So, I’m sitting here in Starbucks (again), trying to figure out why I feel so upset. I knew the chemo was coming: it’s not a surprise. And yet, I feel sort of taken aback, caught off guard. Gobsmacked. I think what happened is that I got used to feeling well, and maybe had begun to think that the worst was behind me. And maybe it is. But maybe it isn’t. Or maybe it’s another kind of worst coming.

I went to see the chemo nurse yesterday, to talk about my next round of treatments. It was a little weird. I had taken her a lovely bunch of tulips – the sun was shinning, and the tulips were so pretty in the store, that I HAD to buy them – and as the nurse walked up to me, she held out her hand to shake mine in greeting. Instead of shaking her hand, I held out the bunch of tulips for her to take. She looked a little nonplussed, and I immediately felt as though I had made a terrible faux pas, so as we entered the room, and she put the flowers on her desk, I hastened to say, “I didn’t mean NOT to shake your hand.” We shook hands, and then she did something very odd. She hurried over to the sink, and washed her hands with anti-bacterial soap. I was startled. I don’t THINK I’m contagious. I don’t THINK rectal cancer is catchy. Hmmm.

I guess she has to be pretty careful about germs.

And then we began talking about my PICC line, or PORT. She explained that there are two ways of doing one: in the upper arm, or in the chest. “For you, we’ll probably do the upper arm. We don’t REALLY expect you to have to come back. Some people we know will have to come back and do this again sometime. But we don’t really expect that you’ll have to come back.”

Silence. Stunned, on my part. Don’t really expect… I wanted to yell, “Damned right, I’m not going to come back and do this again! I am NOT going to HAVE cancer again, do you hear me??!! Well? Do you?!!” Of course, I said nothing of the sort, I just gripped my trembling lip between my teeth, and said nothing. She handed me a box of tissues, and sort of groaned, “I should NOT have said that… why did I say that?”

Argh. Just when I was feeling settled… and happy… and hope-hope-hopeful ( as I said to Tony, after three attempts at the word), my underpinnings are knocked out from under me again.

And then we talked about the drugs. Not the chemo drugs, but the drugs I need to take to cope with the chemo drugs. I showed her the prescription my oncologist had written in November, before the funding came through for the more agressive treatment. Silence. Again.

“Yeah… these aren’t really going to do the trick. You’re going to need something a lot stronger, at least for the first few days after each treament. Oh, and you’ll be taking dexamethasone, too.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a steroid. It will pep you up and make you feel like doing things. It’s great. It’s gotten a bad rap, but some people like it so much, they continue to take it throughout the treatments.”

I went home and looked it up on the internet. Oh, it’s great, alright: 6 to 10 times the strength of prednisone. Nice. My room mate in Victoria took it during her chemo, and gained twenty pounds. It’s great alright. It’s not that I mind gaining weight – but to gain it because a steroid is raging through my body, “pepping” me up and make me gorge myself, doesn’t sound very enticing.

Okay. I lied. I DO mind gaining weight. This whole cancer thing has wreaked havoc on my body and my psyche. Before all this happened, I was feeling pretty happy about myself – a peace with myself that was only gained through years of learning how to love and accept myself regardless of the size number on my pants, or the figure on my scale. In fact, in all my adult life, I have never owned a scale, and (apart from two pregnancies), have refused to weigh myself. I spent too many years obsessed by numbers, and needed to break free from it all. And in the last few years, I think I have gained some real liberty. Some love.

But now, I’m all messed up. It’s very hard to keep myself sorted out when so many well-meaning people approach me and say, “Wow! You look great!” or “Gosh, you look fantastic!” or, “I think you’ve come up with a weight loss plan that works” or even “You’ve always wanted to lose weight, and now you look realy good.” All genuine comments made to me in the last four months. And all made after what I call an “elevator” look that starts at the top, moves slowly down the body, and then back up again. I’ve lost over tenty pounds, and am sporting what I call my “Cancer Chic” look.

I’ve been assured by a friend that I am not “skinny” – nor do I think I am. But it’s very confusing for me to be complimented on a weight loss that came only as a result of a gruelling surgery, six weeks of radiation and chemo, and the accompanying side effects: severe intestinal cramping, nausea, loss of appetite and diarhea. And I do know that some people compliment me because my colour is good, and I look reasonably healthy and well – but others… OY!

I don’t really know why this of all things is bothering me right now; why it’s become such an issue to me. But it has. Maybe it’s just the thought of another assault on my beleaguered body. Maybe it’s that whole notion of loss of control, and voicelessness over what is done in and to my body. Can I choose NOT to take some of these drugs? What will happen? I just feel that my body is being bounced all over the map, and I’ll never attain equilibrium again. I think that’s really what this is about. I’m just beginning to feel well, and whole, and happy. And it’s all an illusion that’s about to be shattered.

It makes me feel sad. And hope-hope-hopeless.