Went in for chemo today. It was hard to make myself go--so reluctant even though intellectually I realize it is keeping me around longer ( Read more... )

About a month ago I thought I was dying. I thought the ground beneath my weak heels was tilting so that the decline would come quickly. That's how it often happens with Stage 4 cancer. It wouldn't be that bad, better than lingering in a bed for months.
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Martin Wainwright ( Read more... )

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I feel fragile and small and bad and the only safe place I can go is into the shower. It's become my home away from home (the bed)--the only place for a month and a half after they burned my diaphragm (in addition to the liver tumors) where I could find any solace from the constant pain and misery--flowing over me in tides that would sometimes ebb ( Read more... )

November is truly come, winter nipping at its heels. The gloom-shrouded world outside is a dreary flower in full bloom. Fog and decay and damp. Where did the bright days of early autumn go? Those dazzling blue skies and clean, sharp breezes are a vague dream in this fog--where the air is dense and shifts like moody soup ( Read more... )

So tired and yet so unable to sleep, existing in this strange bubble that chemo creates. I remember talking about the older woman--the one who has been on chemo for 9 years and seems to live in her own space-time continuum that collides uncomfortably with the real world space-time. Well, I am entering that special zone ( Read more... )

I don't want to be here. I eye the doorway like a prisoner dreaming of busting the joint, imagine walking out of it. I could just stand up and drift out of here like a ghost and confound the poor nurse who will walk into the room at any moment, carrying the drugs I despise.
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When I was a child, I saw a face on my wall in the old house I dreamed about the other night. It terrified me so badly that I ran screaming out of my room, down the hall and out the door, bursting with a mindless panic into the bright summer afternoon.
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