Everyone says to me that I don’t look like I have cancer. But I do have cancer. And there are days when I feel like I have all the cancer in the world. Today because of some screwup, I had been out of my pain medication for close to 48 hours. I take opioids daily to function and to have pain relief from the red ants crawling around my ant farm bones, biting my insides where you can’t see me.
I also take opioids to relive my abdominal cramping and pain from a continual battle with ascitic fluid in my abdomen, which I’m having drained again Tuesday morning and was supposed to have labs for today at Good Samaritan hospital, but I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t get to my palliative oncologists appointment either. My plan was 1. appointment and 2. blood draw, 3. then home. However, I came to find myself locked in a week long pharmacy-doctors office-nurse-communication struggle to receive these certain classifications of medication. I hope you never have to know the pain and suffering of metastatic cancer and the withdrawals associated with 48 hours of being out of your opiate based medication.
My beautiful angel friend and neighbor of 10 years had to see me like this today. I had to interrupt her busy day for this errand to get my medication. And she’s a terrific single mom of a terrific kid who I’ve seen grow up into a fine, happy, helpful and wonderful adolescent after 10 years. But to me he’s still the infectious giggling little boy. Only due to her being an awesome mom.
Yet today I know I scared her. I gave her my wallet and called Walgreens and she was visibly nervous. This is an ugly troublesome facet of my disease and a side reserved for my private hell. I do not even let Craig see me this way. Simon, seen here giving his mommy mouth to snout resuscitation, and love and kisses and trying to wake me up to feed him which I must go do, is the only one who sees me like this.
But I’ve decided to share with you the ugly side of metastatic cancer. The painful side. So, based on my no bullshit blog policy, I’m sharing selfies so that next time perhaps you’ll refrain from wanting to say to anyone with metastatic cancer, “you don’t look like you have cancer.”