I forced myself out of bed to go to the gym this morning, only the third time in the last two weeks. Why should I work out when I’ll potentially be bed-ridden for months? Because routines keep you sane. Because I need to be my best for whatever tomorrow brings.
While in the weight room, I noticed the clock on the wall was gone. It’s odd you don’t realize how much you rely on clocks until they are gone. Like phantom watch symptom.
We always have large staff meetings on Tuesday’s. I generally sit in the same spot every week. Since I had a morning appointment with my doctor, I frequently was checking the wall where the clock should have been hanging. It had been taken down as we are working on updating our building.
Immediately I correspond this sudden lack of ability to monitor hours with the feeling time is standing still right now. My life a week and a half ago seems like months ago. Plans for vacations, goals for summer, all have already been forgotten about. The next four weeks seem like they will encompass the rest of my life. Time doesn’t make sense right now, but it is very demanding.
Today’s meeting with my surgeon went much better than last weeks appointment. He explained a new procedure I hadn’t heard of, and referred me to check out the Cleveland Clinic, as it’s so new only a few surgeons practice it. Summery of today: it still has to come out.
I started getting visuals of my body laying open in the table, which isn’t the reality of the procedure, just my mind wandering. He talked about Fallopian tubes, and the ability to work around them to keep having kids an option. No guarantees they won’t be damaged in some way. Better than the cancer spreading to them, I guess.
Anyway, my vivid visuals of my organs being rearranged became too much and I had to lie down on the doctor’s table as I was feeling like I would faint. Fuzzy room syndrome was nearing. The doctor propped up the back so it was like a recliner and we continued.
Everything is so surreal.
I won’t lie, I have been riding an emotional roller coaster the last week. I have to block out times where I really address what’s going on, return calls from family and friends, and be realistic about what is probably unavoidable. Other times, I just don’t want to think about it. I still make plans about the things I will do this summer. I laugh. I cry.
Once the initial “tough talk” about the reality of the situation is over, it’s really pretty easy to make light of the situation. Do you know what happens when you pass gas into a Colostomy bag? I do. I’ve already heard more poop jokes than I thought possible.
A friend from college sent me a solicitation to have my car insurance quoted by his new company. I decided I’m going to take advantage of my situation to get out of doing these things I don’t want to do.
“No, not right now. I have cancer.”
“I’d love to make an appointment, but I don’t know what I’ll be doing in a month. I have cancer.”