Monday, October 20, 2008

The list/La lista

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Chemotherapy killed my fingernails…back when the fingernails you see (right hand…left hand was left unscathed…crazy shit) were hidden under the skin, there was a break in their growth caused by the chemicals that also took my hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, and soul, and now they are being pushed out by the new healthy nails. This is a painful process. The old nails are (were) still stuck to the skin, but not attached to the new nail growth…so they crack, and any pressure on them feels like they are being pulled off with pliers. It has basically rendered my right hand almost completely useless for most fine-motor skill functions – opening things, writing, scratching, picking, etc, etc, etc. Thankfully, over the past couple of weeks, the nails on my pointer, middle, and ring fingers have managed to catch themselves on something – blanket, carpet, clothes, dog’s fur – and be wincingly pulled off unexpectedly. Though each one caused a significant outcry of obscenities, and even a tear or two, I’m thankful that they can now move on and get on with their lives. The thumb, however, still has a ways to go….there’s still quite a bit of nail-skin contact there, and it looks like it’s going to be a while. It hurts. This is number 156 on the list of things they didn’t tell me about cancer before I signed up for this bullshit. Number 157 is that the list will never end.

It is 1:17am, and I have to be up at 6:00am. What, you might ask, the fuck am I doing? Why don’t I take another pill and doze off to a drugged sleep for a few hours? Number 158 – you’ll never sleep again. Not like you used to….

Let me paint you a picture of what’s going through my head as I’m in bed, lights out, trying to get to sleep…

“Is that my hip? The bone, is that pain or is it just stiff? Why is it so hot in here? There’s a lump when I swallow…is that always there? Jesus. It’s back. It’s not going to end until I’m dead. They’ll tell me they can put me on a drug trial, or they can do another transplant…and I’ll tell them to fuck off, and I’ll leave, and I’ll go sit on the fucking beach in the sun to die like some bullshit movie. Fuck it. I’ll eat what I want, I’ll drink and smoke cigarettes all day long. I’ll max out my credit cards, sell all my shit, and spend the rest of my life and money dying in self-gratifying misery. I can’t though. There’s people involved…people who I love and people who would be hurt. So I’ll stay. I’ll do the fucking trial, or I’ll get the transplant, and I’ll suffer, and cry, and vomit. I’ll never do what I want, and I’ll never be who I was, and everyone will remember me as the girl they knew who died of cancer.” And as warm tears run silently down my cheek onto the pillow I counter, “Don’t be fucking stupid. You’re fine. You’re fine. Get on with your life, rip that old fingernail off and stop obsessing. Things are going to be fine.” Wait though. “What if they’re not?” “I’m sweating, now I’m fucking sweating.” Jesus.

And when the fuck does this conversation end? I don’t know…and I don’t know how to get to sleep. I can’t turn it off. It just keeps fucking playing….when I’m driving alone, when I’m at work, when I’m in the shower, or trying to sleep. I don’t understand how it will ever go away. The only thing I know how to do is to fill every quiet moment with action or busy work – work, school, dishes, laundry, cooking, shopping, gym…but what I really need is some fucking sleep.

Number 159 – fuck is your new favorite word.

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La quimioterapia acabó con mis uñas. Hace tiempo, cuando las uñas que ves en la foto estaban todavía debajo de la piel del dedo, se cortó su crecimiento a causa de los químicos que también se llevaron mi cabello, pestañas, cejas, y alma…y ahora las uñas nuevas están creciendo y sacando las uñas viejas poco a poco. Este es un proceso doloroso. Las uñas viejas estaban pegadas a la piel, mas no a la uña nueva, entonces se rompieron, y la presión que se siente es horrible…como si alguien me las estuviera sacando con unas pinzas. Me son inútiles…no puedo abrir paquetes, escribir, rascarme, sacarme los mocos, nada. Afortunadamente, en las últimas semanas, casi todas se me han arrancado porque se me atoran en algo, como la alfombra, el pelo del perrito, la ropa, etc, etc. Duele como toda la chingada, pero me da gusto que esas uñas ya sean libres y puedan seguir con su vida. Al pulgarcito todavía le falta un buen…todavía tiene mucho contacto de carne-uña, y parece que voy a durar un rato así. Y duele. Éste es el número 156 en la lista de las cosas que no me dijeron cuando empezó todo este desmadre. El número 157 es que la lista no tiene fin.

