Receiving chemotherapy for the first time is exhausting. The buildup to the day, with the associated tests, appointments, and procedures, leaves treatment day as the final boss in a weeklong gauntlet of physical and mental torment.
It's been tough to provide an update because, in truth, nothing much has changed. I'm supposed to start treatment this week.
It's Sunday. Tomorrow, just over 24 hours from now, I meet with my medical oncologist to make a decision about the chemotherapy options that have been presented to me.
Look, I know that screaming in music isn't for everyone, but it works for me. I've relied on adrenaline inducing music over the years to help me process emotions and, at times, feel anything at all.
It's already been three weeks since my bowel resection. Imagine that! Time apparently flies when you're paralyzed with existential dread. I'm kidding. Kind of.
Well, it's been two weeks to the day since I had my bowel resection surgery. Recovery seems to be going well. The main thing that I've really come to embrace as of late is just how big of a pile of bullshit cancer is.
I'm sitting at home after having spent the last few days in the hospital following my bowel resection surgery. I think sleeping in my own bed last night was the best sleep I've ever had. While I was in the hospital, mostly disconnected from the outside world and high on hydromorphone, the reality of my situation really set in: this is just the beginning—or, at least, it could be.
It feels like a weighted blanket, rooted in some unnamable space between body and mind, applying a firm pressure as it whispers that you don’t belong. Those whispers grows louder—immune to logic and rationalization—the interloper insisting evermore loudly that you’re a fraud. That you’re in the wrong place. That you should feel bad. That you are, in fact, the interloper in your own life.