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cyclicallife · 1 month
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When I smell diesel exhaust, I return to a bus station in Cuenca, Ecuador. I am 11, traveling with my mother. We are visiting my uncle, who was studying there at the time.
Whenever I smell diesel fumes, I am there. I can hear the people yelling out the bus's destinations, some just boys, perhaps the driver's son. And other voices are clamoring for space in the cacophony, selling everything from chicklets to newspapers.
It was a culture shock to the highest degree. Before going on the trip, I went to get my passport. I had to take the morning off from school. The lady who was processing it asked where I was going. Because I was wearing my school uniform, I said, "I'm going to school." I thought she meant where I was going after the appointment.
That's how innocent I was before the trip.
Things change you.
I saw more poverty in a square mile than I could understand and was then led through an open-air meat market. The smell of diesel fumes mixed with the sight of limbs and heads of various animals while still trying to adjust to roughly 8,000' above sea level made me want to get sick, but I didn't. At that young age, a strange and unhinged understanding came over me. If I vomited, I would feel guilty because my stomach was full, and some of the children I had seen looked like they hadn't eaten in days.
Diesel exhaust will never be diesel exhaust; it will be a time machine.
When I see these clouds (attached photo / Facebook "memory" Jan 30, 2017), It isn't only that I step onto the cold deck and hear the wooden porch boards protesting against the frigid weather, but I hear my oncologist,
"...the lungs."
The day is frigid. It's the type of cold that you can taste before you can feel as if Mother Nature wants to give you a sampling of it before the entire course. (Mother Nature doesn't care about dietary restrictions.) I take this photo casually. It's a digital world; I can take dozens, but I remember taking only one.
If I had taken dozens, would I have dozens of different memories?
Unlike diesel fumes, there is nothing discernable about these clouds. They are generic, and they are fleeting. They are ephemeral.
"... the lungs."
I was going in for an early morning MRI and CT set of scans. I was six months post-treatment. These were routine. Routine is normal, is standard, is regular.
I wanted to remain on the deck, to stay and taste the day and watch these clouds shift and morph into... into anything.
"... the lungs."
Certain clouds are no longer clouds; they are time machines.
Events change you.
A few days after my scans, when I met with my oncologist, he said,
"... the lungs. It looks like one of the nodules has grown."
That was seven years ago.
Life changes you.
When I smell diesel, I am transported to another world.
When I see clouds like this, I become someone else, a pre-recurrence Jeremiah, a pre-transplant Jeremiah.
I have witnessed many cloud patterns like this since Jan 30, 2017. They constantly shift; some become rich blue, while others become threatening gray.
Their impermanence serves as a constant reminder of the transient nature of things.
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cyclicallife · 1 year
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Over the past few months, various events or things have triggered me.
Some are minuscule, such as a sound or smell that will set off several memories. Others are more significant, a bodily sensation, an ache, cough, or the like that provokes a more powerful emotional/psychological response.
I note these reactions, a tactic I use to help ground myself. From there, I can move forward, understanding more about it (the trigger) and my relationship with it. If I can, witnessing myself is the trick; detecting what is occurring before being consumed.
The milestone of the five-year cancer-free mark is not an exemption from fear and worry. Sometimes they peak at the same level they did while amid treatment -- periodically even more so.
Nights are difficult. Anyone who has experienced a tumultuous and life-altering event can attest that this is when the little dark fears come out of the woodwork.
A few weeks ago, I returned from Samsø, Denmark (see the previous update here or blog post on cyclical.life). A small island with under 4,000 inhabitants, nestled snuggly off the Jutland peninsula. Though it has several adorable little towns, the 40-something square mile island is used primarily for agricultural purposes. To say that it is a walkers' paradise is an understatement.
When I am state-side, I often sit with these "little dark fears" only to a certain point. It wasn't a bold pursuit or some other brave endeavor that granted me the time and pace to do so on Samsø; it happened as if on its own.
One night, awoken by worries and fears, I got dressed, grabbed my raincoat, and went for a walk. It was almost a knee-jerk reaction. As I joked to a few people, the beautiful thing about an island is that you can't get lost; you ramble through fields and upon well-worn tractor paths, and sooner or later, you'll encounter the ocean.
Every evening I filled my rucksack with: a rainjacket, another base layer, extra socks, a flashlight, a field recorder, and bread, butter, and honey, just in case. Then, I'd begin walking if I woke in the night, regardless of the time and conditions, to discover that the fears were present.  
State-side, if my worries and fears become too great, and my audiobook or music doesn't cut through the mix, I'll bust out trusty ol' Netflix. I didn't have such distractions there. Though I purchased a Danish SIM card for emergencies, I didn't carry my phone or bring my pre-downloaded audiobook.
Bringing the field recorder was the best decision. I didn't intend to record myself, but I'd sit on some slight rise or the beach and try to collect my thoughts and gather my ideas while talking aloud - a practice I began while in school as it helped me work out ideas. My words were wandering much in the way I was rambling physically.
