Twenty Flight Rock

"So I walked one, two flight, three flight, four. Five, six, seven flight, eight flight more" -- Eddie Cochran. Hospital Journal

As of this writing, I have had seven blood transfusions over five months. Since I have been home for over a week, I was called back to Kaiser for another transfusion. Before each transfusion, I have felt wonderful, yet the blood tests showed my Hemoglobin dropping below a certain threshold, and therefore, if in the hospital, the new bag of blood shows up, or if at home in my secure place of mind, I’m sent back out into the world of the hospital.

I’m placed in a ward where many people are getting their chemo for one or two hours. In my case, I had full-on chemotherapy twenty-four hours a day for five straight days, which in theory sounds intense, yet my system seemed to take it like having a glass of water. Which is odd, because chemo is basically poison poured into my body. The majority of patients have a horrid time with their chemo sessions, but for me, I’m reading a John le Carré novel with my legs crossed, drinking apple juice in a pure happy place of mind. I have been told by others about their wretched experiences of pain and nausea, and it makes me feel guilty that my relationship with chemo was like honey placed on sourdough toasted bread.

Psychologically, I do have issues while at home, and that is leaving the house through my twenty-step process that leads to the pavement below. I can walk down the stairs with assistance, but going up the stairs is very difficult for me. There is the feeling in my head that once I’m down the staircase, I will never be able to come back home. I will be stuck outside the house. This fear is based on falling twice on the staircase and on what, at the time, seemed impossible: removing my body from the cement steps. Besides the humiliation and physical discomfort, I somehow managed to crawl up the stairs and back into the living room.

People have consistently brought up the idea of me being outside the house and traveling again, but the truth is, I have no desire to leave the house. The rare times I’m in a car and see my neighborhood, where I used to walk every day, it means almost nothing to me now. My goal is not to travel through the United States or Europe or Asia, but simply to have the strength to come home from the pavement below.

I understand that my presence in this state of mind is perhaps not the healthiest, but when I’m at home, among books, music, and the endless stream of cinema, I really don’t have the passion or urge to physically visit the outside world. Going out into the world also means being concerned about other people’s staircases, chairs that are too low, and even problematic toilet seats. There is no guarantee that if I go to a restaurant, their physical seating or booths won’t become an issue for me. A Pandora’s box of fear and hesitancy opens wider each time I think about leaving my world behind.

The truth is, I have to overcome my mental issues in a manner that may be even more difficult than overcoming the cancer itself. But I will succeed. I will get my strength back and my brain together again.