Walking Softly Toward Eternity's Woods

 Entry 1    9:12 a.m.

"Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made."

    -Edgar Allen Poe, The Masque of the Red Death

Last night in therapy, we talked death. We talked life. We talked cancer. We talked and we talked. Jenny cried. It was an entire session dedicated to this topic or these topics. It was not intentional or planned, but because I brought it up at the beginning of the session. 

Jenny, as my last entry noted, was despondent for a time yesterday, suffering from uncontrolled pain.  She expressed her desire to stop treatment.  It's a regular occurrence, but hard for me. It isn't time to contemplate that, and I know she doesn't mean it. I also know that should or when she arrives at that point, I will support whatever decision she makes. 

In the interim, I struggle with how to deal with these declarations. My tactic is to say nothing and comfort her. It isn't performative, she really feels in that moment she is at the end of her rope. I know that she isn't. Arguing with her serves no purpose. My consistent practice, since the start of this journey, has been to remind her that the suffering shall pass and that she shouldn't make any decisions for a few

days after chemo.  I said the same last night in therapy. By this time, Jenny had been directed to take a higher dose of pain meds, and with pain controlled, her attitude improved. But when she is in that dark place of hopelessness, I no longer believe reminding her that this will pass is my role for a couple reasons. First, invariably, when she emerges from the darkness she tells me she talked to Amy, her bff, who is a cancer survivor. Amy tells her the same thing I do, to wait a couple days before making any decision. So, if she doesn't listen to me or can't hear me say this to her, and she is getting it elsewhere, what is the point. Secondly, I think that offering comfort is more effective than trying to have a rational discussion. The pain center in the brain is incredibly powerful and in the moment, the best thing to do is offer my arms to hug, or a shoulder on which to cry.

The conversation was hard. When Jenny talked about wanting to live 7 years, the longest that a patient of Dr. P has ever survived, I reminded her that Dr. B said that he has not seen people with a large mass on the pancreas and mets on the liver survive for long. Jenny than acknowledged that Johns Hopkins, MD Anderson, Sloan Kettering, Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, the UW Liver Tumor Clinic all said they could offer no help. 

I would rather be living in the world of the Tell Tale Heart or A Cask of Amontillado, then living with this real world horror story.

Entry 2    11:04 p.m.

 “When we die we hug the living to us as we never did,

 We notice . . . their quick eyes

That slide away, seeing more than they intended.”

    -Paul Zweig, "Eternity's Woods"

Many of the things Jenny is doing as she fights this cancer are entirely commonplace for cancer patients facing a terminal illness. She is clinging to a rock against the tide, and occasionally finding enough purchase to scramble up to its top and see the vast horizon. But standing there for long, exposed to the elements, isn't advisable given the rough seas.  So, she slides back down, spending most of her time keeping her head just above sea level, the waves appearing taller than the sky.

Jenny feels better today, sans additional painkiller. She is back to her new normal, no longer looking for an early departure. So, she is out socializing. She met with a friend for a walk this morning, was home briefly, only to leave to see another friend. She feeds off these relationships, more now than ever. Meanwhile, I am playing J. D. Salinger in my home, praying no one calls or stops by.

Last night, as we discussed death and dying, we talked about a friend whose husband died of pancreatic cancer, just before Jenny was diagnosed. She has told both of us that she knew before he did that he had taken a turn. She believes that this is common.  He was a doctor, she is a therapist. I tend to think she may know something about this. I talked about my dread of seeing that, of bearing that information. Jenny asked me to tell her, should I believe she is dying.  I don't know if I can do that?  What if I am wrong? What if I am right? 

The best news of this week is that Jenny and I fully discussed these things, and I am clear that while she slips back to unbridled optimism at times, she understands the course of the disease.  She thinks she can survive 7 years. I hope she doesn't probe Dr. P. to find out the specifics of that person who survived 7 years.