I have a project in mind for the recordings. Though what follows are some excerpts and snippets I pulled that I found revealing.
*
I move forward in this place (of recovery)
A beacon pulling / a signal drawing
Being held - here
I have learned to live with the memory of you [cancer], as one does with something that echoed, a thing that came.
The lights of Aarhus could be another world - a gentle glow (western paling sky). Aarhus could be Boston from here - Mass General could be anywhere. I could be anywhere. I am here.
Birds; two, then three, then 4, and 5 (a dance that says 'we are together in this; we heal together.')
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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Between September 2015 and December 2015 I worked as a volunteer fieldhand on Samsø, a small Danish island off the Jutland Penninsula. The island was flat and windswept and, due to the waning tourist season, becoming quieter and quieter. The sun was setting earlier each day; the island was turning in for the winter. In other words, it was an ideal place for an artist seeking solitude and a reprieve from the hecticness of the city from which I had just left.
On the morning before I left to catch the ferry back to the mainland, which would, in turn, take me back to Copenhagen and onward to Chicago, where I would spend my last semester of grad school, I walked out into a barren field and filled a glass jar with dirt. Though I had only spent three months there, the land had become very important to me, nurturing and fulfilling in a way that so few things had been.
I turned from the field, took the ferry back to the mainland, the train back to Copenhagen, and various flights back to the US before commencing what was supposed to be my final semester before completing my MFA.
The jar of dirt came with me.
I left Samsø in mid-December 2015 and was diagnosed in early April 2016.
From there, my health story winds through various surreal, horrifying, and alarming circumstances, culminating in two stem cell transplants, the 2nd of which ended in late August 2017. As such, I am fast approaching the 5-year-mark of being in remission and cancer-free. Having experienced a recurrence six months AFTER my initial treatment, this is a remarkable milestone.
Five years.
I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't process it.
It is shocking to consider all that has come to pass since August 2017. It is beautiful to witness one's strength and humbling and frightening to be continually reminded of one's fragility.
But it all doesn't add up to five years.
I measure time by the jar of dirt in my closet, the container that survived my rapid exodus from Chicago when I scrambled to make my way back home to Maine for treatment. Dazed by the news of my diagnosis, the surgery, the multi-day stay in the hospital, and the concoction of medication in my system, I still made sure to grab the jar of soil off the shelf in my room. So while other things, such as clothing, books, etc., found their way to the dumpster behind my apartment, the jar of earth stayed close at hand.
This is time.
On Samsø, I stopped carrying a phone. Time lost a feeling of importance and urgency. Towards the end of my work-stay, we'd start work when it was barely light and end when dusk was well upon us. I started learning how much can be understood by the land and how the light fell on it. I realized that I was beginning to comprehend the seasonal shifts of the earth, just as I knew the passing of the day by the soil and how my hands and body felt in relation to it.
This is time.
I observe the passage of time by the jar of dirt I keep in my closet. Sometimes I open the lid and inhale the dwindling scent that carries the history of seasons and crops with it. Now and then, I pour a small amount onto my palm and consider how lucky I am to have known time in two drastically different formats; the abstract form that tells the seasons to shift and the crops to grow and the concrete structure that allows me to understand the significance of this five-year anniversary.  
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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It was soul-nourishing and profoundly fulfilling to get out of town while awaiting my scan date. So much so that I postponed my return.
MRI shows NO new mets! The radiated lesion is stable. The other, detected after the recurrence and subsequently resected, looks clear.
Both show considerable edema, which has been present all along. The swelling of the radiated met (left frontal) has been causing disfluency. At first, I thought it was one of the medications I am currently taking. I had a post-MRI visit with my oncologist and my neurologist. I was informed about the hemispherical control our brain has over numerous functions that aren't even considered during our daily lives for many of us. Fascinating and horrifying. However, it shouldn't come as any surprise. In 2017, when the recurrence was detected, the disease returned with a vengeance and spread even quicker than before. The lesion that sprouted up in the right frontal lobe paralyzed my entire left arm. From shoulder to fingertips, it was immobile. After the craniotomy, it was fascinating to watch the slow return of muscle movement and motor skills. Though my dexterity isn't 100% and may never be, I cannot help but be awestruck by the phenomenon of the human body. However, I will forever eye it cautiously and never take it for granted.
Since my MRI results and the re-re-re-realization that our brains are so susceptible to everything, I reconsider the various times during my journey that have been perfect examples of this. Whether it was depression or anxiety, chemo-induced hallucinations, or the need to change seizure drugs because of sudden mood alterations, bliss from meditation, calm from generating art, euphoria from witnessing nature, etc., the brain physiologically and the mind psychologically are powerful yet fragile. (Make note; fragility is NOT akin to weakness. I cannot stress this enough. Maybe this is what I'll ramble on about in my next blog post.)
I am thankful for my gray matter as well as my mind. Both have struggled to adapt, heal, and regrow.
