LJ Idol Season 6 Week 8 - Owls at My Window
o/` "Place my body on the funeral pyre,
cut it loose to float downstream
Leave it frozen on a mountain top,
suspend it high to be picked clean
"You said never to grow old,
but you forgot to tell me how
You said never to grow old
and then you sank your teeth into those final feet" o/`
-- "Those Final Feet" performed by Cowboy Junkies
"I don't want to do this."
"I know you don't, but the consequences will be worse if you put it off."
Mentally railing against the unfairness of the situation, I balled my hands into tight fists at my sides. It was all I could do not to throw a punch at something, but with the way my luck had been lately I would probably just end up fracturing the hand. "I hate it! I never wanted you or him to see me like this."
Dorie set her half full glass of wine on the railing and closed the distance between us in a few swift strides. She gathered me into her arms, hands busy in my hair, and I pressed myself against her ample bosom. The sound of her heart slowed the franticly beating wings of panicked thought racing through my brain. "Come inside now and we'll get it done."
I followed her and went back into the guest bedroom to wait while she gathered the necessary supplies. When she reappeared, warming the syringe between her hands with an expertise born of working as a veterinary technician, I obligingly dropped my jeans. Dee, fascinated by the concept, looked on with interest. "It's fucking crazy," he muttered. "You fight a disease which, if unchecked, will kill you by injecting a poison which could kill you?"
Grinning weakly, I nodded. "That's about the size of it."
"It's ready," Dorie announced, holding the syringe to the light and expertly removing the air bubble. She swabbed a spot on my thigh with alcohol and then sent the needle deep into the muscle with professional ease.
Injecting and administering chemotherapy medications really ought to be an art form. The needles aren't always as sharp as they need to be and quite a few things can go wrong. The key to minimal pain and maximum therapeutic benefit is a slow but steady push rate: too fast and the medication floods into the surrounding tissue, destroying it without being absorbed into the bloodstream; too slow and the needle tip clogs, rendering further administration of the medication impossible and increasing the chances of infection on the site.
Dorie had the right touch; I never felt the needle penetrate the skin and the medication barely burned as it went in.
Most times after the chemotherapy has been administered, I need only a brief recovery period before resuming normal activities. For this reason, I generally take my shots at night before bed. I never feel one hundred percent the following day, but a night's rest allows me some semblance of normalcy. Occasionally, however, I experience side effects. When I do, things go spectacularly wrong.
This just happened to be one of those times. I'd warned them both about it, but I don't think either Dorie or Dee were fully prepared for the reality of my clinically given descriptions. One moment the three of us were talking about the next day's plans and the next, I couldn't quite get my breath. My vision wavered, doubled, and then narrowed to a fuzzy greyish-yellow field. It had to have been Dee who caught me before I fell forward --- Dorie is simply too short and too small to have done so --- and laid me out on the bed. I could hear both of them talking but I couldn't really respond. I wanted to tell them not to worry, that this was perfectly normal and if they would just let me sleep all would be well.
You can, I have discovered, actually feel the destruction of the cells as the chemotherapy goes to work on the bad cells. I traced it via the liquid fire racing through my veins, searing its way down into the very cracks and crevices of the body's rudimentary building blocks. As a redhead, I purportedly have a higher pain threshold than other folk and I'm legendary in my stubbornness. To cry out is to admit a weakness and I prided myself on always being the strong one, the one everyone else looked to when things fell apart.
I was falling apart, dissolving. Chemo's a bitch complete with whips and stilettos and her touch is deadly. I curled into a fetal position, screaming and sobbing, "It hurts, it hurts!" My liver felt like something with talons had grabbed it and was trying to rip it from my body. I felt Dorie stroking my hair and Dee rubbing my back as they both murmured reassurances but none of it helped.
The body loses its ability to regulate temperature under such an onslaught. I alternated between being roasted in the fires of hell and then frozen solid only to shatter and begin the process anew. Blood vessels rupture; my skin turned an odd shade of soft yellow with deep blackish bruises while my tears were tinted pink. My nose bled. Someone wiped up the mess, kept me cooled down with a damp cloth. Someone kept talking, touching, holding. It provided an anchor in the madness.
