Oncology consult is at 11 am today. We find out how successful the chemo was, or wasn’t. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am terrified.
I did have the expected emotional meltdown last night. This fear, this stress, it grabs hold of me and shakes me like a rat in a terrier’s jaws. I even briefly surrendered to the “unfairness” meme, which I normally avoid with great assiduousness.
In truth, at this point I am not afraid of another metastasis, per se. I’m not afraid of more surgery. I’m not even all that afraid of the dying, sooner or later, though the sheer waste of dying at this time of my life does offend me. (And no, I am not concealing any mortality prognosis, just making an observation about where cancer can go.) But I am deeply terrified of more chemo. I don’t want to lose another 7-8 months of my life, another 3+ months of writing time, another chunk of my energy and physicality and sexuality and psyche.
Truth is, if it comes to pass, I will do what must be done. Because I have no alternative I will accept. Neither wishful thinking nor herbs nor prayer will conquer this bastard assassin I have bred within my gut. I put my trust in modern allopathic medicine because it’s the only game in town for what ails me.
In about six hours, I’ll know more. With any luck at all, it will be boring. Never in my life have I so fervently wished to be boring and pointless as I do now. I want to be a waste of my oncologist’s time.
But right now, I’m mostly scared.