Fear and Loathing in Utah

Being immunocompromised during a pandemic sucks. I mean, pandemics suck, period, but having one go on while your body isn't really prepared to take on foreign invaders is a bit scary.

I'm not ashamed of it. Well, mostly.

I'm getting stronger. I can feel it. I stopped taking my antibiotic, and (if my tiredness levels are any indication) my red blood cell count is going up. Things are also opening back up again (once more, thanks, Herbert), and it remains to be seen if that is a good or bad thing.

I've been able to do some gardening. I'm eating better--even some (mildly) sweet stuff. I'm walking daily, or at least I was, until my knee started acting up. Seriously, knee? Have we not been through enough?

 The red is how you know it hurts, y'all.

Point is, things are getting better. I still haven't gotten my PET CT, because apparently the radiation treatments I got would make the results all wonky. "Wonky" is a technical medical term, for those of you not in the know. So I don't know for positive about my cancer. But my body is improving by the day.

I had maintenance chemo again this week. We took a hiatus since the first treatment, since my red blood cells were tanking. So I suppose there's a possibility that I'll tank again, but I'm hoping not. The drug is supposed to be pretty targeted, and side effects are rare.

DAMMIT.

That probably means I'll get them.

I mean... AS IF.

So.

I'm turning 49. Getting another year older has, for a long time, meant looking at my life and feeling like I haven't done enough. I started feeling that way again this year, but guess what, y'all? From now on I have a good and ready answer for that Negative Nelly voice.

I made it through two different kinds of cancer and haven't died yet.

That's not a terrible accomplishment. It's certainly not something everyone can say. And while it may not indicate future success (whatever that might look like), it's something of value to the people closest to me.

I'm not dead yet.

I RAGED against the dying of the light, and so far have come up on top.

That's pretty damn cool.

Something strange is happening as I start to come out of the haze of procedures, chemotherapy, radiation, and tons of meds. I feel a bit unmoored. I'm not sure what to do next.

I have a bunch of creativity wanting to burst out of me, but there's no indication yet of how that might manifest. I have energy again. It's still hit-or-miss, and when it's "miss," I sometimes worry that I'll never get better. Any little twinge, and my first thought is, "Could this be related to my cancer?"

My cancer.

There's such a possessiveness there. Who am I without this fight? It's been going on for a long, long time. If the cancer is truly gone, is there any of me left? And what in the hell does that me look like? Act like?

I know at least a partial answer to some of these questions, I suppose. This new Ben is a lot quicker to say, "I love you" or "I'm sorry" or "what can I do to help?" This new Ben is also scared to step out into the light. I can feel him trying, but I'm not sure how to best help him.

Yes, I'm aware of how insane that probably sounds. Also, talking about myself in the third person is more than a little douchebaggy. But I don't know how else to explain it.

So much time, energy, money, blood, sweat, and tears have gone into this process. And now the process is ending, and I'm not sure how to say goodbye to it.

It's been one of the most difficult times of my life. There has also been beauty there. Growth. Learning. I don't want to lose any of that.

I will say this. I'm pretty sure I won't find any kind of new purpose by sitting around and thinking about it. Or even writing about it.

I'm fairly confident it'll be found in the doing. So, I guess it's time to get up and do.

Let's see what happens.
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Next up, I learn the harpsichord and realize it's pretty much like playing the piano.