One month with a cancer diagnosis. It’s moved quickly and yet so slowly as well.
August began in a whirlwind. I had a DJ gig, a teaching appointment, and hopes of finishing my thesis. I had a colonoscopy, MRIs, CT scans, bloodwork, and bone scans. I had appointments with gastroenterologists, surgeons, and oncologists. I had to tell loved ones and confront the sense of dread weighing on me.
It wasn’t long before my work and school commitments fell away. The only thing left was to wait, to focus on healing, and to endure the waves of nausea and cramps from the cancer in my colon and liver. Waiting is difficult for me. I’m impatient. I want the cancer out like a house guest who’s overstayed their welcome. Sleep helped to pass the time. Even with the fatigue, one can only sleep so much.
I told my friends and family about my diagnosis. I received help and several messages (many still unreplied to). I think about them everyday, like I should organize something, but a general discomfort pervades even simple things like that.
I’m trying to find a comfortable space to do things. I’ve set up inviting plants friends everywhere. I’ve decorated with the puff of wool, dried grasses, and simple beeswax candles I’m told to love so much. And yet, I’m restless and uncomfortable. I don’t know where the days go when I tally up the minutes: I meditate, stretch, line up rides, lie down, feel sorry for myself, wish things were different, meditate, try to read, try to watch tv, try to clean, try to be helpful, hate myself, hate this situation, meditate as though it’s the only cure, pace, compose thank you notes and stories in my mind, sleep.
I’ve received relief from work and school. All I have to do is heal now; I remind myself of this everyday. All I have to do is heal. I feel the force of a transition in this healing. The way the cancer is building in gooey, mutated masses within me. That house guest who’s still here even though I’ve asked them to leave three times. The house guest who’s clumsy and loud. I wrap this cancer, this overstayed guest, in a large leaf and I swaddle it. I don’t know why yet. I’m not even sure I should. There’s little direction here.
I’m just doing my best. I’ve always done my best.
I enter the new month greeted by chemotherapy. It is unknown and scary. Questions prevail but only time will tell how my body reacts. There are predictions, but everyone is different. Chemotherapy will help stop the cancer from replicating and spreading. It is the fortification of a boundary between “me” and “it”. I will heal, the unwelcome guest will tire and shrink.
Near the beginning of the month, I wrote a poem about my uninvited guest. Later, I came across Rumi’s poem titled The Guest House. The latter prescribes a practice of inviting and being grateful for all the emotions that come. I was struck by the contrast of my own moods towards cancer and Rumi’s wisdom towards emotions.
A Welcoming Home
by Kat Dornian
A welcoming home
might have loose bounds
allowing in all sorts.
A flustered flurry
of a party inside.
Warmth, bounty, comfort
for anyone who comes.
A home of love
torn apart e’ry night
by everyone needing
a warm hearth.
A home of love
flaking away with each guest.
Carried in pockets, upon shoes,
replaced with trash, dirt.
A home of love
devoid of boundaries means
all move in… until
I no longer remain;
A stranger in my home
no traces to be found.
Eaten from the inside out.
The Guest House
by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks [Source]
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Kat Dornian 