I caught about half of The Martian on TV yesterday. It’s become one of my all-time favorite movies for many reasons (quasi-spoilers dead ahead). Chief among them are the way that science and math are made tangible, and risk/fear/problem-solving are personified in all the characters – not just in Mark Watney, the astronaut who gets left behind.
The first time I had chemo, I was nervous and filled with dread because I didn’t know what to expect. I had received a lot of helpful information, from doctors and from patients. But primarily, everyone said, “Here’s the long list of what might happen.” Now I’m approaching the halfway mark – treatment #3 – and I do have a decent idea of what’s in store … except … that I don’t.
This last time around – the second time I had chemo – I experienced slightly intensified versions of: nausea, fatigue, jitters, sleeplessness, fogginess, neuropathy, and deep body aches. I expect to feel: all of those things again to a greater, nth degree (where n represents I-have-no-idea-and-math-doesn’t-sufficiently-quantify-this-sort-of-thing).
I am also waiting for the moment when additional side effects blindside me, as is often the case during this process, represented by w. Little things have happened to me that are unusual but not necessarily attributable to chemo or cancer: I’ve had one nosebleed, and my skin and lips are just a little more dry than usual. However, it is winter in Boston and we’ve all gone through a prolonged blast of dry arctic temperatures. These possible non-side-effects would be … what? x? Giving us n + w – x?
So. Now it’s Tuesday, and this coming Friday, I have to report for my third infusion. The mix of known, probable, and unknown has settled into my gut and given me intestinal consternation – or, the Crohn’s has decided to chime in and protest because reasons. Therefore n + w – x … minus y?
There’s a z in there somewhere, but I’ve exhausted my hazy recollections of abstract math.
I do know, with certainty, that some part of what I’m experiencing right now is anxiety. I recognize the ever-so-slight, creepy-crawly feeling just under my skin, just beyond my conscious thoughts. If you don’t know what anxiety feels like, I’ll try to explain with words: one time in college, I went away for the weekend with a handful of friends in a small, rickety camper. When it was my turn to drive home, it was late at night, and almost everyone was asleep somewhere behind me. Two of my friends decided to talk in whispers, just loud enough so that I could recognize the sound of conversation. I couldn’t help but listen to that sound, over the unfamiliar creaks and squeaks of the camper, as we hurtled through the darkness.
That combination of sensations unnerved me to the point that my hands cramped on the steering wheel because I was holding on so tightly. That’s anxiety: when you know for certain that there’s something happening just outside the edges of your comprehension. It manifests as tightness in your body and a certain frantic knowledge in your mind: that all the tension will all be over sometime soon if you can just. get. through.
I’ll go back to The Martian to finish my thought. The last few scenes in the movie are understated and smart (definite spoilers ahead). Mark has been gored by equipment, blown up by his Macgyvered machinery, exposed to nuclear waste, and malnourished by potatoes planted in his own shit. His new job, post-rescue, is to lecture newbie astronauts on survival skills.
His simple advice is this, to paraphrase: that they will each have a moment where they know they’re going to die … and then they won’t … but they still might. That the trick to surmounting that yo-yo experience is, simply, to tackle problems one at a time, solving one at a time, before moving onto the next.
That’s where I am. I feel as if I’m marooned on another planet, struggling to survive until rescue, seizing on any and every small victory to make this process feel bearable. I scramble to find the language to explain how that feels, because none of this seems concrete. The safety/rescue/endpoint I’m yearning for – some variation of z – is not yet on my horizon. Still, I have to get through this whatever-it-is-and-will-be to reach my destination.
medicinal sausage 