The Space I'm In

Do you ever really know what someone is going through?

Seven weeks ago it started.

It was a two-mile drive between the store and the former BCB’s. Something tweaked, my back seized, and I couldn’t straighten my leg or stand straight. I had done…nothing…nothing to trigger it.

I set my jaw, clenched my teeth, and got on with it.

- - -

Cyclocross season was coming! I had dedicated myself to training. I had attended a weekend camp to work on the vast known unknown of my skills (I know I have no skills, I simply do not know the extent to which I have no skill). I was preparing to do something I had lost three years ago—race ‘cross. Pin on a number, get dirty, give it a go, have fun—those were my goals. Could I get to eight races? I hoped so. Again, that was my goal.

Seven weeks ago it started.

I haven’t been on a bike since.

- - -

My pain got bad. Nerve pain is different from a strained muscle. Nerve pain is a different cause. It triggers the muscles. They seize. They hurt. But, they’re not the cause—they are the symptom.

It was the nausea that did it. When the pain spiked to the point that I couldn’t eat, I knew things were bad. By that point everything had shifted. It wasn’t back pain anymore.

- - -

Chronic pain changes you. 

Whatever your goals, whatever your aspirations, whomever it is you wish to be, you can throw it all away when the pain becomes the filter through which you experience your day. When your clenched jaw and the taste of blood become normal, you are changed.

You snap. You bark. You flinch. 

You avoid people, interactions, experiences. 

You retreat. 

- - -

The back got better, the situation changed, but the situation was not better. I wasn’t improved.

The nausea was nothing like seasickness. It was nothing like a stomach flu. It was a dull, insistent, low-frequency wave. Ever-present, debilitating, it slowed me further.

My hip felt bruised—on the inside. My bowels flared as though something was trying to punch its way out of me. Stomach spasms spiked randomly.

It wasn’t my back.

It wasn’t a nerve.

Was it my psoas?

- - -

Fear changes you. 

Whatever your goals, whatever your aspirations, whomever it is you wish to be, you can throw it all away when fear becomes the filter through which you experience your day. When your clenched jaw and the taste of blood become normal, you are changed.

You flinch. 

You avoid people, interactions, experiences. 

You retreat. 

- - -

I’ve never been “given” a prognosis. The tumor sitting inside me sits there—inaccessible.

My doctors quote statistics—if you have no cancer activity two years from the end of chemotherapy, you have a 96%, 97%, 98%, 99% likelihood of living cancer-free.

You’re in relapse! Isn’t it wonderful?

To my oncologists, I am a success story.

But I’ve been here before—I was seven years out when it relapsed. I was a one-percenter. No one saw it coming.

This time things are different. I have dead cancer sitting inside me. “It’s inactive”, I’m told.

“Yup”, I reply.

And I wait.

- - - 

I have zero confidence that my cancer is clear. 

Stated differently, I am absolutely certain that it is coming back.

That’s learned experience, its not defeatist attitude.

I live in the shadow of “when”.

Rightly or wrongly, that is my every day.

- - - 

My alarm rang this morning at 0230. I was on the train at 0330. They drew blood at 0730. I was scanned at 0930. I got results at 3:30.

It’s not cancer.

Oh, there’s something wrong. I’m scheduled for follow-up tests.

We believe it is likely scar tissue and adhesions irritating major nerves. It may be an issue with the psoas itself. It’s also likely that I have chemo-induced necrosis in my hip joint. Either. Both. All. Real problems. 

“You’re entitled to have issues,” I’m told by my oncologist, “you’ve been through a lot.”

- - - 

I live in a very strange space.

Chronic pain triggered me. At its worst, I had dry heaves from the spasms. It still gets bad, but I managed it with a three-day fast and a radical change of diet.

Fear dominated me. At its worst I browned-out from the anxiety-attack hyperventilation. Last night it started again. I managed it by audio-mixing two podcast episodes. Six hours straight, immersive work. 

Whatever my goals, whatever my aspirations, I threw them all away. Survival was the goal. Survival remains the goal.

When pain and fear becomes the filter through which you experience your day, you are no longer you. You may aspire to be the person your dog thinks you are, but that’s not an option. So, you clench your teeth until you taste the blood and your face cramps with the strain. And you get on with it.

You flinch. You avoid people, interactions, experiences. You retreat. 

- - - 

Seven weeks ago it started.

I battled it each and every minute. And most of the time it won.

If you’ve seen me over the past seven weeks, you’ve seen the mask and the shell. Most of my time has been spent bunkering, hunkering, preparing for the worst. 

Because the worst is part of me, and it will be—forever…

…however long that shall be.

- - - 

I’m still in pain. I’m still afraid. 

And while I’m entitled to have issues…

And while my fears are valid…

And while the pain is real…

I wonder what that gets me.

I understand the past seven weeks. But I hate it. 

I hate the person I become, even as I empathize with him. 

I abhor things done and undone and said and unsaid, even as I forgive myself.

And tomorrow the sun will rise again. And soon I will have more tests, and soon I will have more answers and decisions and things I need to do and have done.

So, I set my jaw, clench my teeth, and get on with it….until I taste the blood and my face cramps with the strain.

And I’ll continue on, trying to be the man I aspire to be.

I say it all the time, because to fake it is to make it:

I’ve got this.