Isobel Knows

Last week was a tough one. “Yeah sweetie, you have cancer. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.” Alright, last week was particularly tough. It seems each time I go back into the hospital for chemo, it takes longer and longer to get off the couch again and begin trying to recover before the next week’s dose. Last week, the reprieve never came. I spent the entire week on the couch, in and out of pain that radiated through my back, shoulders, stomach, belly, pancreas, side and chest. A week crept into eight days and by Thursday, we were back to asking the question, “is it time to go to the hospital yet?” In the past, a hospital visit has happened nearly any time I’ve experienced significant pain. As it’s become more and more common, the question has shifted: ‘at what degree of pain do we go to the hospital?”

At the hospital, they have morphine in IV form, which means it’s a very potent amount of pain killer that can be given quickly. In the case of a sudden onslaught of pain, the sooner relief comes the better, far better. But for the most part, there’s very little they can do up at the hospital, other than pain control. They’ll want to run tests, inevitably most of them won’t pan out---more likely than not it’s ‘chemo pain,’ not incredibly complex. It’s the human body being used as a punching bag and oh! It doesn’t like that very much. So I’ve begun exercising greater caution before proceeding to the hospital, understanding better the help they can and can’t provide. I spent about three days at home, monitoring the pain and controlling it through meditation, relaxation and breathing. My body responded beautifully and for the most part, I was able to keep myself relatively calm.

On Friday, I decided to check myself into the hospital. After a certain amount of time, I worry that by not eliminating the pain with drugs, (ie trying to let it go away more naturally) I’m not able to heal and rest properly. I was admitted to the hospital and started on morphine, the highest dose that could legally be administered (I tend to have a high pain tolerance…) It took a few days for my body to fully calm down. I was pretty loopy. I’m sure you all visited. I’m sure you all brought flowers and chocolate. I’m sure. I don’t remember any of you people. But you’re beautiful.

The doctors evaluated the situation: mild pancreatitis brought on by general chemo irritation. Again with the pancreatitis. I was terrified when I heard that it was pancreatitis. It was as if, as Dorothy ballooned back to Kansas, the Wicked Witch rocketed up in a puff of black smoke and popped her one. I didn’t want to admit how scared it made me to consider dealing with pancreatitis again, or not being able to eat or drink or exercise. I’ve been so positive, and it was hard to admit that with this comes a great deal of anxiety about a very uncertain future. But it doesn’t feel uncertain. That’s the funny thing. It’s alright. Right now. As is. I know that. I made that my prayer all weekend long in the hospital room and focused on dancing and waiting for the signal from the universe that of course, it’s okay. The nurse who had been cleaning my room for several days, Isobel, was swaying around my room with the broom, humming to herself. Everyone in the hospital is incredibly cordial to one another, part of what I like about it. Isobel is particularly friendly. The entire upper half of her face lifts when she smiles. She smiled at me, whisked herself into the bathroom, swished around cleaning, swished back out and smiled at me again. She looked at me as though I were a small, undiscovered creature that had hatched out of an egg, and she said something in Spanish. Then she approached me and rested her hand on my forehead. “Eh…you…eh going…bettah.” And just as quickly, she swished out of the room.

Well there you have it. You don’t argue with Isobel. She knows.