At night, lying on my back, I stay awake and listen to the rattling of my lungs.
A wheeze, a strange resonating noise—like damp leaves—if mold had a sound, if abandoned rooms with winds spoke.
I insist I am okay.
I’ve always said, “I’m okay.”
From my youth, my father’s glare, to now, the groan of my lungs.
But I knew now I wasn’t; my body was revealing signs of sickness.
When had climbing a flight of stairs become a challenge?
Why was I losing weight?
Why did I wake up in the morning without the will to start the day?
The cravings of a young man—sexual longings, morning erections, and pleasuring myself in the stillness of the night—these were memories.
Someone my age shouldn’t be dealing with these issues, right?
I am a young man, strong and proud with rugged New England blood, generations of good health, and a life without doctors.
I kept telling myself, ‘Everything is okay.’
I kept repeating, “Everything will be okay.”
But it was never just an irritation in my throat.
The cough wasn’t just spring allergies.
“Hello,” I say.
“You are closer now.”
The wind through an open door has achieved form.
You have become a presence, a physical form I can’t ignore.
“Hello, Jeremiah.”
You’re in the hallway as a guest now, and you’ve even taken off your shoes.
How could I not welcome a guest?
A caller who had been inside, who had been within, was now at my door.
Cradling me as I sit on the shower floor, coughing blood into the drain.
Wrapping me in the steam of a scalding shower that never warms.
You are the fading winter, the arriving spring, and the buds on trees along West Thorndale.
You’re sitting next to me on the L.
Tag: writing
Body, Tell Me Things!
Waiting for an MRI or CT scan results is no fun whatsoever. Honestly, there is something about bloodwork that feels worse, more challenging, more painful. Perhaps because of the speed at which labs are drawn and the agonizing waiting period. An MRI, as well as a CT scan, require some form of preparation. Blood labs are quick: in / out / get out. I can’t speak for other facilities/clinics, etc., but there is a lengthy waiting period for results. I say “lengthy” because when you’re pacing around like a nervous wreck waiting on results, even if just for a few days, every second feels like an eternity. I had my labs drawn on Friday, February 1, 2019. So, considering the time delay with the weekend, I might not hear until mid-next week.
When I was first diagnosed, I was asymptomatic. As I have mentioned in numerous updates and blog posts, my only symptom was what I thought was a chest cold (cough, slight wheeze, etc.). When the recurrence was noted, I had absolutely no symptoms – none! At the time, I was shoveling snow off my roof, stacking wood, and going on lengthy treks in my beloved woods. There wasn’t a single indicator that something was even remotely amiss.
I don’t trust my own body. It is a sad thing to admit, but I don’t. I wrote a poem about this shortly after diagnosis, in which I kept repeating the line, “body, tell me things!” I was pleading with my being, physical or otherwise, to give me a sign, speak up, and present to me in waking life or dreams that something wasn’t right.
I know my body will eventually heal. “You are powerful, Jeremiah,” my oncologist recently told me. Without wishing to sound pompous, I know this – I already knew this.
In this manner, trusting my body to heal, I know it will always recover. Even after multiple, multiple rounds of cell-killing chemotherapy, a drenching so great I am surprised I survived my two stem cell transplants after the chemical bath I received during my initial treatments, my body bounced back. But somewhere, somehow, it doesn’t communicate what I need to know beforehand, which is most important.
Body, tell me things!
Germ cell tumors, i.e., ovarian and testicular cancer, are hard to detect. Thus, they have often been called the “silent killers”. 19% of ovarian cancer cases aren’t detected in the early stages of development. Testicular cancer, being in the same family, is very similar. A “chest cold” is the symptom of metastatic lesions throughout my lungs; a seizure was my body finally communicating with me that the cancer had reached the end of the line.
Body, tell me things!
I want to trust my body. I want to know what is going on and developing within me. I am paranoid now. One day, I will exercise, usually in the form of cathartic dance/movement, and the following day my thighs hurt. Naturally, this makes sense; I had been dancing ecstatically 24 hours before. My mind, however, is wondering what else might be there or lurking below the surface.
Body, tell me things!
Sitting here waiting for results, I am in that place of treading water again. My MRI is scheduled for February 5, requiring a long wait. I don’t feel this is a life — no, I know it isn’t. Scans are three months apart. So, for 1.5 months, I have been delighted, I have been resting, I have been gaining strength, etc. The next 1.5 months are a time of wondering… questioning… fearing… dreading, sleepless nights, and days walking around trying to retain what’s left of my sanity.
Body, tell me things!
I want to slip back into that blissful state of nativity. The days, the years, all 33, when a chest cold was just that, when sore thighs resulted from exercise. The years in which I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night and dread the darkness because of all the unknowns it might hold.
healing is a circular path 