Calmness

I have been calm about my diagnosis of cancer. I have told friends and family matter-of-factly of the diagnosis and the upcoming hysterectomy, and cracked a few jokes. Most of the people around me have been more upset about it than I have been. What bothers me is that I don’t know why I am taking this so calmly.

Shouldn’t I be more worried? More agitated? Shouldn’t I have cried some or kicked a wall? If I had kicked a wall, I would probably have cancer and a broken toe, but I would have released some emotion.

As I have said, this past year has been a lousy one. It is just over a year since I woke up next to the cooling body of Bernie, the man that I loved and lived with for 20 years. I took that relatively calmly, too.

This is not to say that I did not mourn. I mourned and grieved, but I got things done and cried surprisingly little. I chalked this plaid reaction up to the precarious health that Bernie had been in for many years. For about half of the time we were together, he was on dialysis. Three times a week, he would go to be attached to a machine and have his blood cleaned.

Not every time, but often enough, after I kissed him goodbye and he walked out the door to a treatment, I would think of all the things that could go wrong. Being hooked up to a dialysis machine is very safe, but there are several things that can go wrong, an air embolus or a chemical imbalance or a break in one of the tubes. And he might not come home. Bernie and I also spoke often about the fact that he would probably die years before I did. He was the world’s worst pessimist and, of course, he had to be right about that.

So, I was quite used to the idea that he could die at any time. This is why I believe that I took his rather sudden death as calmly as I did. He was also woefully unhappy in his last few years. Years of dialysis and immunosuppressive drugs had taken their toll. He was depressed and in pain a great deal. His death was a great relief for him. It was also a relief for me.

A few weeks after Bernie died, I had to put our dog down.

Petie was a pit bull with a serious aggressions problem, not a good mix. We had had her since she was 6 weeks old. We trained her, worked with her, medicated her, but she was unpredictable and had come out of a litter with serious behavioral problems. Experts, including professional dog trainers and my vet, had told me that Petie was a disaster waiting to happen. She bit me several times and bit Bernie once on the face, but he loved her and would not hear about putting her down despite the danger. Her aggression problems escalated after Bernie died and I reached the painful decision to have her euthanized. I shed a few tears, but remained calm.

I went through the whole annoying eye problem calmly.

Several people have commented on how brave I am. I think I am just calm.
Bravery implies that I have a choice. So far, I have had few choices. The best treatment for what I have is a total hysterectomy, so I will be having that done. I don’t think I am brave. As Bernie used to say when people called him brave for dealing with his kidney disease, “If I thought being a craven coward would help, I would do it.”

My question is: When will I stop being calm and what will happen to me then?

The only cracks in my calmness come in sleep. I normally rarely remember my dreams, but twice in the last two weeks, I have had what can only be seen as anxiety dreams. These are dreams where I am prevented from getting somewhere or getting something done. Maybe this is a good outlet for feelings that are not coming out any other way.

Today, I banked a second and final pint of blood. I went down to the New York Blood Center, which is a pleasant place to donate blood. They tried putting the needle into the same vein as they used last Thursday. At first, the stick just hurt more than usual, but was bearable. I mentioned the discomfort and the technician moved the needle slightly. She must have hit a nerve or something. I screamed and hit the ceiling. She immediately pulled out the needle and called over another tech to stick me in my other arm.

I have donated well over a gallon of blood over the years and I may have reached two gallons. I was even an on-call blood donor for a few years and was called in when they needed B+ blood. So I know what it should feel like, and this was certainly not it. The second stick went much easier and everything went well. I sat and had orange juice and a cup of coffee afterward.

Years ago, when I lived in New Jersey, I donated blood once or twice at the American Red Cross center in Montclair. Montclair then was simply full of elderly white- or blue-haired ladies who spent hours volunteering at places like the Red Cross. At the Montclair center, you would donate blood, and then this 92-pound lady would walk you to a table and offer you tea sandwiches, little triangles with the crusts cut off and filled with ham salad or tuna. They would get you a cup of coffee or tea and coo over you and tell you how wonderful you were to donate blood. The New York Blood Center was wonderful and had a nice array of little packets of Nabisco cookies and excellent coffee, but it doesn’t compare.

Tomorrow, I turn my attention back to my eye. I have a follow-up visit with the radiologist. Wednesday, I start a clear diet for the colonoscopy and see the cardiologist. Thursday, I have the colonoscopy.