Midterm Report

My father asked me how things are going this cycle – each dose of chemo, and its aftermath, is known as a "cycle" – and I struggled to explain: better in some ways, worse in others. On one hand, I'm squaring up to the blows better. I think my body understands the assault in a way it didn't the first time around, and I'm bouncing back a bit easier. On the other hand, when I was down this time, I was really really down.

In the parking lot at the gym yesterday I broke down crying because the run I was planning suddenly seemed like a grind. In my low moments, chemo feels like it is sucking the life out of me. It seems so counter-intuitive to subject my body to this, and I'll admit it, I sometimes wonder if I'm making a mistake, if the wheat grass / meditation / high colonic enthusiasts have it right, that there truly is a better way. The idea that my life is on the line seems too slippery to grasp. Of course my doctors aren't lying to me, but sometimes my mind leads me toward this absurd conclusion. It's all very surreal.

I confessed all this to J~, who held my hand, and validated my feelings, marveling at how recently my biggest physical concerns were about how my back felt after a 60-mile bike ride, and how fast would I be able to run that half-marathon. Yes it is very surreal.

It's amazing the weight one sheds with just a few tears. I felt better, put some good music on my iPod, promised myself I could go slow and easy, and had a surprisingly enjoyable run in the great outdoors. My intended four miles became six, and I met J~ in the pool afterward grinning.

Okay, so I could only pull off six laps, but who's counting? The shower felt great.

I will get through this.