How to Move with Metastatic Cancer (hint: HELP!)

How do you handle huge life events with metastatic cancer? As best as you can and with slow determination. Asking for assistance from your friends and from your family sometimes doesn’t pan out. I have a wonderful friend I made years ago at a garage sale. She was a couple of dollars short and I’d covered her so she could enjoy a few vintage ceramics and beads.

Now, six years later Des is my friend and Des is my housekeeper. Through the course of time we’d found commonality in our eclectic eye for beads and for jewelry making. We drudged through the stress of packing, readying this memory box of 1600 square feet to move its contents elsewhere. We actually live in a pretty nice townhouse. If you’d like to check out my amateur “staging” here’s the link to the sales materials including a 3-D rendering and a video. http://www.1481carrington.com/

Removing the traces of 11 years of memories as eclectic and varied as the beads I collect brings about a sort of melancholy to my heart. Des came over to help me pack as we sell our townhouse. She also refuses to take a dime because what once were services have shifted into the kindness of a friendship. She commented that I’d give the shirt off my back, which I literally have done several times in my life. She said she couldn’t possibly take money from me when clearly I was the one who needed help right now.

My husband made sure she got paid for it, since she cannot afford the time and I cannot afford the intense guilt. I’ve never needed so much physical assistance before. I guess I’ll chalk it up to age and leave the cancer for another time. But I can’t, because it’s for the cancer we are moving and due to the cancer that I need help.

All the kindness I have shown her was reflected back at me in ways I never imagined. When we give it should never hold the expectation that we may receive something in return. But as my philosophy about karma is not to do bad in the world as it keeps you looking over your shoulder at whose anger is behind you. Then you cannot see the good that’s right in front of you and you either miss these opportunities or trip over them and fall on your face.

A change of residence is very high on the stress scale https://www.stress.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/stress-inventory-1.pd

My stress adds up to just under having a 50% chance over the next two years of having a catastrophic health event. I think I’m already there so I’ve beaten the stress scale by four and a half years. But looking back I had a very low level of stress in my life in the years leading up to my diagnosis, so go figure. Perhaps the subconscious predicts stressors before they arrive to eat us alive. I was planning a change of career and the very day – March 15, 2015 – was the same day I was diagnosed in the hospital and the day I was supposed to start a new job.

You Oughta Be in Pictures!

The house really shows well – I’ll have it even more staged for our open house on Sunday. There is so much work to do after living a full life for 11 years in a home. And our home has been really good to us. I’m grateful to it for giving us positive memories, but it’s time to close this chapter in our lives and move onto the next chapter .

I know intrinsically that this house will be wonderful to whomever buys her next. It’s stable and so well cared for and we feel bittersweet selling her but we leave it with good love and positive energy. After searching for our new digs, I believe you can tell if people who lived in a house were happy and if it looks like a product of divorce or ugliness. Not so here!

The Zombie Apocalypse

In the state of California, if someone died in a house in the three years prior to selling it you must disclose that event to the buyers? I found it morbid and kind of strange. our culture’s obsession with first person shooter games, zombies, and horror films directly opposes the feelings of disgust when faced with real death or the dying. I’d think people would be desensitized to death rather than creeped out by it.

It’s a huge decision to invest into a house. Love, time, energy, money and holiday spirit, all paint it the colors of the personalities who reside inside. Our next home will likely be my last move, my last address, the last place my name will be printed on mail and arrive in my mailbox. Maybe the quote about dying twice – once when your physical body dies and the last time someone says your name aloud – should be corrected to dying three times if we include the last time your name is printed on junk mail. I bet junk mail lists last a lot longer than even the youngest people who might speak of me later given the tenacity of mass marketers.

Oh, and I’ll submit this: if the last time you posthumously receive a piece of junk mail addressed to you is the last whisper of your name what does that say about our culture when we cannot even control having our online avatars removed from Facebook and Twitter. If that’s all true, then we’re all going to live forever. A planet of the walking dead carrying sacks of marketing materials for the Red Cross and coupons for barbecue. The zombie apocalypse is upon us.

Canferatu VS The Depression Devil

One night last week Canferatu possessed my intestinal tract. The inhuman noises growled low and deep, as surely once awake, I’d look in the bathroom mirror to find I’d become vampiric, zombified, even bloodless. Only the undead, at least in movies, moan as though they’ve contracted a case of projectile diarrhea. Further proof of my dance with the devil’s own son, the sounds indicated subsequent sharply intense pain each time the idea or slightest notion of eating or drinking entered my mind. I never knew 25 feet of tubing could sound so evil.

Why the thunder from down under? Invariably, this abdominal symphony of the undead crescendoed every single time the husband became angry with me or yelled. It’s decibel rating increased to 11 on a scale of 1 – 10, somewhat like Nigel Tufnel’s guitar amp goes to 11 in “Spinal Tap.”

Some days Craig’s monster depression devil slips an itchy gray Soviet-issued wool military sweater onto his already uncomfortable skin. Its on those occasions when to simply “touch” my husband could bring on a fight to the death between Canferatu and Depression Devil. What this all means is I will not be touched by anyone more than the occasional friendly hug for days, weeks, or in worse times, months on end.

