The Price of Living
I am currently halfway through my treatment. Halfway. Everyone keeps reminding me how exciting it is, and I'm thankful for those reminders because while it is exciting, I am starting to wear thin. Each day feels harder... bleaker...more exhausting. The misery is becoming routine and it is maddening.
I started feeling sick this weekend beyond the usual post-chemo trauma. Each passing day made it worse and worse. By last night, my body convulsed repeatedly, sending my food unnaturally from within me. I watched what felt like my entire being spew as I heaved and heaved again. Sometimes it left me and hit the toilet water with such urgency that I got splashed in the face. The cycle repeated. My insides felt as though they are a volcano— temperamental and destructive. You know how when you buy a sleeping bag it fits in that little carrying bag so perfectly? But somehow once you take it out, if you try to stuff it back in, it just won’t. It is like fighting against nature. That has been my body with food.
There I was on my knees, elbows resting on the toilet seat, headed buried in my shaky hands. My small frame eased, whether out of exhaustion or lack of substance left I’ll never know. I looked in the mirror and saw a tear stained reflection. I hate this. This is gross, painful and miserable.
Mom looked over at me and said, “I’m so sorry honey, so so sorry.”
I replied, “It's ok, Mom. This is the price of living.”
I started feeling sick this weekend beyond the usual post-chemo trauma. Each passing day made it worse and worse. By last night, my body convulsed repeatedly, sending my food unnaturally from within me. I watched what felt like my entire being spew as I heaved and heaved again. Sometimes it left me and hit the toilet water with such urgency that I got splashed in the face. The cycle repeated. My insides felt as though they are a volcano— temperamental and destructive. You know how when you buy a sleeping bag it fits in that little carrying bag so perfectly? But somehow once you take it out, if you try to stuff it back in, it just won’t. It is like fighting against nature. That has been my body with food.
There I was on my knees, elbows resting on the toilet seat, headed buried in my shaky hands. My small frame eased, whether out of exhaustion or lack of substance left I’ll never know. I looked in the mirror and saw a tear stained reflection. I hate this. This is gross, painful and miserable.
Mom looked over at me and said, “I’m so sorry honey, so so sorry.”
I replied, “It's ok, Mom. This is the price of living.”