I am thankful for others, too—others of solid intellect and stable mind/emotions. I am grateful for those who acknowledged and accepted the fragility of both my brain and mind during these past several years.
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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Every year, on the 1st of April, I mention that this is the anniversary of my diagnosis. I talk about the irony of it, being that I was diagnosed on April Fool's Day. (If you can't see the incongruous nature of that situation, I'm not sure you'll make it through life unscathed, my dear.) Today, however, I was thinking about other things, things beyond the absurdity of it all, which, to my pleasant surprise, brought about a giggle or two and not “what the fuck?” moments. You see, life is linear, in a roundabout way. Are you with me? I’ll try not to lose either of us, as I clarify.
We can wake up and go to bed and, in between, either exist or live. I was thinking about this as I stood on a small chunk of land poking out into the Bay of Biscay. Far out, somewhere, a storm was rolling and lurching - as they do. I arrived on foot, having walked from Santander. I knew a storm would come; storms always come; they're linear - in a roundabout way. I didn’t consider the lightning storm. I was not expecting the hail nor the rapid drop in temperature after that. I thought that I had planned for things... We're always looking, plotting, and considering ways to plan things. Yes, we’re always planning how to prepare. Things. Things. The linearity, the trajectory. Things. I wanted something to go accordingly. I wanted to exist, plan for hail, and prepare for post-graduate life. Things. Bring my gloves for the drop in temperature, and consider how to outline my resume to make a potential employer go, “He's our guy!”
Existing. It's existing.
To exist -
verb (used without object)
to have actual being; be:
The world exists, whether you like it or not.
This isn't a survival story. Nope. I was freezing to death; I wasn't lost in the depths of the wilderness. This is about sitting under a tree, stuffing my hands into my armpits to keep them warm, while watching a storm pass over a gorgeous seascape. I was existing. I was waiting for linearity to run its course. Yep, I'm just sitting there and waiting it out. Linear. Point A - point B
Cancer and cancer survivorship is not linear. You can stuff your pack with all the shit you can think of, and something will come up, and what was once progression is kicked back to point A. It’s linearity in a roundabout way because it's progression until it's not. It's growth until it's not. It's freedom until it's not.
What truly breaks the cycle is opting to live and not simply exist, being and not endlessly planning to be, enjoying being rather than planning on it. I only realized this...today. However, I don’t know exactly. Sometime between waking up and knowing it was my diagnosis anniversary and accepting the fact that I was actually going to stuff my hands into my armpits because my gloves were sitting on the table at my Airbnb.
To live -
Verb (used without object), lived [livd], liv·ing.
To have life, as an organism; be alive; be capable of vital functions:
All things that live.
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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As a cancer survivor, it takes time to love the body you felt betrayed you. 
Then, however, you begin to see how hard it worked to save you. 
Fall in love with yourself again, it’s a continuously evolving relationship that will always be fulfilling! 
© 2022 jeremiah ray
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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Learn from them; even in the minutest way, they can be your teacher.
© 2022 Jeremiah Ray
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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cyclicallife · 2 years
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I had a seizure last week.  As a result, my neurologist increased one of my meds; fingers crossed, this will add more protection.  The lower dosage had been holding out, even if it did permit a few minor seizures to slip by.  Last week's episode, however, wasn't so insignificant to not be addressed.
Sometimes, when I am discussing my health history, it is as though I am relaying the accounts of another person.  I added a urologist to my team of doctors.  My oncologist thought this might be a good idea; it makes perfect sense.  I have been having discomfort in and around my scrotum area, especially where they removed my right testicle.  It amounts to phantom pain, but the doctor still ordered an ultrasound.
He was a burly man with broad shoulders and sleeve tattoos.  I felt very comfortable talking with him.  But, what struck me was how he studied my chart, listened to me relay my history, and looked at me as I did so. It may be because I just added him to my team, and, as such, he hadn't heard my health saga, but he was very attentive and present during the lengthy retelling of my journey from diagnosis to present.  When describing this experience, I could feel my pulse quicken; I felt flushed, the light in the room intensified, my throat dried out, and my speech streamed out until I was all but staggering over my words.  It was as though I had thrown myself down a flight of stairs and was attempting to grab ahold of anything to steady myself as I fell.  It didn't help, of course, that the urologist's office was in the same building as the cancer treatment center, albeit one floor up.
Although he maintained his professional persona, his eyes revealed signs of witnessing someone struggling to maintain emotional composure.  I, however, only became aware of these indications after I was done with my lengthy oration.  At this point, I took a deep breath and let the silence in the room hang thick between us.
