Is the worst for everyone involved, but it beats being apart. Because the sleep I get here on my trusty little cot is so uncomfortable, I do less of it. Way less. And my brain chooses to operate at well above its normal 8% max. Just call me #Limitless. All of that action going on up there you would think something of value would emerge. Nah. That’s way too easy. Instead I’m only allowed to ask one question.
How do I stop people from dying from cancer?
Heavy, right? I know, but that’s it. That is all I’m allowed to think about (that and the plot of True Detective 2 – what are they doing with that show?!). I Mull over. I Agonize. Just that one question. And it truly haunts me. Colorado was wonderful and I am beyond thankful for the experience, the break, the escape, the people, the memories…the weather. Please don’t take where this is going as unappreciative. But, man, it didn’t solve my problem. Our problem. You know, the global pandemic. Yes, Our problem.
I know in my conscious brain that cancer is a plague on all of our houses, but it feels increasingly singular as time goes by. We’re so quickly approaching the anniversary of Trent’s accident and diagnosis (Aug. 10, for those keeping track) and I only ask my questions about this disease in one way:
What can I do?
How can I help?
How can I do more?
How can I be effective in this thing?
How can I solve this?
Where can I find a cure?
I am ineffectual at best and borderline helpless. I feel like I’m in the neighborhood of a great thought but for the life of me, and my husband, I cannot remember the address. And when I take a chance – ding ding – hello? Hello? Are you there? Nope. No answer. Cool. And this happens, over and over again. Torture. Just like reading this must be for you. Torture.
See? One basic question. Really only one. But no focus. Just tangents and no progress.
I know. I’ll pray. Please don’t tell me to. And I’ll be patient. And I’ll think positive. And I’ll keep smiling. And I’ll stay strong. And I’ll cry when I need to. And I’ll talk to somebody. And I’ll make time for myself. And I’ll get some rest. And I’ll exercise. And I’ll do yoga. And I’ll breathe deeply.
But not one of those things will give us a cure for cancer. If you’re motivated by this at all, help. Like, the BIG help. I want to do more. I want this to be more. But I think I can’t do it alone. There, I said it. I cannot come up with the cure for cancer alone. I’m so glad I got that off of my chest.
Now, what are WE going to DO about it?
*Trent is resting relatively comfortably now, between the nurse checks and medication every 2 hours or so. He’s been very very quiet this round – so take that for what it is. He’s normally a very animated talker. So, we’ll say this, it’s August 5 and chemo still sucks.
**The author would like to make you aware of the fact that she is running on less than optimal sleep and there is no need to Google phrases like “cancer psychosis” or “survivor’s guilt” or “what to do when your friend is rambling nuttily in her cancer blog at 4am” or even “True Detective 2 (it’s too late and that thing is beyond
saving).” She will be fine. However, she has requested that you give the aforementioned piece of writing some serious thought and get back to her with your ideas, as long as they don’t include anything included in paragraph 7. That’s just not helpful right now.
***Last freaking set of stars. I promise.
For those of you riddled with caregiver angst or even if you’re “looking for a friend” I found a great website tonight to help with some of the crap. The Caregivers Space seems to be a pretty good spot to work some stuff out, and it’s not just for us crazy cancer kids. It’s for all who care.
Posted by Adrienne Gibson
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2 thoughts on “Hospital Sleep aka How to Solve This Pesky Cancer Problem”
I appreciate hearing what is bouncing around in your head, Adrienne. It makes the miles not seem so far apart. I don’t have any answers either but I know there is a lot of very smart people who have dedicated their lives to finding those answers. I saw an episode of Star Trek the other day where the medical staff cur d cancer in a person like injecting an antibiotic into an infection. Lickety split it was gone. And I thought, “that’s how it will be…someday”. I pray for Trent’s comets healing and for your strength, for the kids and your mom. It’s all I have for now. The Great Healer hears my prayers but works in His own wise time. So while we wait, we praise Him and we wait, we believe, we cry, we love one another, and we wait. I love you and my son with all my heart and wish I lived closer so that I could physically hug and hold you both. ~Mom
I really need to proofread before sending. *comet should be complete.