Es la 1:17am, y me tengo que levantar mañana a las 6:00am. ¿¿Qué chingados estoy haciendo?? ¿¿Por qué no me tomo una pastilla y me duermo unas horitas?? Número 158 – nunca volverás a dormir. No como antes pues…

Déjame explicarte lo que está pasando en esta cabecita mientras estoy acostada en la cama, con las luces y la tele apagadas, queriéndome dormir…

“Eso qué es… ¿la cadera? ¿El hueso…me duele o no más está como entumecido? ¿Hace calor aquí? ¿Por qué siento tanto calor? Como que siento algo que me estorba cuando paso líquidos… ¿eso siempre está ahí, o es nuevo? Chingado. Ya regresó. Esto no va a terminar hasta que esté muerta. Me dirán que me pueden dar medicinas experimentales, o que pueden hacer otro trasplante…y yo les diré que se vayan a la chingada, y me iré….me voy a la playa…voy y me aplasto ahí en la arena bajo el sol para morirme así como en las pinches películas. A la chingada, me vale. Como lo que quiera, tomo y fumo cigarros todo el día…gasto mis tarjetas de crédito al límite, vendo mis cosas, y paso el resto de mi vida y gasto el resto de mi dinero muriéndome miserablemente. Pero no. Hay gente involucrada, gente a la que quiero y adoro, y gente que saldría muy lastimada. Entonces me quedo. Hago el maldito tratamiento experimental, o que me hagan el pinche trasplante….y sufriré, y lloraré, y vomitaré. Nunca haré lo que yo quiero hacer en esta vida, nunca seré quien hubiera sido, y todo el mundo me recordará como la chica que conocían que murió de cáncer.” Y mientras las lágrimas cálidas ruedan por mi mejilla y caen en la almohada, me contesto, “No estés tan pinche estúpida. Estás bien..Estás BIEN. Sigue con tu vida, arranca esa uña a la chingada, y deja de obsesionarte. Todo va a estar bien.” Pérame…”¿Y si no lo es?” “Estoy sudando, chingada madre…. ¡ya estoy sudando!” ´Ta madre.

Y ¿Cuándo chingados se termina esta pinche conversación? No lo sé…y no sé cómo lograr dormirme. No lo puedo desactivar. Sigue reproduciéndose en mi cabeza…cuando estoy manejando sola, cuando estoy en el trabajo, cuando me estoy bañando, o tratando de dormir. No entiendo cómo se va a resolver esto. Mi único remedio por lo pronto es de llenar mi vida con acción…el trabajo, la maestría, lavando trastes y ropa, cocinando, haciendo compras, yendo al gimnasio, etc, etc…pero la neta que lo que necesito hacer es dormir, chingada madre.

Número 159 – te has hecho muy grosera.

19 comments:

annaurquhart@hotmail.com said...

fuck fuck fuck!!! you really need to think positively! just kidding. but do keep in mind that your little fingers are healing and trying desperately to push the poison out of your body. i love you!

Anonymous said...

Oh sweetie, I am sorry that you have to go through this.....I love you though...and I like the fuck word too :-)

Love-

Marci :-)

Veronica said...

Hey Darcy.........Wullie directed me to this post as he says it sums up better than he could explain it how he is feeling these days.....cancer sucks, right??

Oh, and fuck is most definitely one of Wullie's favourite words - right up there with a whole host of other swear words :p

So much love and hugs to you, Darcy - and thanks for your eloquence............Vx

Anonymous said...

