The visits have tapered off. The phone calls have tapered off. Near as I can figure, David fucking MOVED to Tuscon without coming by and letting me see him, possibly one last time. I'm stuck here, still healing from the surgical tear (and it is healing), sitting in a LaZBoy or lying on the couch, feeling that I'm wasting what's left of my life, yet unable to find the motivation to do anything about it. Not that I could do much, but go sit on the front porch, enjoy the sun ... that I could do but don't. I'm chainsmoking again, an ominous sign, knowing full well the harmful effects of it, yet, truthfully, thinking (most of the time), "fuck it, I've already got cancer, what does it matter if I smoke?". And what does it matter? Really?
At this point, I'm in fairly good physical health ... scratch that ... a ridiculous statement for one in the final stage of a killer cancer. I'm feeling fairly OK physically. My appetite is good and I'm eating well, determined to enjoy the taste of food while I can. I have regular bms, although lately it's oily and mucousy and dark green. I don't have any symptoms of any other cancer, although it's already metastisized, according to Loukas. I still tire very, very easily. I still have trouble sleeping, or getting to sleep. But I don't feel particularly sick. The vagina-like tear in my belly hurts, slightly (3 on a 10 scale), more than it has, but it's healing and the skin is knitting back together so that's the pain. My mind is clearer than it has been since some time in July. But the chemo is creeping up, and that is when denial ENDS.
And I think I have been in denial. Kubler-Ross' 5 stage of grief are: 1) Denial, 2) Anger, 3) Bargaining, 4) Depression, and 5) Acceptance. I think the woman was onto something even though she later in life denounced it. When I reacted, in the hospital, with hallucinations and paranoia and conspiracy theories, it was a form of denial. The drugs played a part, yes, but in all my paranoid constructions, the first few days especially, conspirators had cut my stomach open, removed my appendix, and LIED to me that I had colon cancer. It wasn't true, not in those fever dreams, not in those constructions of my mind; so I didn't have to deal with it. Then, when I got out, I assumed (as nobody told me different) I had stage III, which had something like a 44% survival rate after 5 years, and I could accept that, at the time. More or less 50-50, and I was all gung-ho and ready to fight. Then, 2 weeks later, I was told I'm phase IV and, brothers and sisters, the air has been let out of me. I have a less than 5% chance of survival after 5 years, and I'm going to have to go through chemical hell to attain it, if I do.
Oh, I can put up a formidable front, and do most of the time. Most people who've seen me would be surprised at this entry.
Then there's the money. Yeah, I got the indigent care, and I'm greatful for it (even though it's ego-shattering). I have a telephone interview with the Social Security people this Thursday, for SSI and Medicaid. But I'm pessimistic about that. I'm naturally, by habit or nature, pessimistic about everything; to me, that glass is so almost empty. Truth is, without my mother to think about, I think I very probably would lie down on a bed somewhere, beg for morphine, and to be gone by Christmas. And I may very well be. If/when it spreads. From an infection caused by the drop in white blood cells from the chemo. From the original cancer. There's just no telling. My attitude needs to improve, though; I need to bullshit myself, or something. Because I'm feeling as black as the blackest night. For days now.
