The first time I had a baby, I tried to listen and act on all the advice that was given me. It was an exercise in crazy-making since much of the input stood in direct contradiction to each other. Wear a bra all the time. Don't wear a bra till your milk comes in. Nurse the baby when she cries. Nurse her before she cries. And on and on it went. The second time I had a baby, I was determined to ignore what the others told me. I understood enough about the process to know that the baby and I were a system and we'd negotiate our own way, together. This worked much better for me.
Yesterday, my sister and I had to attend a meeting to talk about chemotherapy and all of its side effects. It was what we feared it would be: demoralizing and terrifying. I heard a list of side effects whose depth and breadth stopped just short of burst eardrums, although who knows? Maybe that's a possibility too. I understand the clinic's responsibility is toward educating me but it felt like overkill. I can read and I had read quite thoroughly. It felt like I was trying to eat a pot roast in one bite. The very nice and very nicely intentioned young nurse even said, "have you thought about what you will do about your hair?" In principle, I could not dignify this question with an answer. I know it's not her fault but I just couldn't.
It sounds like my experience in chemotherapy will be improved if I can embody two things. The first one is proactivity. From what I understand, if I can address side effects at their earliest onset, I will have a better chance of managing them. The trick will be not to get behind the eightball. So I'm hydrating today in anticipation of tomorrow. I've purchased a noteboook so I can record what medicine I take, when, and what symptoms align with it. It's going to be a lot of work but then nobody at any point along this journey has said that this will be easy.
The second thing I can do is to employ a sense of agency. I'm reading a book, when I have the courage, called Red Sunshine. It's about a young breast pathologist who finds a 7 cm lump while nursing. Her advice is to believe in your treatment. I like the sound of that. It's a less creepy way of saying, "have a positive attitude," which somehow manages to be both annoying and judgemental-sounding. And I do really believe in my treatment. Her book is so titled because she decided to embrace the red drug that takes away your hair. Instead of thinking of it as scary, she thought of it as the sunshine that would burn away her tumor. Another woman I spoke with thought of it as little red sharks being sent to eat the tumor. I think it would help if I could develop a similar image. I don't have one yet but I'm open and thinking.
I am struggling but I do have a sporadic sense of agency. When I read that the author had quit sugar and yeast because these are the things that cancer cells feed on, I did too. Cold turkey and I haven't looked back. This means beer and bread, two things I happen to love, but it's been easy because I want this damn thing to be starved. When I emerge from a meeting like the one yesterday, I feel that agency slipping through my fingers. All of that info, all at once, is defeating. I don't know if that is particular to my temperament or learning style but that is the effect. As I write this, I'm wondering if it might be time to close my ears again, just as I did with my second baby. This is my body and my treatment. My body will respond in idiosyncratice ways. All the conversation just serves to fuel for my fear. I have to go into tomorrow with a belief that all will be well and the hope that this fabulous, heretofore reliable body won't let me down, not even in a battle like this.
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