Calling for Reinforcements

Chemotherapy treatments often prove far less climactic than I expect them to. But last week knocked the wind out of me. I was feeling slightly under-the-weather before my first treatment on Monday, but then afterwards I began experiencing a sharp pain, running up and down my hips and legs. It felt similar to a pinched nerve in my sacrum, but much deeper, in my groin. Vincenzo came with me again from Kalani, and proved how invaluable a friend can be in times like this. It took the full weight of his body pressing against my back to access a stretch deep enough to relax the waves of pain. An hour and two South Park episodes later, I was completely calm, but feeling as though I’d just ascended Mount Kilmanjaro.

Two days later, another chemo treatment. This time it was my monthly lumbar puncture, a needle that punctures my spinal column, delivering chemotherapy to my central nervous system. It’s a routine procedure in my treatment; I seldom ever feel much significant discomfort afterwards. But that night, as the numbing medication wore off, the area where the needle penetrated—close to the spot where the pain had centered earlier—began throbbing. It felt as though electric currents were pulsing up and down my legs, my hips, and my lower back. Two years into this experience, my body has learned to anticipate any pain’s possible crescendo. One part starts hurting, the others want to join the party. So my shoulders tensed, my neck pinched and my jaw tightened. It was a similar process to the earlier night, but the needle’s sharp invasion deep in my sacrum made it much harder to relax. When I finally did, my body was wringing with sweat, exhausted and weary.

So we called for back up. Hawaii provides, it always amazes me how much so. The following two days, I was pampered lavishly in the hands of beautiful massage therapists, provided by the Waikiki Marriot Spa. A friend of mine, Henry, works at the spa and introduced me to the gang several months ago. At this point, I’ve become the spa’s pet project. The team got right to work when they saw my condition: shoulders, hips, legs, neck. Acupuncture, lymphatic drainage, full body scrubs, even a pedicure thrown in there. There are times when pampering feels a luxury. There are times when luxury feels a necessity. Back at the Hotel Renew, which has become my second home in Waikiki, a separate team of hotel care takers snuck into my room, leaving beautiful flowers, fresh fruit and plenty of candy bars. I was touched by the generosity of so many who know so little about me. My confidence feels shaken. This can be the most frightening experience to walk through alone, especially when I get thrown a curve ball like this pain. It is all I can do to muster the strength to face it and consciously relax it. I cannot do this alone, and that’s hard to admit. I mean I’ve certainly tried, but it’s hell. So it’s a heaven-send to have a sudden surplus of strong, reliable people all around me, capable of stepping in and lending some muscle to the cause, quite literally—apparently—if the situation calls for it.

Method in Madness

I recently started jumping again. I used to jump all the time when I was younger. Our family had a gigantic trampoline. But I kicked the habit in my mid teens and hadn’t relapsed until the other night when I was passing Kalani’s small weight room. I saw a mini tramp. No one was watching so I bounced once, just to remember what it used to feel like. It felt good. So I bounced again. The next day I brought my ipod. Even more fun. But today, there were other people working out in the gym. I knew I’d get uncool points if I was caught wiggling on the tramp, and I want desperately to look cool. So instead I bounced nonchalantly, as though prepping for a serious workout. Until a groovy song came on, too groovy to pass up, and my butt started doing the wiggle. Before I could stop myself, I was channeling James Brown’s rear end.

It’s a subtle practice, this jumping business. I jump up, gravity takes over and everything my body has to offer the ground comes crashing down, thud. I can instantly feel where my body is supported and where my knees buckle and my hips turn inwards. But then something miraculous. Momentum, counterbalancing gravity, lifts my body from the ground and I experience, for a moment, weightlessness. It is ecstatic. My mind soars as I feel supported by air. I come down again and parts of my body that before were quivering are now slightly stronger, a miniscule amount of growth, but solid, tangible growth nonetheless.

I’ve always resisted stillness. When I was diagnosed with cancer, the thought of being forced to stay in one place possibly for the rest of my life terrified me. But I have come to relish stillness like a fine wine. The trick has been developing method, breaking down the impossible into infinitesimal steps, each built on the solid foundation of the previous. Can’t becomes can-at-a-different-pace. When I think my body can’t sustain, I calm down and watch for that subtle bounce that lands on a stronger core each time, more aware of how to support itself with each breath. And the amazing part is that every time I look for the support, it’s there. And that feels just, well, enlightening.