Chemo terrain. That’s how I describe it. I’m not complaining, just describing the landscape. Imagine the move The Martian. You’re with your crew and focused. Then they leave and you’re left in an alien world, but communicating with them and on an entirely different diet of survival in what seems like a barren planet—your soul isolated in your body.
The world has taken off without me.
So there I am in a different gravity. I’m down on this dry dust of chemicals and trying to get up, and this heavy syrupy atmosphere is pressing down on me, sometimes slowing my movements, making my legs heavier and my feet are sinking into the ground and the soil dresses against it and squeezes, making them throb and ache. Then my inside churn and feel like a combination of gas, constipation, and indigestions. This isn’t all the time, but it comes in unwanted waves. The crotch feels pressurized and gurgling pangs, then aches, as if you suddenly have to go the bathroom immediately (but I don’t have to),. And sometimes this is counter-punched by a clenching vertigo in my head, as if you stand up too quickly and lose your balance. I c n feel every little vibration of coldness in the air in the evening or early morning, and my fingertips burn with a sharpening numbness and piercing electric splinters.
Then someone asks me, “How are you?”
“I’m fine, no complaints.”
My body and cancer are in a slurry being digested by the chemowirl . Somehow this is healing. I can only hope cancer is experiencing this on a higher level
I’m grateful I have an alternative,
Yeah, they call these side effects: so is walking into a revolving propeller blade.