After chemo today, for the very first time, I found myself deeply saddened by the procedure. In the past, I’ve been angry, frustrated, resigned, and there were a time or two when I thought the administering nurses had handled me poorly. On occasion, I was amused. Once, the nurse tried to slip on a defective paper gown with no arm holes. Another time, I looked at the syringe used to inject the chemicals and started laughing. The thing was ludicrously large, fit for King Kong. But I’ve never felt sad.
The sense of dejection stayed with me through the ride home. When I was back in my apartment, I tried to isolate the feeling and define its source, and suddenly realized that I am no longer sure I will beat this disease. It may be that the best I can hope for is a draw that will see more surgery, more chemo, more discomfort. I don’t think the white-hat cells are losing, but I’m beginning to believe the black-hat cells are firmly entrenched and will probably never give up. I hope I’m wrong, but shouldn’t all these treatments and procedures have cured me by now?
Several months ago, my doctor suggested I put my affairs in order. “Don’t be alarmed, but you never know,” he said with a shrug. “Better safe than sorry.”
I’d already done that.
Maybe I’m simply tired of feeling like a host to nasty squatters.
I’ve heard of chemo brain. Maybe this is chemotion.