In Which Carnita Fathoms Life With Cancer

Reader, I am attempting not to freak the fuck out about it. By "it" I mean the blood in my urine, the lack of tell-tale UTI pain, the odd twinge in my bladder, the occasional sharp abdominal pains, and the general similarity of all my symptoms and their patterns of occurrence to the descriptions I read online of urothelial carcinoma. I have not had much of a tendency towards hypochondriasis in my life thus far, and I have learned that my alarm instincts are fairly trustworthy, so I have no plans of ignoring what may become part of my reality in the near future. Nor do I think that I should.

Case in point: despite the fact that I chose to ignore the response, the hair on the back of my neck distinctly bristled the first time I met Damon. A knowing, cronish voice whispered from somewhere inside me, "Danger. Danger. Keep away." I will never ignore that voice again. It is distinctly different from the nasty, fearful little demon-child voice that warns me against taking risks and generally gets in my way. The former persona is welcome in the innermost sanctum of my consciousness, which I call the "throne room" in my personal mythology, whereas the latter almost always suffers a swift beheading at the hands of my guardian, the blue woman. Perhaps some day--or later tonight, since I am entirely restless?--I will devote an entire post to painting for you, reader, a picture of the city that represents my psyche and the inhabitants that reside there.

A similar voice to the mother-crone is now speaking to me, telling me to trust my understanding of my body. This means that if my urinalysis and STD tests come out clean, then I will not hesitate to demand a referral to a urologist, regardless of my inability to afford to see a specialist right now and despite my intense fear of having cameras, tubes, and needles inserted into my body.

I can't help but wander a little ways with my imagination down this path of possibility. What if I have cancer?

I have always suspected that if such a horribly frightening health problem arose for me, I might melt into a puddle of spineless, blubbering self-pity and despair. One gift that has come of the last twenty-four hours is the realization that this is not so. Mark my words: If I have cancer, I will live, and I will live strong and brave.

Perhaps it would be best to cut this part short so as to keep speculation to a minimum. I haven't even seen a doctor yet; my OB-GYN appointment is nearly three days away, and the lab results further still from any present concern. Nevertheless, speculation--the art of seeing past consensus reality, conventional wisdom, and mundane "facts" to how things could be, and thus more fully how they are--is one of my special gifts, and it makes me feel more empowered than hopeless most of the time.

And so I have released my fear into the blogosphere. There you have it.

In other news, the energy swirling around between and among Harriet, Zeke, Simon, and me continues to gain form and dimension. I love their family, and at the very least, Harriet also loves me. I'm sure that with a bit of effort and attention, I can win over little August, their five year-old son. Zeke, given time, will most likely come to love me too. How could he not? I am a sort of cosmic twin to his enchanting wife, whom he adores. Harriet seems willing to explore deeper territory with Simon although much of her energy is rather taken up in an intriguing romance with another man at the moment, so she may take a while to have much energy available for other things.

Simon has been in a relatively intense bout with depression for a few months, and it causes conflicts at home. I haven't felt like writing about it much because my time for writing has been limited since the death of my beloved old iBook. Even though I now have total command of a delightful little Linux-equipped EePC thanks to my wonderful partner, I still don't feel capable of spending lots of my time here attempting to explain my understanding of Simon's psychological state. This is true first because I created this blog to give voice to my subjectivity alone, and second because I already typically spend many hours out of my week talking with him about these issues. As you can imagine, this can result in a bit of emotional exhaustion about the whole situation. 

My short emotional attention span, however, is part of the problem. I have fairly extensive and unpleasant experience with being very intimate with people who are chronically depressed. I'm sure we could question why I have always been attracted to these people and they to me, but I think I have a fairly good grip on the answers to those questions, and I am now comfortable in the knowledge that it isn't just some huge mess of codependent pathology. What I don't have a grip on is how to approach developing some new coping strategies besides the old ones that have proven themselves useless and/or destructive so many times.

In the past--and unfortunately, in the present--I have tended to see only two or three real options for dealing with a partner's inconsolable depression. I say inconsolable because of course, like anyone who cares much for his or her partner, I always spend some time trying to cheer up, motivate, or empower people when they feel crappy. The problems arise when, obeserving that it has not "worked" to cheer the person up, I run out of steam for this kind of Herculean effort of giving and start to see it as rather more Sisyphean than heroic. In the progression of this routine, the next stage is defined by exasperation and exhaustion and frustration.

In an attempt to resolve this unsustainable emotional circumstance, typically I have reacted in one of two ways, neither of which is ideal. The first possible response is to simply sink into depression right along with my partner. This is what happened for years every time a partner was depressed for a long period of time. For obvious reasons, this response makes everything worse.

When I was able, at some point, to step back and observe this pattern, I developed another response that is somewhat preferable but still potentially damaging to a relationship: I withdraw from my investment and presence in the situation. I become psychically, emotionally, and physically unavailable to the person because my first priority becomes maintaining my own sanity.

This cordial and non-confrontational yet chilly and distant attitude is the stage of response that I am in much of the time with Simon right now. And while I know that this is a far superior place to be than the hopeless mires and self-involved negative feedback loops of depression--at least it allows me the bouyancy to keep functioning and avoid drowning in another person's sorrows--it is also antithetical to the ethic of compassion that I value so highly. It is protectionist, reactionary, and insincere.

Furthermore, as an intelligent and sensitive creature, Simon senses the brittleness of my connection to him when I am in this state, and that knowledge certainly doesn't contribute to his sense of feeling loved and supported in a time of distress.

So, realizing that I clearly don't have the cognitive-behavioral tools to sincerely and compassionately relate to him during his time of trouble, I agreed that once he finds a therapist he likes, I will join him in a session or two as it seems appropriate. I chose to commit to spend my foreseeable lifespan partnered with a man who struggles with mental illness, and so dammit, I need to learn how to deal with it.

I think that may be all I have left for now. I love you. Goodnight.