The final phase of my cancer treatments, I was told, was the toughest part of the process, since I'd be clobbered for several weeks after they were completed by the cumulative effects of two chemo weeks (mouth sores, nausea, creepy smell and taste sensations, exhaustion) and 30 days of radiation on the whole pelvic area (second degree burns, burning urination, bowel craziness, more exhaustion). On July 18th, with two radiation hits left, I tottered into the cancer center dehydrated, shaking, with white and red blood cells tanking, and in considerable pain. My radiology oncologist kicked me into the hospital, where I was gratefully incarcerated for the next five days, cared for by Michael and teams of angel nurses.
On the first night, however, I had a strange visit. My younger sister Ginny, who is a nun, appeared at my bedside in full habit. (This was peculiar since her convent is in Maryland and I wasn't expecting a visit.) She quietly explained that I had been recruited for a clinical trial. "You're going to be sent to a secret location in the woods and assigned to one of three teams. Team three has fairly healthy patients, team two less so, and team one is made up of totally disabled people." She went on dispassionately to describe the study methods: "Wolves come out of the woods and attack team three first and tear them apart. The survivors then run to team two, who are then also attacked by the wolves. Those survivors then join team one, and the wolves follow to rip everyone up." I was slightly puzzled about what outcomes were being measured, but Ginny left before letting me know what they were or what team I had been assigned to.
Somewhat later, in the middle of the night, a siren went off and a loudspeaker bellowed, "Team three, report to Level 5. Team three, report to Level 5." Still not knowing what team I was on, I tried to get out of the bed, but was unable to move. "I guess I’m on team 1," I thought.
A nurse then came into the room, looking competent and normal, and I asked her where I was. "St. Peter's Hospital," she said.
I turned my head and looked out the window. It was daylight and the view was not a dense forest full of beasts but the neighboring medical building: homely, solid, and comforting. "Oh." I turned to her. "I think I was hallucinating."
I described the wolf attack, and she wrote on my chart. "NO MORPHINE! ALLERGIC!!!"
At no point during the hallucination was I frightened—more like catatonic. In the days following, however, the experience peeled back my mental kingdom where I am the ruling control freak and revealed a bleak wilderness, in which vicious beasts, unrelenting and unbeatable, inflicted suffering and death. I was thrown into an emotional darkness and, while depression is almost universal among cancer patients, I had not anticipated this intense hopelessness.
After my diagnosis, I had the arrogant intention of transforming the whole cancer process, including any pain and the prospect of death, into a spiritual journey fueled by decades of random Buddhism-made-easy books, various yoga and meditation teachers, a few lectures by popular on-line gurus, and a lot of inspiring science fiction. But I hadn't counted on the wolves. My Catholic sister Sister had described a horrific vision and then walked away, taking her faith with her. No nice meditative respite, no tunnel of light, no pleasant Jesus or Buddha mitigated the desolation I experienced from this morphine-induced grim "study".
Fortunately, as the treatment effects receded so did the bleak despair, and slowly the warmth from my wonderful husband, family, and friends and a vivid appreciation of ordinary moments shooed the wolves back into their lairs. (Full confession, many shallow pleasures—watching favorite comedies from the 80s and 90s, playing video adventure games with my younger son, and keeping up with Marvel series—were also excellent guards against the encroaching beasts.)
There's a custom among many cancer centers around the country to ring a bell when a cancer patient finishes treatments. Sometimes they read a poem placed near the bell. Everyone applauds and congratulates the lucky cancer parolee. This practice has its fans and also its opponents, typically those with metastatic disease who sit in the chemo unit while the bells ring, knowing they will most likely never experience the end of their treatments.
Bell ringing also reminds me of George Bush's banner "Mission Accomplished" after bombarding Iraq, which was then succeeded by years of war, still ongoing. Cancer treatments are the gauntlet through which we trudge as part of our path through the dark woods. When they end, we are not necessarily out of reach of the beasts. Celebrating a single milestone trivializes cancer's emotional and physical outreach, which, whether it's metastatic or not, often exists for many patients as a continuous underground river of anxiety for the rest of their lives.
I'm most grateful that St. Peter's, my cancer center, did not ring a bell when I had my last radiation hit. I got hugs from my wonderful nurses and I hobbled home to face the next six weeks of nasty healing. My scan in October will reveal whether tumors still lurk in the corners of my pelvis or, worse, have slipped their leash and gone hunting through my body's wilderness. But at this moment, I welcome each autumn day and remain in awe of the kindness of my family, friends, the hospital staff, and many random strangers. The bells should toll for them.
