I’m driving to my destination — I have to get there on time — but something is wrong under the hood. The engine’s clacking. At any moment, I’m worried it’ll sputter out, run out of gas, blow a gasket. I’m driving along, wearily, like a trucker on ice.
This is the metaphor that came to mind last week when I was racing to finish an important project as my body started to falter.
Here’s what happened.
February 1st began on a high note: My dream of writing for a major newspaper publication came true (more details to follow soon)! The editor gave me a deadline of Monday morning. For the first time since my diagnosis last May, I had a project. A responsibility. For the first time in more than 8 months, maybe cancer wouldn’t be my sole job.
Just one day later, I woke up with a feeling I know only too well: deep-in-the-bone exhaustion and achy limbs accompanied by mouth sores so painful that talking or taking a sip of water makes me want to cry. The worry starts to set in. But usually no ones says anything yet.
By 10 p.m. that night I was having uncontrollable chills. My mother piled blankets onto me but nothing could stop my teeth from chattering. I was cold from the inside, not outside. She checked my temperature: 99 degrees Fahrenheit. Twenty minutes later it was up to 100 degrees. When it climbed up to 102.5 I knew the dreaded H-bomb was about to drop. “Hospital, now,” my mom said.
Getting read for an emergency hospitalization is similar to going on a very chaotic, last-minute family vacation. My parents scramble to make sure they have a place to stay, we throw our clothing and toiletries into our carry-on luggage and then pile into the minivan for a four hour drive to New York City. By the time we arrived, it was almost 3 a.m. The ground floor of the hospital was completely deserted with the exception of a few patrolling security guards. And I was furious.
I hated my body for failing me now. Hadn’t it put me through enough? The timing seemed beyond unfair. I had two days to write my piece and, up in my hospital room, I could barely keep my eyes open from all the pain medication I was on. I went to bed feeling angry — angry at the white walls of my room, angry at the hospital food, and angry at the nurse who couldn’t find a good vein in my arm for the IV and kept poking me with needles.
My boyfriend woke me up the next morning and said: “You are going to get this piece done, no matter what we have to do.” I didn’t believe him. But he wasn’t kidding around and within half an hour we had begun the slow, tedious process of brainstorming and drafting an outline. I wasn’t the most pleasant collaborator — more times than I can count, I got tired, frustrated, broke into tears, and then had to take a long nap to recover from my outburst. But somehow, we did it. Needless to say I couldn’t have done it without him, but I got the piece done.
Comparing our bodies to vessels — like cars — that carry us through our lives, seems apt up to a point but it only goes so far. In the car metaphor, you can leave your broken vehicle by the road, hitchhike, or buy a new one. But in reality, we only have one “car.” While some people believe the mind can overcome the body, for the majority of us, especially for those of us who are ill, when the body is in crisis, the mind is too. Physical illness infects the mind: when your body ails, your mind, your thoughts, your plans, your identity is changed.
So, what can you do when your mind wants to do one thing and your body is saying another?
These three golden rules are what got me through the weekend: respect your body’s limitations (when you feel too tired to keep going, take a nap), compromise (one hour of work, one hour of rest), and when you need to, ask for help (thank you, Séamus).
*Footnote: I have no idea what as gasket actually is, though I know of it. I can’t drive — I don’t even have a permit– but I still have my poetic license!