No Hopeful Flourish In This Post. Otherwise Known As Progress.

The steroids they give me to prevent an adverse reaction to one of my chemo cocktails gives me so much energy that I finally know what it feels like to be Type A+++.  I don't know if I should be jealous or offer condolences.

It's 11:30pm and I'm nowhere near sleep.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the petulant little five year old who stomps up and down the hallways of my brain braying thoughts like a deranged donkey.  She won't leave me alone. Writing sometimes quiets her, so I'm giving it a try.

Today was a double-whammy day; both chemo and radiation treatments mean a full day at the hospital.   I had blood work, a consult with the chemo nurse, radiation treatment, then back up to the oncology department for the chemo administration, which takes about three to three and a half hours.

Long days like this mean that our fabulous new sitter, I'll call her Laura, will be stepping in to be me for the day.   She will meet Finn off the bus, be there when Greta gets home from a play date, help with homework, take Finn  to karate, feed snacks and start dinner.  She is a true God-send, more than capable, and the kids (and Steve and I) adore her.  It will be a dark day in this household when she goes back to college later this month.

As I'm snapped into the immobilization mask, preparing for my 7th radiation treatment, I glance at the clock, and realize they are probably getting Finn into his karate uniform and getting ready to head off to class.  I lie there, pinned to the table like a science experiment, and let little sad waves flow over me.

Treatment is forcing me to let go in so many ways.  Sometimes I go gracefully.  Other times, not so much.

Did Greta have fun at her play date today? Did she start her homework?  How was the first day back from vacation?   My minds spins as the radiation beams hum and hiss in my ear. I treasure the first moments home; that's when I get most of my tidbits of information.  By the time I drag myself in the door at close to 8pm I barely have time for a hello before it's their bedtime.

They are totally okay; Laura is cool and fun, but firmly in charge. I can tell they get a rush being with her. I'm  happy for them - for us -  but my heart still breaks a little.

Damn cancer.

Bedtime arrives, at least on paper - I'm not tired at all - but I dutifully climb into bed and wait for sleep.  My legs feel jangly, odd.  My thoughts refuse to stay in the moment, pinging far ahead into scary, unchartered waters. Then the pendulum swings back to the weekend.  I fought and railed against my dual diseases- alcoholism and cancer - for most of this past weekend.  I was ungainly, volatile, jealous, resentful, victimized.  I was angry.  You'd never know it to look at me in public, but behind closed doors I was not a pretty sight.

I'm terrible at falling apart, because I let it go too long before I realize I'm over the edge.  Then it's all snotty-cries and bubbling resentment and self-pity.

Eventually, I beat myself up enough and ask for help. But not before paying a price with my sanity, with the balance in my family, with a little piece of my soul.  I'm like an ogre, and I know it, and I can't get out of my own way.

I finally, stubbornly, reluctantly and with more than a little shame, reached out and got the help I needed.  I went to a meeting, and spent a lot of time on my knees in my room surrendering over and over and over.

Today, the clouds parted a bit.  Today I feel emotionally shaky, but in touch with what's really going on inside me.  Today the gratitude is back, weakly waving her hand and whispering, "remember me?"

I have to remember, though, this is just today. Twenty-four hours.  Tomorrow I have to get up and do it again - surrender, ask for help, touch the truth, give the ogre - I dunno - a hug?  A primal scream?  I don't think she's going away anywhere soon, and I have a lot of work to do.

It's hard for me to write here about the ugliness. Not because I want to appear perfect - not even close. It's because the ugliness scares me so much I don't really even have access to it.  I prefer to live in gratitude, serenity and peace. It's so much nicer there.  But the ugliness is there, simmering beneath the surface, and if I don't respect it, talk about it - even acknowledge it - it corrodes my spirit, my sanity and my sobriety.

The ugliness makes me feel very, very vulnerable. And vulnerable is hard.