Hi Darcy........... solo quiero pedirte perdón por no ser la amiga que tu hubieras querido que fuera.

Siempre estás en mis oraciones.

Me said...

Quién me escribió esto? Mándame un correo, no?

Juancho said...

Como quisiera hacer algo porque pensaras y sintieras diferente,con gusto daria cualquier cosa de MI,PORQUE ESO FUERA POSIBLE.Deja salir todos los CHINGAOS de esta pinche vida,PERO NUNCA BAJES LAS MANOS...

Anonymous said...

Darling daughter, I am so sorry. Be sure you go see Burn After Reading - John Malkovich says Fuck better than anyone in the world and says it often.

If you are awake at 1:00am call me and I'll listen.

Anna's right your nails are working hard to heal and get the poison out. So spew Fuck and get it all out and then sleep baby girl, I love you.
Mom

Anonymous said...

no. 267... no pienses que siempre, todos los días o a todas horas; pero creo que en cualquier momento de nuestra vida, en cualquier momento del día, a cualquier hora, quienes te conocemos: te imaginamos, y no necesariamente como la chica del cancer...

Anonymous said...

el anonymous anterior salió desde La Paz Baja California Sur, México... enfrentito de Mazatlan Sinaloa.

Duane said...

Fuck yeah!

Amanda said...

Your middle of the night rants cracked me up - because I remember those nights, and sometimes days. All I can say is that for me once I was out of chemo the mind rant slowed down, and once I got a garden plot the weeding somehow sucked all that cancer-fear-reality-noise out of my brain through my fingers and down into the earth and away. sitting and weeding grounded me, literally, and then i started noticing things like honey bees and it just all just got better. and then one day I saw something out of the corner of my eye very near my face and i jumped and it turned out it was my hair. go figure - it had grown back that long! though life post chemo can suck too (biopsies, tests, calling the doc for every single little thing) and the fear never goes away, it sings this constant note in the background saying remember to be scared, which frankly sucks, sometimes I want to throw all the fear off a big cliff and not go to my appointments and not take the ongoing treatments. The fear is always there. It's just like grief - it gets better over time but you still miss your loved one every day. Sorry. Sorry to rant and be corny, thanks for visiting my blog, and I hope things get better for you and maybe you can tape your nails so they don't catch on things? btw, love your list, the rants, and anyone who doesn't get it, let 'em have it; i'm told feistiness (sp?) is a survival trait.

big big hugs, none of us deserve this C, words can't even describe my hatred of it....

Bekah said...

i, fucking, love you.

and I'm about to go grab some coffee, with my new silver.

i can't tell you how much stronger, i feel, with you, and your love on my wrist.

and yes, again. i fucking love you.

B

Kara said...

I can relate to your fear.. I havent even had my SCT yet and Im scared shitless of relapse. Your hair looks beautiful! I cant wait to start growing some hair again.

DR3AM5 said...

tranquila darcy!!!
echale ganas!!!
hay gente, no se te olvide!!!

=D

Kelly Kane said...

Miss you... post some pics

Karen said...

you need to compile all those in one "fucking" giant list....

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Anonymous said...

hi,i'm a 15-year-old boy from CHINA.although i can't understand every word you wrote here,i know you are undergoing the serious illness.
my former English teacher had cancer one year ago and now she's just back to who she had been,a pretty young lady at about 25.i want you to know that if you keep on fighting,you'll beat the cancer at last just like my teacher did.the braver you are,the weaker the illness is.i don't think the word fuck is good as it's not a affirmative word.complain less and thank more.don't care about how it hurts you,just thank god that so many people are caring about you and so many people love you.and you can have more and more amigos nuevo~ haha,i'm learning spanish,i'm really interested in it.it's 23.00 here so i have to go to bed now.i'll come here next time i surf the internet though i'm busy studying...oh,i just forgot...you can call me Yellow(my English name). ok,take care.bye.