Yes, relationships can wither and possibly die without physical intimacy. Every book, every psychiatrist or psychologist, and anybody who has been married will agree that the three ingredients that keep a relationship together are friendship, trust, and sex. All three elements have to be in place although sometimes not in equal parts. It’s even more frustrating because we used to have an amazing relationship. Since his depression hit hard, he rarely talks to me about anything substantial, we don’t go out alone together, and we certainly don’t have sex but once in a while. Oh but he does yell at me. That’s so comforting…to know I’ll get yelled at…

Detrimental to my health, a lack of physical intimacy can decrease my lifespan, and is scientifically proven to increase my rate of mortality by 50%. (I don’t know if it’s 50% but seems good enough number to plug in for the purpose of this blog post.) It also bothers me that instead of reading a book on depression or cancer he’s solving his past marriage psychological fallout and is reading, “Walking on Eggshells,” a book I gave him a number of years ago. It’s an excellent resource to help people who have had any sort of relationship with these inhumane, vampiric assholes who suffer from borderline personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. And he leaves the book out to annoy the living shit out of me. Actually, I know it’s not purposely left around to eat away at my cellular structure, but it certainly feels that way sometimes.

Anyone can get lured into relationships with these soul suckers. As long as you’re a good source for what they want and don’t have any needs of your own, they will pretend to love you. But never call them on a lie, a trick, or their own self aggrandizement. You’ll be sorry. I was made to suffer at the ugliness of my mother’s NPD symptoms, and I suppose that’s why I’m immediately sensitive to feeling my love being yo-yo’d by my husband’s depression fallout.

Feeling nauseous and in a tremendous amount of pain this past week, my mood shall we say, just hasn’t been at it’s perky best. I’m becoming very wary of the situation as it stands. Oh, there are good days. Today wasn’t a good day since Canferatu decided to do horrible painful things to my left leg and I ran out of actual ability to stand up anymore. After our dinner guests left about 11:00 pm, my body was simply too exhausted to get out of bed at all. I slept until 9 last evening and will reset my circadian clock and sleep at a normal hour tonight; I’m feeling a little better and sometimes, less is more.

Hey, many thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next installment of my adventures with Canferatu.

Op-Ed: Regarding Cancer and Making Personal Connections

My dear friends,

I’ve received so many amazing letters from people who read my blog or found me through another online channel like my Etsy shop, YeuxDeux Vintage, or on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook. They read about my diagnosis and my current life and find common ground, and I’m honored to communicate with people who were touched enough by my life to personally reach out. I appreciate their candor and I am especially humbled by the emotional outpourings of some of the communications I receive. Unnecessarily, their email begins with an apology for a “stranger” so openly sharing their experiences with me. But are we really strangers?

It’s impossible for me to conceptualize the idea of a stranger. If you believe as I do that we are all made of the same “stuff” the universe is borne from, then we are all part of a single infinite family. I’m very much Jungian in my spiritual beliefs. On the other hand, my father, who studied Freudian psychoanalysis and was an atheist, never appreciated much about my spiritualistic tendencies. Jung’s theory of synchronicity certainly supports my belief that we meet people when the right time and space collide, however our acquaintance comes to fruition be it virtual or face to face.

I’ve learned that the people I meet virtually share my own philosophies and align with my experiences far more frequently than a smaller circle of people in my immediate geography. Makes sense mathematically – there’s nearly 8 billion of us globally and only a few hundred thousand around me. I have also decided to lay bare my personal life on my blog. As a part of the confessional nature of my writing, my pain and my emotional turmoil make my the most private inner world available to those who were heretofore unknown. Some with cancer, breast or metastatic or other forms, some care givers to those with diseases of the mind and the body, some creative writers, and some lives carry emotional similarities to mine.

Anyone who decides to engage with me receives a very dear gift in my response. My words are wrapped with care and a certain kind of love that’s unheard of where I currently reside. Still, I find isolation in my life with cancer.

For instance, last week I could not stop thinking about my mortality. How could I find a way not to ruminate as my three year diagnosis anniversary in my rear view mirror and oncology appointments and chemo and other therapies in the windshield looking at the unknown duration of my life on the road ahead of me. I snapped at my husband for his glaring lack of celebrating life’s time markers with me. He instead ignores them as a way of ignoring what I’m coping with primarily alone. In fact there is no more time left to avoid celebrating cancerversaries, birthdays, and anniversaries. He’s very good at disguising his sadness with annoyance, using my disease, my side effects, and and my cash flow as excuses. Such bullshit.

We are both aware of his avoidance. He has yet he to open his heart, to enable his true empathy, or allow my state of being to enter his consciousness… without relying on such lame excuses. I too wonder if the overwhelming amount of crap piled up between us is surmountable, and the task ahead staggers my mind. I wonder if we can ever find new footing on which we can look through the same windshield from the same vehicle to make this trip together. Yet he cannot completely get his mind to wrap around a tremendous daily uncertainty. It’s all too much for someone who thrives on order.

This may provide some insight as to why I’m happy to find the better part of my human condition and to find connectedness where and when it presents itself. I find peace with all that life’s delivered on my doorstep, whether or not I order it from the infinite universal catalogue of “Oh My God.” There’s so much complexity to a life, irrespective of whether one finds themselves with a cancer diagnosis. By the time we reach 50 the explosion of our entire life’s plan is the last thing we expect.

My plans got blown to bits but heart remains solid. So, keep those cards and letters coming my friends, keep them coming.

With love,
Ilene
Head Driver
The CancerBus

P.S. Sorry it’s been a while since my last post. My minds been occupied with heavy things and I’ve tried to pay better attention to my relationship to insure it’s survival. As my friends, I’m sure you understand.