It wasn't that I felt foolish after this outpouring, not at all.  Instead, it made me realize that so much is lurking under the surface, and the steps I'm taking, though very healthy and undoubtedly beneficial, aren't fully addressing what is there.  A daily meditation schedule, regular therapy sessions, adequate sleep, exercise, and a nutritious diet are all good but act like bandaids on a wound that needs stitches.  As with the seizures and anti-convulsant medication, the assumption (and hope) is that it is holding, the dosage is at a therapeutic level, and everything will remain stable; however, they keep slipping back through.  It is similar to healing emotionally and psychologically from cancer and other health-related issues stemming from it; the belief is that things are being addressed and managed.  But whatever is creeping under the surface is bound to appear.  I get glimpses of it as I did at the urologist's when recounting my health history and all but spiraling out of control.
Unforeseen - naturally.  Unwanted - obviously.  Unnerving - heartbreakingly so.
I certainly don't sit around waiting in fear for a seizure to occur.  They have, in many ways, hindered my life.  However, as with the episode the other night, the blow to my morale is incredible, but I am moving steadily forward even after such massive setbacks.  What worries me, and "worry" is an enormous understatement, is that which transcends the physiological and resides instead in the realm of the heart and mind.   With a seizure, although I am heartbroken, the meds are adjusted, and I simply cross my fingers, hope, and pray the pharmaceutical concoction is finally in that sweet spot.  But that which is hidden and moving under the radar, that which prescription drugs cannot address, is what frightens me.
Once, when discussing my seizure activity with my neurologist, he said, "It's not a question of if, but when."  I was inquiring about the efficacy of a specific medication and if it would prevent future occurrences.  He knew the likelihood was high; it was more a matter of intensity for him.  After having my appointment with the urologist and relaying my entire story from diagnosis to the present, it is evident that the same can be said about whatever is sneaking about unconsciously.  
I realize now that my emotional and psychological state will inevitably be highjacked.
It's just a question of when.
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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We named a Spotify playlist "butterfly." We did so because one of our last meetings before I fell ill, was at the Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum in Chicago. There we watched the butterflies as they fluttered about. The children giggled as they landed on their heads and arms. We all became child-like in that place - even the adults tittered and held out their index fingers, eager for one to take respite there. It was pure glee, but I can't help but wonder if the butterflies knew what was in store, what epic migration, one of the most significant natural events, awaited them come fall.
One of the first songs I put on the playlist was Raign's rendition of "Knocking on Heavens Door," mind you, not "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" as the original version by the great Bob Dylan goes. In my mind, I cannot separate that song and the butterflies, their graceful movement, which I had seen just a few weeks before returning home for treatment, are synonymous with this track. Even now, when sitting with my coffee and gazing at our butterfly bush in our backyard garden, I watch them and mentally hear that synthy-laden, electronic drum version. Her voice, potent, albeit angelic, is layered and drenched in thick reverb. I initially heard it, as mentioned, just weeks after my return to commence my very 1st round of chemo (2016). So there is an extra layer of chemo-drug induced and emotionally consumed intensity.
The mind is extraordinary. Today (August 5th), I woke up and wished my sisters a happy "Cinco de Mayo." I was jarred awake by a landscaping crew, and in my mind, the rhythm of their compactor sounded like an MRI machine. In this hazy mental place, it wasn't August 5th, 2021; it was May 5th, 2017, the date I was supposed to enter Mass General to begin 1 of 2 my stem cell transplant. (Which was the original date, but that was pushed back by a month because of my brain surgery.) So in texting them with good wishes for Cinco de Mayo, I wanted them to feel a sense of normalcy that I didn't on this particular date. (It is my nature to try to protect and cacoon people, especially when it comes to my health saga.)
It took a strong cup of coffee to pull me into the now. First, I began thinking about my strange wake-up and where I was in mind and heart. Then, as it has been a while since I have listened to it, I put on Raign and sipped more coffee. Little did I know at the time, the Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum was this sacred little bubble. Not only for me, though for obvious reasons it was, but it seemed that way for everyone who was there. The laughing children, the adults who regressed to a child-like place, all of them stepped away from the world. Then, as my mind does, at least when it's fully awake and has a bit of coffee, I thought about the people in that blissful bubble and the butterflies fluttering about. Who was giving whom a respite from life; was it the humans gazing in awe at these gorgeous little beings, taken away from their worries and stresses, even if just for a minute. Or was it the butterflies developing a divine connection with a human by landing on their index finger or soaking in the gleeful laughter of children before embarking on a migration of epic proportions?
I will undoubtedly wake up again in a place and time far from here within the next few days. This isn't solely for the benefit of others, to grace them with a feeling of normalcy, but also for me. I have routine bloodwork in a week (August 11th) and an oncologist appointment two days after.
Maybe I will wake-up thinking I'm a butterfly.
"Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man." Chuang Tzu (c. 369 BC – c. 286 BC)
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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I fancy myself a bit of a writer, a wordsmith. I never had the confidence I do now to write. I was always worried about my grammar and punctuation. More so, more than anything, I was worried about opening up and spilling it all out, letting the flood gates open and set for a deluge of emotions, feelings, and thoughts that would potentially leave me exposed to criticism or judgment. After diagnosis, I stopped caring. The last thing I would concern myself with was grammar. Next in line, or perhaps going hand in hand with grammar, were the thoughts of others. I was already emotionally raw on so many other levels; I might as well leave it all wide open. 
