Living In The In-Between
Paula Borjarsky
Word Count 989
On round three of your cancer” journey,” as some like to call it, I like to think of it as an interminable boxing match; there comes a time when you simply have to move from denial towards acceptance of the fact that your death awaits you, possibly sooner than later. My oncologists advise me to “stay positive,” but it’s not realistic or possible or even advisable on a daily basis. I want to check out what not positive looks like.
Denial is a fuzzy pink place. A place where you think positively all the time, where you reassure your family that this is manageable, just another cancer adventure to be overcome, like the previous two. Denial is when you pack your thoughts of the future with all the hopeful stories people tell you. “I have a patient who lived to be 90 with what you’ve got”. A friend has a friend who is cancer-free after daily infusions of Vitamin C, a mushroom regime, or a retreat with Guru So and so. That sort of thing. Denial is when you are doing chemo, getting injections and infusions, and eating handfuls of pills every day, still thinking that you and your body are going to continue in the relatively comfortable relationship you’ve enjoyed for 65 years. Denial is when you build a wall that keeps out nagging thoughts and legitimate feelings of sorrow until it can’t anymore.
My wall has cracked under this siege. I allowed myself to read the printouts my oncologist gave me for the three medications I am on. Two and three pages each of warnings, limitations, caveats, and medical terminology I can only partly understand. The overall effect is sobering and confusing. Clearly, my body is battling on two fronts, the disease and the cure. It’s a toss-up who wins.
But there is no winning. That’s the thing. Any cure will only be temporary. I’ve got this case called life, and no one escapes it alive. When this metastasis of an old breast cancer was diagnosed, I wrote blithely - I guess I need three chances to learn the life-changing wisdom cancer patients often claim is the upside of this disease. Well, I finally learned it. I’ll share it with you, so you don’t have to get cancer to acquire it - You Are Going to Die.
Try saying that three times fast - only change ‘you’ to I. Has a different effect, doesn’t it?
If I were younger, I would have a harder time with this, I think. But it’s hard in any case. I don’t want to live forever - that sounds tiring, but I would like an indefinitely far-ahead-of-me end time. There are many reasons I can name off the bat.
My business is far from in order; neither are my closets and drawers. Maybe procrastinating about these projects is life-extending?
My husband needs me - he would never find anything without my help, and I want to be with him to meet that grandchild my son is going to father. I hope it’s a girl. William adores little girls. Whoa!!! Reel it in dreamer. First, focus on the arrival of her other parent, the one who will birth her.
My 24-year-old son could manage without me okay. Still, his mental and emotional health will suffer if I am not somewhere within texting distance, half of his safety net, as he struggles to find equilibrium in this time of pandemics, environmental collapse, and end-stage capitalism. I used the conditional form of the verb twice in that sentence. Clearly, denial still has me in its grip. I want to die knowing he is firmly rooted and secure in life. As if that were possible. This is another state of denial altogether but as close to the denial of death as NY is to NJ.
Here are some things I will miss:
Cats, flowers, birds, my brother, my garden, swimming, snow, cousins, rain, friends, books, sisters, new inventions, wind, trees, sunsets, peepers, lakes and rivers, bugs, mangos, cheesecake, and fried oysters. Lox and bagels, oysters and pesto, ripe strawberries and ice cream, the Times crossword,.bonfires, autumn leaves, and the Grand Canyon, which I have never seen.
Here are some things I won’t miss:
Chemo, Amazon, Spectrum, passwords, robocalls, Xgeva, Faslodex, blood draws, traffic jams, the news, airports, ticks, politics, constipation, holding for the next available representative, CAT scans, PET scans, MRIs, and waiting rooms.
Here are some things I’m going to allow myself to say, at least to myself. I may not be able to tolerate this treatment.
People die of metastasized cancer every fucking day. When a writer wants to get rid of a character, she gives him cancer.
Only looking on the bright side is unrealistic.
My willingness to chase the cancer treatment carrot is not unlimited. I am deeply sad.
I am going to die.
On the other hand, it’s snowing, big fat clusters of flakes, the wood stove is radiating gentle heat, the kittens are asleep, one on the Eames chair and the other on the footrest. The juncos, chickadees, and cardinals are sharing the sunflower seeds with a visiting doe. Today, I feel like I live in a Mary Oliver poem. Partly because I ate too much of the marijuana-laced cookie a friend sent home with my husband. People have been so kind and generous. There is salmon, asparagus, and Haagen Daaz in the fridge for tonight’s dinner and leftovers from the delicious meal friends brought over last night. Yes, I have suddenly become obsessed with food.
Right now, everything is just fine. That’s where I need to be, mostly, the sweet spot in the center of the see-saw, neither in denial, nor dread, aware of both ends and having the flexibility and resilience to slide either way, then return to equilibrium, to the moment. Today I took a little dip into the downside. It felt good, getting my feet wet.
