Crying & Inspiring


Turns out chemo Tuesdays ARE hard.  I’m writing this in a Johnnie from Beverly Hospital where I was admitted last night after coming to the ER per my DF Dr’s recommendation.  Last night sucked.  A fever, shaking like a leaf chills, out of control nausea and a 103 temperature along with a really neat bright red rash that spread over my chest and my face.  I’m waiting to be transferred to Brigham and Women’s which is Dana Farber’s sister hospital so that my Doctors there can check me out.  I’ve been waiting since last night to be transferred.  There are no beds.  Dr’s here seem to think I picked up some sweet pneumonia somewhere along the way and that was the cause of the spike in temp.  They’re not sure if the rash is related or if it was a chemo reaction with my body.  I finally broke down and cried when I got to the hospital last night.  This cancer shit is no joke.  It’s so physically painful.  It’s only going to get worse.  My veins in my arms and hands hurt more than anything because I’ve had so many IVs in the past 7 weeks.  The thought of needles makes my whole body tense up and I want to cry even more.  I picture myself as Susan Sarandon in The Stepmom.  I feel like I’m going down.  My Mom came to get Sam and brought him back to Maine with her.  It’s good and I’m so lucky… but it makes me want to cry even more. This week my Doctors, nurses and everyone else in between are urging me to get a feeding tube.  I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.  It’s so foreign and gross and I JUST had a c section! I’m going to have to do it because I won’t be able to eat for much longer.  And I’m already losing too much weight too quickly.  To put it in, they will sedate me (ish), stick a flashlight down my throat and into my stomach.  Then they break through my outside skin with the tube and it goes directly into my stomach.  That feeding tube will hang off my belly like a thin elephant  trunk.  Nothing stays in my throat or my nose.  I inject liquid into a funnel and “feed” myself directly into my stomach from the outside.  Vomit. Needless to say, I’m down.  But there was good news this week.  A yoga student of mine wrote me and told me HOW I inspired her.  “You’ve inspired me to take the leap, resign from my job and move to CA.  You’ve inspired me to get off my ass and live MY LIFE.  I am healthy, I am able, I am supported…Obvious lessons often have a very steep learning curve for me.  In sum, your shitty cancer has awoken me from my sloth-like slumber.”  I cried (theme of the blog post) when I read this.  I am beyond happy for her!  Beyond.  There are positive things coming out of my suffering. I spend a lot of time scrolling Instagram and Facebook while waiting for radiation and other Doctors appointments.  And I shamelessly follow people who post pictures of themselves with their perfect bodies in their perfect bikinis with quotes that have nothing to do with their perfect bodies or their perfect bikinis.  I don’t get it.  Why not just post the picture and the work out that you did to get your amazing body?  Wouldn’t that make more sense?  If it’s a marketing tool to get people to come to your fitness class or even yoga (gasp!) class shouldn’t we just call it what it is? What is the point?  Is it inspiring?  Is that what you’re TRYING to do? I started thinking about the idea of “inspiring.”  What does it mean?  How do you do it?  Who needs it? How can I write about it?  And after a short 12 minute talk with chiropractor Jerry who just randomly called to check up on me, I think we came up with the answer:  You don’t inspire.  You just do you.  That’s the secret.  It’s not putting an expectation on an end result.  I’m going to continue to write, and live and laugh and now cry from pain.  I’m going to continue to swear, yearn for champagne, give Sam kisses all over his face, watch bad tv and choose love always.  If it inspires, then sweet.  But it’s not my goal.  My goal is to live my life to its fullest and live it authentically.