I sought solace in the painless darkness, and after a while I found it.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a skull piercing headache and an aversion to bright light. One of them had pulled the curtains and turned all of the lights off except for a small deeply shaded stained glass bed lamp illuminated by a single low bulb. My eyes had crusted closed; I tried lifting a hand to wipe them clear and couldn't manage it. A wet cloth swiped my face and I could finally get them open again. My blurred vision softened the hard planes and angles of his face, but I recognized him right away: Dee, and he looked haggard and broken. A drop of water, followed by several more, fell into my upturned hand and I belatedly realized they were actually tears.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, saying nothing, and held my hand as though it were his own life line.
Dorie, not unkindly, pushed him aside with a deft twist of her hips and conducted a quick examination to ascertain my status. She seemed to know I'd be thirsty and offered me water. I savored the earthy flavor of the bayou as it worked its way into the moisture starved tissues and unstuck my tongue. I licked my lips and tried my voice. "He's crying. Dee shouldn't cry." He never had, not in all the years I'd known him, and I didn't want him crying over me.
"You frightened us both." Her smile wobbled. "Don't look in the mirror for a while."
"That bad, huh?" It didn't feel like a joke. I knew what I'd see: dark bruised bags under the eyes, a spider-track of finely burst capillaries tracing my skin, and vivid ugly bruises where the vessels had simply ruptured. I could expect minute tears in the esophagus and other parts of my digestive system over the next several days as I fought a war --- one I'd likely lose --- to stay nourished and hydrated. I already knew that my lips and nail beds were an unattractive shade of cyanotic blue; I just couldn't catch my breath.
"Bad."
"Don't leave me alone tonight."
"I have no intention whatsoever of doing so, you silly bitch." Dee swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his waistcoat. It was an endearingly boyish gesture, considering he normally had impeccable court manners and would under normal circumstances have considered that a grave breech of etiquette.
I slept that night cradled between them, my beloved Dee and my brave little Cajun Queen, and treasured their healing touch --- Dee, who never touched anyone except to inflict pain, and Dorie who had never known what it was to touch or be touched in a loving manner until I stumbled into her life.
I am a lucky woman, to be worthy of such devotion.
cut it loose to float downstream
Leave it frozen on a mountain top,
suspend it high to be picked clean
"You said never to grow old,
but you forgot to tell me how
You said never to grow old
and then you sank your teeth into those final feet" o/`
-- "Those Final Feet" performed by Cowboy Junkies
"I don't want to do this."
"I know you don't, but the consequences will be worse if you put it off."
Mentally railing against the unfairness of the situation, I balled my hands into tight fists at my sides. It was all I could do not to throw a punch at something, but with the way my luck had been lately I would probably just end up fracturing the hand. "I hate it! I never wanted you or him to see me like this."
Dorie set her half full glass of wine on the railing and closed the distance between us in a few swift strides. She gathered me into her arms, hands busy in my hair, and I pressed myself against her ample bosom. The sound of her heart slowed the franticly beating wings of panicked thought racing through my brain. "Come inside now and we'll get it done."
I followed her and went back into the guest bedroom to wait while she gathered the necessary supplies. When she reappeared, warming the syringe between her hands with an expertise born of working as a veterinary technician, I obligingly dropped my jeans. Dee, fascinated by the concept, looked on with interest. "It's fucking crazy," he muttered. "You fight a disease which, if unchecked, will kill you by injecting a poison which could kill you?"
Grinning weakly, I nodded. "That's about the size of it."
"It's ready," Dorie announced, holding the syringe to the light and expertly removing the air bubble. She swabbed a spot on my thigh with alcohol and then sent the needle deep into the muscle with professional ease.
Injecting and administering chemotherapy medications really ought to be an art form. The needles aren't always as sharp as they need to be and quite a few things can go wrong. The key to minimal pain and maximum therapeutic benefit is a slow but steady push rate: too fast and the medication floods into the surrounding tissue, destroying it without being absorbed into the bloodstream; too slow and the needle tip clogs, rendering further administration of the medication impossible and increasing the chances of infection on the site.
Dorie had the right touch; I never felt the needle penetrate the skin and the medication barely burned as it went in.