Today I met with my oncologist, and, as I expected, it was decided to "keep an eye" on things. The recent MRI showed hemosiderin deposition in the brain, which isn't as bad as it sounds. These deposits transpire after bleeding has happened, which can occur after any traumatic injury to the brain. The bleeding leaves behind stains and, in time, is broken down by the body and left behind as iron deposits. This is my basic understanding. There is some question as to whether or not this could be residual neoplasm, leftover cancer cells. This raised the question in my mind as to whether or not this is why my tumor markers are rising ever so slightly. But, as stated, we're just going to keep an eye on it. 
keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. keep an eye on it. 
This is when the longing to be a wordsmith falls away. 
The old and young. Young and old. What a madhouse here. No ryhme or reason at the cancer clinic. I sometimes want to ask, in a clandestine whisper, 'Hey you, ya you! whatcha in for?' 'cause that's what it's like. I've never been in jail, but I can imagine what's it. I've been in a different kind of prison for four years, or has it been longer? I can't remember. That's the problem with these days that blend into months and then merge into years; they all look and feel the same. It's worse in treatment. It's always worse in treatment. Even today, a beautiful day, and I swear it was May, yet I wrote March 24 on my intake paperwork. "So, doc, ain't I done good?" I ask as he studies my file and randomly looks up at me. "I've been good, I swear! I'm free to go, right?" I want something. I am seeking something; everyone is seeking something in treatment or after treatment. Craving the words, "you're good!" Oh yes, they call us survivors, what a strange name. I'll know what this something is, what it'll be once I get my claws sunk into it. "Well, why don't we keep an eye on it." 
I schedule a follow-up, bloodwork and scans for a later date. But it wasn't me. I planned them for my body to be aware of my physical being and its course one way or another. But emotionally and psychologically, cancer is no longer. 
To be clear: emotionally and psychologically, cancer no longer has me. 
Follow-up scheduled: COMPLY (Y/N) Y 
Current objective: to be and enjoy being? COMPLY (Y/N) Y 
Worrying Overridden: COMPLY (Y/N) Y
Outer Stability Seeking: COMPLY (Y/N) N
Inner Stability Seeking: COMPLY (Y/N) Y 
(Physical) Cancer Status: Tracking/Monitoring 
(Emotional/psychological) Cancer Status: NED (No Evidence of Disease)
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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My first brain MRI was in Chicago after being rushed to the ER. I woke from a seizure stuck inside a device that hummed and rattled with a disembodied voice telling me not to move. As I recall, it wasn't a pleasant voice. However, in defense of the tech overseeing the procedure, I struggled to free myself. In my defense, however, who the fuck wouldn't? I was reentering the world from a seizure; I didn't know who I was or where or, for that matter, what I was. I was there, semi-conscious, with my head stuck inside an unknown object that seemed to be pulsating. "Jeremiah, don't move! If you do, we'll have to start the procedure all over again!" So, I stopped moving; instead, I just cried.
What I remember, even more than the terrifying sounds, the somewhat annoyed tech, and the tears, was my thirst. My god, the craving for water was so intense. My tongue was leather-like in my mouth. When thirst surpasses fear, a new level of a primordial being emerges. That is the creature that remained on that MRI/scan bed, the being who rested motionless and withdrew inward. I do not know any other word to describe the sensation better, but "withdraw" is most suitable. It was as though Jeremiah split into two halves, the person being tested/scanned and the one full of desperation. In between these was where I ended up and withdrew, holing up in a chasm. I remember resting my hands by my side as if I were a windup toy that had just ended its cycle. I've always wondered what the MRI tech thought. Did they see me slip into that place, that point between two worlds, the chasm I mentioned?
The "scanxiety" is everpresent; how could it not be? However, I understand that my genuine fear is detaching. I am concerned about stopping as I did before within that gap between the two halves amidst those two worlds. The horror of a potential recurrence is no longer as intense as it was, even with the tumor markers that are trending upwards ever-so-slightly. If it ever does return, I'll deal with it. I dealt with it when initially diagnosed and again with the recurrence. After numerous hypnosis sessions, it is evident that my worry of withdrawing, psychologically and emotionally disengaging, far surpasses my concern of a recurrence.
As I have discovered, and most already know, cancer can be managed and treated in numerous ways. The withdrawing, the derealization I speak of, isn't controlled or cured in such a targeted manner. I feel more detached with each MRI. Amid each procedure, the tech, be it for an MRI, CT, etc., needn't tell me to "stop moving!" as I keep finding my way back to that middle ground, to the chasm.
