I’m writing to you from the hospital where I’m experiencing round three of a five day chemo regimen with Epirubicin and Ifosfomide to mop up any remaining sarcoma cells that could be loitering at the surgery site or planning scouting expeditions to new organs.

There are so many metaphors that describe battling cancer, killing the beast, winning the war. I feel differently about my relationship to cancer. I don’t feel it is some alien monster attacking me. I feel it is some living tissue that has arisen from my cells. For various reasons it has left the path of normal development growth and death and veered off on a quest for immortality. It is my own personal monster, or wayward child, or unwelcome relative. I, however, need it to die or at least stay very tiny, so I can live my full life span and gracefully accept my own mortality when the time comes.

The cancer is like some brilliant mad scientist off on streak mutating and reinventing itself to become the ultimate survivor, never considering that we are one, and if it kills me off, it too will die. We need to develop some kind of cohabitation agreement for our mutual benefit. I don’t know if this is possible and I don’t know how it is done.  I’m working to come up with words that fit how I feel about chemotherapy.

I’m curious about the experience of those who have lived a long time with cancer as a companion. How would you describe your relationship to your cancer? What metaphors work for you? How has your relationship shifted over time?

I’m certainly hoping that the scans I will have in a couple of months will show no evidence of disease. I also know that we all harbor cancer cells.  What it is keeps them relatively dormant and what causes the to go off on a wild rampage, or a slow inexorible march remains a mystery.

It is easier to be in the hospital than to anticipate being here. A couple days before I came in I had mild nightmares about some of the hospital procedures. The reality is unpleasant but familiar. Yes, I’m in captivity again, so I try to turn manuevering the IV pole into a dance. I’m learning not to drag it behind me or it will run into my ankles. Yes, it hurts when the fang needles punch through my skin and into my dual lumen port, but the pain is brief and the port allows the chemo to be given to me safely and I avoid all the other sticks in the middle of the night. The thing I miss most is the ability to walk outside, but as chemo fatigue kicks in, my desire to roam lessens. For all it’s bustle, the hospital is a sad place. It is hard to witness the unrelieved suffering of some of my fellow captives.  Outside,  it seems that all creation is busy mating, blooming and budding now. I find myself wanting to join in. I passed a tall attractive bald man tethered to an IV pole in the hospital corridor today and we both smiled.

Last, it is gratifying to see that the Cancer Help Program fundaraising is off to such a great start. You can learn more about it and make a  donation to sponsor me to walk in the Marin Human Race at: http://marinhumanrace.org/goto/terrimason