Published!

I thought I would let you all know that a piece I wrote for an ethics class last year is being published in the literary journal that is put out by my health sciences campus.  The journal is called The Human Touch and is open to all students, staff and faculty to submit creative writing pieces, photos, etc.  I was persuaded by one of the Ethics faculty to submit my piece and it was accepted.  I have copied it below.  It is a non-fictional account of my friend's battle with cancer. 

The Process…

They told me this would be part of the process… losing hair in the shower, finding it in clumps on my pillow when I awake each morning.  They told me about the medications and the process of going through chemotherapy.  They told me my appetite would fade, as would my energy, but not to worry, because it was part of the process.  They told me about the process of the radiation owning my body… but not once did they mention how to deal with this process.             

Six months ago my biggest fear was getting a C in basic chemistry or whether or not I would have enough money to go on the Vegas trip with the girls.  Now my days are consumed with emptiness and anger.  Anger at God, at myself for not taking better care of my body and at all the people surrounding me that do not understand my pain.  I spend hours rehearsing in my mind what it will be like to say goodbye to my mom, my fiancé and all my friends.  Instead of focusing on passing chemistry, I make goals of getting through the day without crying-especially in public.  But I’ve been told, it is all part of the process.

Fear dominates my life, well what’s left of it.  I go to bed wondering if I will awake.  Each night when I say goodnight to Chris, I wonder if that will be the last time we talk.  Will this be the last time I say, “I love you”, to the man of my dreams?  What about the wedding we have been planning? The venue has been booked; guest list created, and dresses ordered…  I fear waking, short of breath, unable to call for help.  I fear the cancer and its ability to multiply uncontrollably.  I fear the unknown; I fear the process.

Melanoma, lymph nodes, Dacarbazine, metastases, immunotherapy, Stage IV, clinical trials, recurrence…  Words I know more intimately than I know myself.  When will the pain end?

The loneliness that invades my soul is incurable, just like the cancer.  I have shut down, allowing no one to see my heart for fear of exposing its broken pieces.  My identity has been stripped from me and I want it back.  I want every summer spent basking in the sun down at the lake back.  I want to be given the chance to protect myself from this pain. But there’s no going back, the process has already began and control is something I am no longer privileged to.

Friends and family have spent hundreds of dollars travelling to spend time with me in what are no doubt my final days… at least the last of the “good” days.  I appreciate their gestures, but never have I been physically surrounded by so many and yet felt so alone.  Hours pass when no words are said for fear of saying the wrong things, or worse, not saying the right things.  Someone warned me this was all part of the process.

Sitting in the waiting room once again, waiting for my tests to be read.  The room is full of people waiting for similar news- the air is still, full of avoided glances and the only sound is the nervous tapping of my mom’s shoe against the chair.  She is living moment to moment, always anticipating the worst.  But it is part of the process.

I no longer see the point of these visits.  What’s the use when my body cannot fight against its own cells?  My name is called and we walk slowly towards the door that is full of not so distant memories.  This door represents the white flag of surrender, for each day it becomes more apparent I cannot mount the defense necessary to prevail in this battle.  This door symbolizes being stripped of my identity, the presences of the fear that consumes the unknown and the beginning and potentially the end of the process.  The process I was not prepared to begin, let alone fight. 

The door closes and I am left alone to change; don the uncomfortable gown that leaves me feeling naked, exposed and vulnerable.  Here I am again, alone and empty.  Waiting for news that will determine if more radiation and chemotherapy will make a difference or if the migrating cells have done too much damage.  The room is sterile and unforgiving.  The walls lack sympathy and instead seek to wash away my presence here.  A small tear falls from my eye onto the paper covering the examination table.  I am not ready to say goodbye.  I am not ready to end this fight.  I am not ready to give into the fear or to the process.  I want to know how to fight!  I want to know how to deal with the emptiness and loneliness!  I just want one more chance…