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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I'm not sure when it started, but I have been feeling tenderness and a dull ache in my testicle for the last few days. Naturally, this has set off every alarm in my mind; every possible worry and concern has crept back into the light. After four years, I would have assumed that the fear of a recurrence would have lessened, but it has come raging back with this feeling. The other night I dreamt that I was back in the treatment chair, and the nurses were trying to fit in an IV. Each nurse attempted dozens of times to no avail. Finally, the nurse, who, in waking life, I see every time I go for labs, said, "Jeremiah, I'm sorry, but we can't fit the IV. We'll try again tomorrow." Then I shifted dreams, but I am unsure what followed. In my unconscious mind, these worries are ever-present; they have always been. It isn't just with this feeling and sensation. My dreams regularly reveal so much; every emotional state, good or bad, is magnified tenfold within my dreamscapes. I dream journal. I try to do so every day. I have stopped writing out the dreams in a descriptive manner. I don't set out to write short stories-like entries when I awake with one still fresh in my mind. Instead, I pull imagery from them. I snag tidbits of information, perhaps the color of an object or a particular look I receive. However, with the dreams that revolve around cancer, I am tangled up in the internal sensations and feelings more than anything external. In the dream mentioned above, which has occurred in various iteration for years, something prevents me from being treated. I want to hang on, to stay within the dream and ride it to the end. Though, would it make sense once I got there, wherever there is? What answers would I receive? Would it make sense - would any of this make sense?
Image: glitched self-portrait
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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I have bloodwork coming up. I forgot about it, or, rather, I forgot that it was so early in December. So it came as a surprise when I noticed it on my calendar.
I'm not sure if this will ever feel routine or if this will ever be easy. When I noticed the date was much sooner than I expected, I could feel my body flush and my mouth dry out. My hands started to shake to the point that I needed to put down my calendar/phone. A week after the bloodwork, I have an appointment with my oncologist to discuss the results. In my mind can see the interior of his office. Isn't it funny how certain places will never (ever!) leave our mind's vision? I can see it, hear it, smell it. The lights, the hum of the computer, the barely audible murmur of nurses and patients passing through the hall. Then there's the painting on the wall. It is a heinous, faux canvas print meant to instill a sense of peace and calm. At least that's what I think it's purpose is. I can't tell which is worse, sitting in his office waiting for him to knock on the door or staring at the shitty painting that's looking back at me. Not just one, no, I'm not that lucky, it's a triptych. Though, just when I'm drifting off into the beckoning cheap prints of a cliché coastal scene, a knock on the door arrives that sounds similar an explosion in the near-empty room. We exchange the run-of-the-mill greetings and pleasantries, after which I watch his mannerisms and scrutinize his wording. In the span of our 10-15 minute meeting, I go through such a gauntlet of emotions... In that timeframe, I have lived a thousand years.
Will this ever be easier?
After every set of either scans or labs, I wonder if the anxiety and fear will be slightly less the next time. This is my hope, and this is my need; with each passing of another MRI, CT, or lab workup, the inner turmoil will ease ever-so-slightly.
Please send some good energy and prayers for positive lab results and a sense of calm and ease within my mind and heart over these next several days.
(Though I am endlessly seeking means in which I can still my mind,/spirit art is, as always, the means to this end. I can't imagine what state I would be in if I didn't have some paper and a pen, or even simpler tools, I could exorcise some worries and focus my energy. Attached is a piece, another from my on-going series of portraits, that I worked on today while taking breaks from writing this post.)
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cyclicallife · 3 years
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I have dreamt dozens of times that cancer has returned. Not testicular cancer, not necessarily, just cancer in general. 
The other night I awoke, and, having fallen asleep on my arm, it was numb from the shoulder down. This, too, has happened numerous times, but I am always so shocked and horrified that I sit straight up in bed each time, flop my numb arm over my lap, and await as it comes back, as it awakes as well. I hold my breath. In the middle of the night, I am sitting there in the dark, cradling my arm, and waiting. When I feel the gentle tingling sensation return, the soft pins and needles that signify it has awoken, I lie back, relieved. It is then, and only then, I realize (the) cancer hasn't returned. Another lesion hasn't formed in my brain. I don't need brain surgery. 
Incidents such as this are not uncommon. This is but one example...
This fear lurks; I feel as though sometimes it is stalking me. Other times I know that, at this moment, I am cancer-free,  it is out of my system and a thing of the past. I am torn between these two worlds of quaking fear and joyful bliss. 
I recently had a conversation about this very feeling, about how I feel that I am often shadowed by cancer, that it is pursuing me. I was unaware of its presence upon initial diagnosis. When struck by the recurrence, I was, as with the first time, completely oblivious. So much so that when my oncologist told me it had returned, I was in denial. Naturally, anyone would be in dismissal as this is the last thing one wants to hear after having gone through treatment once. When I was informed, I felt 100%, my body felt so strong, so healthy. I wouldn't believe it - I couldn't accept that it had returned. Regardless, it had, and both times it snuck up on me and pounced. I blinked, and it was upon me, claws sunk deep, and I was helpless.