Most times after the chemotherapy has been administered, I need only a brief recovery period before resuming normal activities. For this reason, I generally take my shots at night before bed. I never feel one hundred percent the following day, but a night's rest allows me some semblance of normalcy. Occasionally, however, I experience side effects. When I do, things go spectacularly wrong.
This just happened to be one of those times. I'd warned them both about it, but I don't think either Dorie or Dee were fully prepared for the reality of my clinically given descriptions. One moment the three of us were talking about the next day's plans and the next, I couldn't quite get my breath. My vision wavered, doubled, and then narrowed to a fuzzy greyish-yellow field. It had to have been Dee who caught me before I fell forward --- Dorie is simply too short and too small to have done so --- and laid me out on the bed. I could hear both of them talking but I couldn't really respond. I wanted to tell them not to worry, that this was perfectly normal and if they would just let me sleep all would be well.
You can, I have discovered, actually feel the destruction of the cells as the chemotherapy goes to work on the bad cells. I traced it via the liquid fire racing through my veins, searing its way down into the very cracks and crevices of the body's rudimentary building blocks. As a redhead, I purportedly have a higher pain threshold than other folk and I'm legendary in my stubbornness. To cry out is to admit a weakness and I prided myself on always being the strong one, the one everyone else looked to when things fell apart.
I was falling apart, dissolving. Chemo's a bitch complete with whips and stilettos and her touch is deadly. I curled into a fetal position, screaming and sobbing, "It hurts, it hurts!" My liver felt like something with talons had grabbed it and was trying to rip it from my body. I felt Dorie stroking my hair and Dee rubbing my back as they both murmured reassurances but none of it helped.
The body loses its ability to regulate temperature under such an onslaught. I alternated between being roasted in the fires of hell and then frozen solid only to shatter and begin the process anew. Blood vessels rupture; my skin turned an odd shade of soft yellow with deep blackish bruises while my tears were tinted pink. My nose bled. Someone wiped up the mess, kept me cooled down with a damp cloth. Someone kept talking, touching, holding. It provided an anchor in the madness.
I sought solace in the painless darkness, and after a while I found it.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a skull piercing headache and an aversion to bright light. One of them had pulled the curtains and turned all of the lights off except for a small deeply shaded stained glass bed lamp illuminated by a single low bulb. My eyes had crusted closed; I tried lifting a hand to wipe them clear and couldn't manage it. A wet cloth swiped my face and I could finally get them open again. My blurred vision softened the hard planes and angles of his face, but I recognized him right away: Dee, and he looked haggard and broken. A drop of water, followed by several more, fell into my upturned hand and I belatedly realized they were actually tears.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, saying nothing, and held my hand as though it were his own life line.
Dorie, not unkindly, pushed him aside with a deft twist of her hips and conducted a quick examination to ascertain my status. She seemed to know I'd be thirsty and offered me water. I savored the earthy flavor of the bayou as it worked its way into the moisture starved tissues and unstuck my tongue. I licked my lips and tried my voice. "He's crying. Dee shouldn't cry." He never had, not in all the years I'd known him, and I didn't want him crying over me.
"You frightened us both." Her smile wobbled. "Don't look in the mirror for a while."
"That bad, huh?" It didn't feel like a joke. I knew what I'd see: dark bruised bags under the eyes, a spider-track of finely burst capillaries tracing my skin, and vivid ugly bruises where the vessels had simply ruptured. I could expect minute tears in the esophagus and other parts of my digestive system over the next several days as I fought a war --- one I'd likely lose --- to stay nourished and hydrated. I already knew that my lips and nail beds were an unattractive shade of cyanotic blue; I just couldn't catch my breath.
"Bad."
"Don't leave me alone tonight."
"I have no intention whatsoever of doing so, you silly bitch." Dee swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his waistcoat. It was an endearingly boyish gesture, considering he normally had impeccable court manners and would under normal circumstances have considered that a grave breech of etiquette.
I slept that night cradled between them, my beloved Dee and my brave little Cajun Queen, and treasured their healing touch --- Dee, who never touched anyone except to inflict pain, and Dorie who had never known what it was to touch or be touched in a loving manner until I stumbled into her life.
I am a lucky woman, to be worthy of such devotion.