getting sick; it is no exaggeration to say that along this path every time I start to feel like I’m getting a handle on the road to healthiness, something happens to set it back.  This time it was my stamina that was drained by the flu or whatever illness it was.  In fact, I’m still running a mild fever (though now within the “safe zone”) off and on and still resting or sleeping large parts of the days, so it makes sense that I feel weak as a premature kitten.

This hole that appeared under my left arm (instead of the one mostly healed on my right) doesn’t help either, opening up one or more times a day to drip fluid down my side.  Of course everyone assures me that it shows no signs of infection, the fluid is the “right” color to be draining, but that side is so sore and weak, and that was my stronger side, so now each side is weak.  My walking  PT shows how much stamina I’ve lost, hyperventilating and in tears walking the length of two houses trying to maintain proper core muscle engagement and walking form. I had been up to three, maybe even four house lengths before getting sick.

The helper looks for ways to cheer me up, though that wasn’t part of her job description.  She also looks for ways I can interact with Wednesday without having the baby cause too much pain (kicking and squirming and such), and all of that helps, just like the kind words and emails and comments mentioned above.  I don’t let myself think about how much lower I’d be if  I didn’t have those things to keep me going.  But I’m riding the ragged edge, and wondering how much longer, how much more I can take.  I’ve been making myself keep writing bits and pieces, making myself send out stories.  I never used to care about rejections before, they’re part of the process; but the latest (at least it was personalized) rejection on a piece of flash fiction saying they were too obtuse and didn’t get what was happening, when I thought it was a finely-tuned piece where what’s happening is obvious and it all fits together, even the title…well I was warned that there would be a percentage of readers that just don’t get it.  You can’t dismantle your work for those sorts of folk.  I know all of this, have learned it over and over.

And still, I feel weak.  If I could sell just one story, I know that would rejuvenate me, give new life into my work on that front, but personalized or not it’s rejections that keep coming back.  And I know all the pep talks about the right story finding the right market and gotta keep sending them out to have a chance of selling them and so far…I am doing those things.  But I am tired, and weak, and the work never ends, and there’s not even a break in sight much less a step forward.  I’m running on a treadmill that’s being dragged backwards.  And these are NOT the sort of thoughts to have if one wants to stay cancer-free.   The mind-body connection does matter, just like the modern drugs and radiation that killed it matter.

So far, the light is still winning; so far, I can still remember why it’s worth it to keep living (love, always love, among other baser things); so far, I still believe in the power of modern medicine and the awesomeness of my doctor and the love for myself and the love those around me give me.  But please, universe, if anyone is listening, send some big positive tangible lasting step forward soon.  I’m floundering here.

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Oct 18 2011

Mostly baby, little bit me

Wednesday has continued to be mostly the perfect baby.  She loves everyone and has a smile that even baby-haters seems to want to return, and fits into the world like she already knows how loved she is and how strong a place she has in it.  I wonder if that’s what my parents felt like when they had me, not to be egotistical-sounding.  But my name means beloved, and I have always strongly known myself and who I was and how much I was loved, and if the indications are right, my bright and shining Wednesday will grow up with a similar knowledge.  I hope it leads her to even greater things, places, and people than it has me.

I dream of her at different ages, and my superstitious self hopes desperately that means I’m alive to see her at those ages.  I do my PT even when I don’t want to, when everything screams that it hurts too much and no one cares anyway or will notice if I do, because I want to be there for those ages.  I save my tears for late at night when everyone is in bed that I can’t right here, right now, carry my baby around to rock her to sleep when nothing else will soothe her, for one of many frustrating examples of limitations.  I have to be happy and thankful that others are there for those duties, and I am.  But there is so much I am missing and some of it I don’t get do-overs or make-up work later on.  Some of it I just have to be happy she is getting from others, so that she can be that all-loving open and friendly baby I wanted her to be, so that she can grow into the person who knows so solidly, without question, how loved she is in the world.

And yet still, she and I have a special bond.  I knew her in the womb and here she is:  how I knew her, yet ever-changing, just as she should be.  So much of how she was born is tied up in why and how I am still here to write these words.  She knew when to come out, and how, and did, and because of that, I’m currently cancer-free and without broken hips.  Timing matters.

Even if I have months’ worth of PT to continue, to get to where I have a chance to keep up with this bright and beautiful being, every tear is worth it.  The set-backs are harder to deal with — more fear-inducing — because superstitious brain gets that edgewise word in every so often no matter how strong logical brain gets trained.  So a week of the flu takes away three weeks of back-bruising PT progress, and there is fear; a scab comes off the left-side scar to reveal a two inch deep suppurating hole, when it was the right side that had the original hole and the greater damage and more swelling, and there is fear; to talk about these things feels like it gives them more power to damage, and there is fear.

I still do all the “right” things.  If my PT is back down to 10 walks from here in bed to the bathroom and back, then that’s what I do.  I keep helping The Teen with his homework, guide the helper to helping me and the baby and the house, keep an eye on the managing of the house to help my husband, and all the other jobs that I can do, and am good at even in sickness.  I get my friends to remind me they believe in me, though probably less frequently than could be helpful, heh.  I’m back up to doing something about writing every day, even if it’s just energy enough to process a rejection (hey, first rejection of this back-on-my-feet slog today, yay!), so that’s something too.  I keep reporting in to the doctors everything I’m supposed to, which means I’ll be up groggy and early and painfully (for me) tomorrow to get this leaking hole seen to.  Gross, still, but cancer is never pretty, easy, or tidy.  Fuck Hollywood for THAT lie.

People ask me how I feel, and I honestly can’t say.  It’s all just too much.  Sometimes you’re just neutral, not feeling much of anything.  Sometimes you’re rapid-cycling through so many emotions so quickly it might as well be idling in neutral.  Sometimes you feel something super-strong at exactly the wrong time — say while talking to a boss, or while trying for once to “take a break”.  All these drain you when you need filling, so when someone asks “what’s wrong?” where do you even begin?  It becomes less about taking a break and more about trying not TO break, because (for example) there’s this perfect, beautiful, bright and shining little girl smiling at you like you’re the best thing in her entire world– and you know that for her, that’s HER truth, and that matters.

For now I’m going to wrap this up and either find a new destination for my bounced story or watch an episode of something in hopes of getting a little sleep before my exhausting and scary doctor day tomorrow.  Possibly both.  Perhaps neither.  Either way, I know tomorrow I get another one (probably more ) of those smiles, maybe even a laugh, and that means it’s a day worth living for.  I hope all of you can find something even half as good to get you through your own days of fear and happiness.

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