I suppose this is just something that lingers. How long is uncertain. Perhaps it will always shadow me. I hope that it will do so in such a way that it is not hunting me, or for that matter, haunting me, but a reminder of what has come to pass. 
Patience! I need more patience with myself as I move along this path. 
i cannot tell 
which is more patient 
the tree
like gnarled old fingers
sun-beached and 
long since passed
or the days and nights
which  move around it
we witness the blue sky
so rich and clear
and mistake our need
we forget tolerance  
we say
“get out of the way 
you old tree
i want to see the blue sky”
but the tree
is the gentle one
by day
it marks the earth 
with the movement
of the sun
across the sky
not rushing it
letting it be
moment by moment
and at night
it stands 
almost sentry-like
keeping watch 
waiting
it never says 
“you are gray today
bring back
your blue sky”
if it is unable
to mark the earth
as a sundial would
it just waits
gnarled and old
like it was yesterday
as it will be tomorrow
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cyclicallife · 4 years
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(Early March 2017)
I arrived early at the Bourgeoise Pig Cafe, a small tea house of sorts in Chicago's Lincoln Park. I was anxious, more so than usual. After the calm of coastal Maine, Chicago's busyness was unnerving, and the news of my recurrence made every part of my being tense. 
I had to return! I postponed the treatment by a week so that I might see my then-girlfriend. My illness arrived when our relationship was in its infancy. As such, we clung to one another, even from afar, trying to come to terms with the storm that had just hit. But that's a story for another time or perhaps only between her and me. 
I ordered a panini and tea and then slipped off to the bathroom to gain my composure before Jose arrived. I always felt this deep connection to Jose. He was a mentor, an older brother, a performance-art-partner. More than all that, he was just a dear friend whose very nature was comforting and gentle.
We met at the Bourgeoise Pig Cafe because I wasn't ready to travel up north to Edgewater. It was only a matter of several stops on the red line, but I couldn't do it. It would mean passing by the L station where I had my initial seizure, where everything began, and my life changed. I hadn't been there since the incident; I hadn't even returned to Chicago since.
That particular L stop has returned to me in different forms of daydreams or mental images. It came to me today, and thus the reason for writing this post. 
I am not sure how it appeared or what stirred the memory. I suddenly found myself between my apartment and Thorndale, the station just a few stops from the redline's northern terminus. When I find myself in these places of reflection, I like to stop and take it all in. In my opinion, letting the mind drift away on these moments of reverie is healthy and natural. I think we have misunderstood this notion of mindfulness. With all our apps and smartphone reminders telling us to "be here now!" we are struggling and even feel guilty for letting ourselves drift and be open to allowing our minds to enjoy their natural ability. Being fully conscious of where one's thoughts are and where they are going is very powerful. I became very aware of this while inpatient during my back-to-back stem cell transplants. My confinement within a sterile room for weeks, and being all but bedridden, would have proven far too significant an obstacle. Consequently, I allowed my mind to go — consciously permitting it to be like a balloon, one tethered to my hand but floating above, being pushed about by air currents, etc. 
Today, those currents took me back to Chicago, and I found myself between my apartment and the Thorndale L stop.
When looking back at one particular event from that day, I have to admit I feel lucky. I know how strange to say such a thing, and perhaps it isn't even the right word in this context. Though, to say I feel blessed conjures up far too much. I am thankful for my childhood and having been raised catholic. Having a spiritual-based upbring allowed me to explore religions as a whole - global religions, all of humankind's beliefs. However, blessed, even with etymological roots that far transcend those I associate it with, still conjures up notions that are so intrinsically linked to my upbringing that I can't put them aside.  
My mind brings me back, and I return to that day. I watch myself. I see myself there on the street full of children on their way to school and commuters heading to the L stop. I feel the late March sun on my face. I hear the traffic that stops and proceeds and stops and starts again as the lights rhythmically change. Where am I? I am across the street, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the road but in no real rush as the sun is far too gorgeous to be concerned about much of anything. No, I am watching myself from inside the cafe on the corner of Thorndale and Broadway. I am enjoying mug after mug of comforting dinner coffee served in thick-walled cups. Wait, I am a boy passing by, laughing with his friends as they rush off to school. We have postponed going, bewitched by the March sun; we have lost all fear of the repercussions we might pay for being late. I am in the car, stopped at the red light. I'm sitting, engine idling, whistling slightly off-pitch to a pop song on the radio I've never heard before. No, I am the businessman, elegantly dressed, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other, ready for the day. 
I am watching myself. I have returned here a dozen times and taken on numerous roles. Each one fully aware of what is happening or, instead, what is going to happen. Standing across the street preparing to cross, the man has forsaken the glorious sun to watch me instead. The man in the cafe stands up to observe. Usually, he stops for nothing, especially on his morning commute, the businessman halts midstride. The boy, who has forsaken the bell and the consequences of his tardiness, stands still. The man in the car doesn't care about the line of cars behind him; he follows my every step.
