kahht

First Cycle

My first chemo cycle is coming to an end. Each cycle starts with a dose of drugs that halt quick-regenerating cells from regenerating. If all goes well, the cancer cells—mutant human cells—can’t figure out what to do and die off. Healthy cells get their act together and spring back.

Following the in-hospital bit of chemo, they gave me a bottle with more drugs inside. These drugs drip into my body for 48 hours. They put me on steroids to help as well. As a result, I feel kind of buzzed all the time. By day three, my body’s not doing so well. It’s starting to crash. Nausea and fatigue. My body’s healthy cells not doing what they usually do—not regenerating like normal. It’s exhausting, and I’m coming off the steroid buzz at the same time. I try to stay healthy. I wash often. I go on little walks. I eat protein-rich foods and try to stomach vegetables. Bread is digestible, so I eat that most. I remind myself that I’m safe and healing. I’m tired. I am so tired, but I try to get up every hour and sip some water.

Food is a struggle on these low days following chemotherapy. I stay away from soft yolks and soft cheese and raw nuts. I can’t eat and drink things at room temperature—a chemo side effect. It was just “weird” at first, but after every liquid spawns an explosion of soft-headed pins in my throat, I give up on anything below tepid. The warm drinks start to taste tiring, so I experiment with herbal teas. I long for a cool glass of water.

I begin understanding hope differently. In August, when I described hope to my journal, it was “a field of sunflower stretched to infinity” with sights set on images decades and years away. Slowly over the last month, hope has become much more active. Hope shows up in the acts of every moment. I think the best way to describe it is in the story of planting a seed (and I do mean this very literally, but it works metaphorically as well). Hope is planting a seed. I cannot control the seed’s reproduction, nor the sun and rain. But I can plant that seed in the best spot I know for it. I nourish it, and that act of nourishment is hope. I can’t protect it from every ravenous sparrow or insect or mouse, but I can give it protector plants nearby and build shelters. The seed may grow, or it may not. It may not make a stunning flower or a substantial fruit. That’s what gardening is. But hope is planting the seeds. And like this seed, I’ve been nourishing my own body as a practice of hope without expectation. My journal now reads, “hope is helping wounds to heal.” I’m finding so many actions that are hope. The actions are not reactionary nor transactionary; From eating my proteins and washing my feet to riding my bike for the planet and writing politicians for equity. I’m finding releasing hope from expectation makes it, well, much more hopeful to engage^*!

A week after chemotherapy starts, I feel myself bouncing back. I can go on long walks; I soak up the sun and smells of late summer. By day nine, I actually want to do things. I want to read, write, and dance again. It feels like there’s more sun coming through the windows. A couple days on, and I’m cleaning the house readying for the next cycle to start. Dusting, vacuuming, and washing. I trim my nails and take a bath. This cleaning will be a pre-chemo ritual. It feels good to clean, to prepare the nest for my body when it’s low. To put things in their place.

I enjoy a glass of cold water. Cold water has never tasted so good. I appreciate how much I have savoured the moments in my life like this. One day the memories will be broken apart into hundreds of trillions of atoms and dispersed across the cosmos; Right now, those moments fill my being.

My first dose of chemotherapy goes well.

* I must give credit to the sower of this understanding of hope: Frank Ostaseski in The Five Invitations. A number of years ago that book helped me to reframe forgiveness. My understanding of forgiveness moved away from forgetting and towards healing my own wounds. The book also speaks about not confusing love with attachment, which also resonates with me so much.

Month One

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.

Here’s a drawing of me after receiving my “Power Port” (for delivering chemotherapy drugs). The photograph is a bit bloody, but I think you can get the gist from my quick sketch… I was pretty high on sedatives at the time, haha.

Welcome to Kat’s Story

I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. While my body works to quell the growths, words tumble out. Words of pain, words of healing, words trapped inside for too long.

Welcome to my blog. I’ve created this site to share my writings as I embark on my cancer journey. The stories you’ll find here aren’t about cancer necessarily. But much like the cancer cells, they have multiplied inside me over time. Unlike the cancer cells, they have far more purpose.

I was diagnosed in August 2021 with colon cancer. I’m young in the cancer community (it seems whenever I think I have moved beyond being a so-called young adult, I find myself in another situation where the term applies). I’m 34, about to turn 35 soon. I’ve taken good care of myself with daily meditation, regular exercise, a blossoming healthy relationship with food, meaningful pursuits, and a strong network of friends/community. I’m hopeful this otherwise healthy body will see me through the treatments… but it will be a tough slog.

You’ll find some stories here, mixed with poetry and meditations. I’ve been most fascinated with science fiction since being introduced in University. My boyfriend at the time lent me his copy of Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon by Spider Robinson and my stereotype of science fiction was transformed. While I’d grown up in a household that loved Star Trek and fantasy, I’d long poo-poo’d science fiction novels as mere pulp. Now, I love the imagination and metaphors in the stories.

I’ve had stories brewing in my head for years, but other pursuits and a fear of a not being good enough left me with few words on the page. While my main priority now is healing, I’m taking the opportunity to write when I need to, releasing it into the world, and maybe even letting the writing be a source of healing.