Who’s Driving This Car Anyway?

I failed the ‘chemo test’ this week, or rather my white cells failed to rise to the occasion, so to speak. Every Monday, when I go to the hospital, I have to have blood drawn first before any chemo drugs are administered. Basically, they want to make sure I’m good and healthy before they poison me. This week, shocking everyone, for the first time my white cells weren’t high enough to administer the chemo. It means we push chemo back a week. On one hand, it’s a nice break. I have a week of nothing but recovery, and I’m already feeling pretty sassy as it is. But it’s tough for me not to have any control over my life’s schedule these days. I’d say I’m a fairly autonomous guy. I enjoy making my schedule, planning my future (at least planning my week out.) With chemo, I’m constantly reminded that I’m in the passenger’s seat. Any comments are welcome, but only to a certain extent. Ultimately, I’m not driving the car. I’m not in charge. I suddenly understand how people can become major control freaks while undergoing chemotherapy.

I was crying in the lab room yesterday with Nurse Deb (she’s really sweet). She could tell I was frustrated that things got pushed back a week. It isn’t that I’m masochistic and want all this chemo love, it’s just that it pushes my ultimate ‘end date’ back further, and I want this over with!!! She sympathized. “I can tell you want your life back.” “Sometimes, yeah.” I replied.

What’s the lesson? What is the universe beating over my head so dramatically and constantly? That I am truly not in charge of the course? I’m not sure. My sister Erin asked me this morning if I wished I were still going to South America. Not necessarily, because that doesn’t register to me as reality anymore. I’ve scratched attachment to that. But I’m still attached to that ‘end date.’ I see this glorious renaissance occurring, sometime around mid-June of next year, when I’m finally back in control, steering the wheel. When I can work again, when I can go out again, unafraid of germs and the potential for infection. But maybe that’s all an illusion. Maybe June becomes July, July becomes August. Maybe in fact, I’ll never reach that day when I get my ‘life back.’ That would imply that this, uncontrollable as it is, may in fact be ‘life.’ Geez. That works on some days, when the view from the passenger seat is pastoral enough to keep me occupied. But I’ll tell you, I am itching as ever to get behind the wheel, at least for a test drive.