It's horrible to watch; it sickens us, turns our stomachs. It never gets easier. We are witnessing ourselves in a place of such fear. We know now what is happening. It has happened so many times since. Then, however, it is the first time, and each embodiment feels it. We cringe as our body stiffens into such an unnatural and horrific form. As our physical self contorts and breaks and releases some ungodly howl. And when we fall, when our body cannot hold itself, we recoil at the sight as our beings' weight hits the ground so hard we bruise our very bones. But even as each one of us wants to look away or even wretch at the site, we say, "thank you." It isn't for the years of pain that will follow, of absolutely not! It is because we now understand what could have been - what very well could have been - if we made it to the station, up the stairs, and to the platform. 
The Thorndale red line stop is narrow; a few adults could link arms and span its width. 
On that horrific day, I was roughly a hundred steps from this station: a hundred paces and a short flight of stairs stood between me and the platform. I can't help but wonder. I cannot help it! Perhaps it was the crosswalk that impeded my journey? Did I have to wait that long for it? Maybe a rambunctious school child, delirious from the fresh air, bumped into me that slowed me down? Or that businessman, walking with beeline precision, forced me to sidestep. Or... or what? 
But I didn't make it to the station; I didn't make it up the stairs or the platform. Had I, what then? Had I had a seizure on the platform, would the tracks have swallowed me up? Would I have fallen inwards towards the center of the narrow platform, towards safety? Or outward... outward and downwards; downwards into the train's path or onto the tracks housing 600v of electricity? 
But I didn't, I didn't make it to the station; up the stairs or to the platform.
During the same trip, I did manage to go up to Edgewater. I prepared myself for the stop at Thorndale. I was white-knuckling the seat, only realizing how intense I must have looked when I met another passenger's gaze. However, the L will often run trains express, bypassing several stations. The train I was riding ran express from Berwyn to Granville, one-stop farther north than Thorndale, thus avoiding it altogether.
I took a Lyft back to Lincoln Park. I wasn't ready. I had every intention to take the red line south but exited the Granville station.  
Maybe I'll never be prepared to return there, to this particular stop. Or, if I do, Jose and I will grab paninis and tea at the cafe and enjoy them on the platform. Maybe we'll sit in silence. Or perhaps we'll talk about the things for which we each feel blessed. 
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cyclicallife · 4 years
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Perhaps this is survivor’s guilt.
Our situations were identical in almost every way. 
He was diagnosed with testicular cancer. His staging was the same staging as mine. He too experienced a recurrence that presented as a brain lesion and opted for a stem cell transplant. 
This is where our paths split apart. Shortly after his high dose chemo treatment commenced, prepping his body for the transplant, he became increasingly confused and disoriented. After sets of scans were performed it became evident that, though the heavy rounds of treatment were well underway, several more lesions had presented themselves in his brain. The decision was made to stop treatment and return home, enter hospice care, and be around loved ones. Shortly after this decision was made he passed away. 
Even in writing this, I don’t know where to begin opening up my emotional state regarding his journey and mine and where they veered off, where they split from one another. I shudder thinking about the fact that my lesions could have multiplied, too. Or, for that matter, that the one that did present itself could have been in such an area that it was deemed inoperable leaving me with more complications than just a stroke and a paralyzed arm. (“just a stroke...”) What damage could my tumor have caused had it been slightly to the left, to the right, etc? Was I naive to postpone my 2nd round of salvage chemo and head out to visit Dr. Einhorn in Indianapolis to get a second opinion? Was this delay dangerous in such a way that… it’s too much to think about. 
These questions haunt me. They wake me in the middle of the night. Even more so is one that I just can’t escape asking over and over, why am I here and he isn’t? Why am I alive and he … and he isn’t? 
I never understood survivors’ guilt. I had heard about it, but never truly understood it. Yes, on a larger scheme, anyone who survives cancer thinks about all those that haven’t and, in one way or another, has that feeling. In most cases, guilt might be too harsh but with this particular scenario, it is so apt. 
I try to loop my posts back around. With my lasts sentences or so I always seek to return to the overall idea. Is this good writing? I’m not sure. I do so in order not to lose anyone along the way. My writing tends to drift a little far out, so bringing things full circle will hopefully lead people to say, “oh, now I understand why he wrote…”  however, with this post and the subject matter herein, I can’t. How do I bring this back around? What closing line or thought can I inject here? Nothing can sum this up or deliver in any way on one’s need for coherency as none of this makes sense... 
Perhaps this is survivor’s guilt. Maybe it isn’t so much about feeling remorse for those that have passed at the hand of this insidious disease, but rather the inability to make sense of it, to articulate it to ourselves and others. As with this post, I want to desperately bring it back around so it feels complete so that there is some sort of understanding so as to accept the madness of this life and the injustices that rear their heads. But I can’t. Everything is left hanging, nothing but loose ends, dangling strands that I just keep tugging at…   
Be well on your journey Alex June 13, 1994 ~ June 30, 2020 (age 26)
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