Oh my god. I woke up today feeling like the proverbial shit had hit the fan, or that I was run over by a Mack truck, or that I was death warmed over. I suppose any one of those cliches would suffice, but actually the sum total of all three is probably the most apt description of what my state was like this morning. I did a massive puke at around 3 a.m. at the same time that I had diarrhea, which meant that when I awoke, I thought for sure that the cancer would get me…like…TODAY, or I at least hoped it would.
It’s been a rough few days, which I seem to say every few days. I keep telling loved ones that the worst symptom of this myelofibrosis is the fatigue, but the word “fatigue” doesn’t quite cut it. Fatigue sounds like one is a bit run down with the vapors, while what I experience is Olympic-level fatigue, World Cup fatigue and World Series fatigue all rolled into one. When I say I have fatigue, what I’m really saying is that I'm a sleep athlete who practically passes out, sometimes for a straight 24 hours, and I’m not exaggerating.
Yes, I’ll get up to go to the bathroom, or have a cup of tea, or read a brief news story on my phone, but within 15 minutes or so, I'm dreaming that I’m back on the balance beam of championship sleeping, proving that one in this coma-like state really can sleep on a slab of wood for hours on end.
When I recently visited my dear friend Lynda in Rhode Island for a week’s vacation, at one point I fell asleep on her couch while we were watching TV, and I ended up in such an odd position that she wasn’t quite sure how to help me, nor was she sure that I even needed help as I was so catatonic.
According to Lynda, my body slowly began to lean to the right, but my head never quite hit the couch. She said she tried to slip a pillow under my noggin, but there actually wasn’t enough room for the squeeze, so she just let my head hang in this odd state until she nudged me that it was time to go to bed.
But my worst symptom that week really wasn’t fatigue so much as it was swollen legs and feet, with swelling even on the soles, all accompanied by a constant fever. Certainly there’s nothing more fun than going on vacation to a beautiful state known for its jagged coastline, rustic boardwalks and rocky beach trails, then not be able to walk.
Luckily, Lynda and I also like to gab, and since it rained a lot, we were frequently parked on the couch on her quaint and cozy front porch for lively chats, cappuccino, and of course bird and bunny viewing. (Her cat Huey, one of her three felines, joined us daily.)
The one thing about this illness is that while I can frequently get freaked out, especially while contemplating a stem cell transplant, I seem to have been gifted with a state of cheerfulness of late, for which I have no explanation. If I had to guess, I would say that it’s been my balmy mornings in the waterfront park that has a gorgeous fountain (I live on the banks of the Hudson River across from Manhattan) or it’s the daily videos that friends and I share with each other, or it’s my kitty Olive, who seems determined lately to cuddle with me endlessly, as if to prove that nothing could be better in this life than to have a childless cat lady as her mommy.
I must say, Olive was quite alarmed at 3 a.m. as I sat on the toilet while puking into the garbage pail. As I was vomiting full throttle, she gingerly entered the bathroom, then lifted herself up to put her two front paws on my knee so that she could maneuver into a better viewing position. This left me smiling with endearment as I was throwing up what I thought for sure was my entire colon.
It’s the small, sweet — if gross — moments like these that make this cancer bearable. Far from wanting anyone to be miserable, I would invite all to join the party and get a little fur baby of your very own, regardless of your gender or whether or not you have kids. It’s a happy place in here these days, no matter how awful it can all get.
-end-
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