Laughing at Cancer. Ros Ben-Moshe
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15 June 2011
The night before the night before
Tentatively we touched each other knowing that the next time we made love, things would be very different. The enormity of what lay ahead was too daunting. I buried myself in Danny’s caress, but the intimacy just brought me to tears. We had to make love once more. I wanted to, but how could we in such a sombre state?
The second opinion we received provided us with a sketch-ily drawn illustration of the bowel resection and where it fitted into the female body, wedged right amidst reproductive organs. For men, this is an easier operation. No risk to reproductive health and functions, but as the surgeon explained, for women, in cutting and remodelling parts of the bowel, due to the vagina’s close proximity (like a shared border) there was a chance they may be forever altered. At the time I didn’t think this was a good enough reason not to go ahead with the operation although I had been told a similar tale prior to childbirth, that weeing may never feel the same, and it had been true in my case.
So now there was even more pressure on this final time to make love. It might not ever feel the same. It was all just too much to bear … more tears!
Like pillows stuffed with stones we lay there; our voices non-verbal, our emotions too emotional. Bolstered by our love for each other, yet crumbling at the same time, both too scared to make the first move. Two blind mice in the dark. Who knows what the next few days will bring. Why can’t we bring ourselves to do this one act that we’ve done out of passion, out of our basic animal instincts, thousands of times before. Childhood sweethearts, never for one second predicting this as the road we would traverse.
Eventually it happened. Passion ran deep but silent. Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms. I glanced over at Danny and witnessed a tear slowly sliding from his eye. Sluggishly it moved down his cheek before being splayed by his one-day growth. How many tears he had shed before, I don’t know; but I was drowning just looking at this one teardrop. My gut was wrenching. Shedding imaginary tears, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
In so many ways this is easier for me. I’m the one going through this in my own body; he’s powerless, a supportive bystander of the highest order. Neither he nor I have control over what may become; but we’re both terrified.
Now, sitting here writing, I feel sorry he chose me to anchor his love, sorry for bringing the one I love most, so much pain, sorrow and heartache. Whilst others may have affairs, my health is the source of betrayal, stepping in to change plans, slow me down, and rob me of my spirit and energy.
I’m so sorry Danny I’m not a more robust specimen of health. I know you don’t see things the way I do, nor likely feel this way, but that doesn’t prevent the guilt from consuming me. That micro-millilitre solitary tear you tried so hard to conceal says more about the depth of our love than an entire ocean.
17 June 2011
D Day
My bowel has been prepped, matching my psychological state. I have never been so psyched for anything, ever, and wonder if I will ever feel so psychologically strong again. I will wrought iron beams to support me but still fear they might morph into cotton wool.
Once at the hospital, I was allocated cubicle number 8 which I took as a good sign. Recently I’ve been drawn to the significance of certain numbers. Number 8 matches the mathematical symbol of infinity and symbolises completeness or wholeness—two complete circles linked into one, resting in each other’s curved arms, unable to differentiate which circle leans onto the other. I’ve heard it is associated with good luck, and I, for one, need all the luck I can get! June 17 also is an auspicious date adding up to another 8! I may be clutching at straws but if it helps, why not?
Danny was still allowed at my side. I was certain we were both feeling sick to our stomachs. Sentences were filled with mundanities as anything else just added to our emotional load. Nurses came, nurses went. Finally the anaesthetist arrived and briefed me about what lay ahead. I would be under anaesthesia for around 5 hours. He would be monitoring my every step, and soon he would return to take me into the operating theatre. I hadn’t recalled being told that the operation would be so lengthy, but as long as they did a good job I doubted a lengthier operation would make any difference in the long run. I don’t know how warm it really was but I was shivering out of nerves and a blood supply that had largely taken leave of absence.
The next thing I knew my legs were wrapped in lightweight silver coils, like a 3-dimensional slinky, but nowhere near as fun. Apparently this was to assist with circulation and would be left on my legs until after the operation. From waist down I looked like an extra-terrestrial being and wished I could be beamed up right away! Next, the surgeon appeared asking me if I had any questions, but I got the impression it was cursory. I was straight-jacketed to the bed and it was way too late for any questions, even if they were perfunctory. I just wanted this to be over, to be on the other side.
I avoided looking directly into Danny’s eyes as the floodgates in both him and myself weakened with each shallow breath. Time was running out. Soon they would be collecting me. A nurse by the name of Emily (another good sign—my sister’s name) came to my bed and said she would be at my side the entire duration of the operation, as my surgeon played God. She didn’t leave though. It was time. Enveloped in panic I turned to Danny for one last hug goodbye. We were both shaking and I sensed he was losing the battle to stay strong. A trademark of a long-distance relationship, Danny being from the UK and I from Melbourne, we’d had so many emotional farewells. Yet as heart-wrenching as they might have been, they paled in comparison. Sure there may have been the occasional infinitesimal fear of a plane crash or of an even more perfect match appearing out of nowhere and severing our love, but deep down we knew we would return to each other’s embrace.
Now I was a mother. We had kids. This was an absolutely humungous operation, classified between a hysterectomy and heart surgery; but the whopping 5 hours more closely aligned with heart surgery. Like all operations it bore a risk, not only to my inner functions but also to my existence. I pushed back that torrent of thought. Nope, I was not going there. My voice strained as I uttered my final words, ‘I’ll see you on the other side.’ I couldn’t even be sure Danny heard them. Too scared to even cry, I was wheeled into the operating Temple of stainless steel, complete with bright lights, beeping and computer screens. Everyone was pleasant enough and did their best to play down the seriousness of what was to follow. An intravenous (IV) bung was inserted in my hand. ‘Just a little sting,’ said the anaesthetist. I beckoned all the love, support and protection I had in this world and summoned the same from other worlds. I visualised the Lion of Judah with an outstretched paw keeping any evil at bay and the love of both my beloved grandmothers now deceased. I never knew my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandfather passed when I was just a toddler, but I was sure they were there shielding me from harm’s way. I was bathed in universal love. On instruction I counted slowly to ten, then my consciousness surrendered. I was in their hands.
X
Between Two Worlds: To The Other Side
I was being wheeled down a narrow corridor when my eyes opened just long enough to see a panic-stricken Danny walking beside me. Apparently I emitted a groan, and then I was out again.
I next awakened in a recovery room. My eyes were open, but I was not fully present. I felt like I was falling and falling. I couldn’t make any words come out of my mouth; they were stuck. A nurse came to check on me. I have a vague recollection of her saying something about how long I took to wake up (I later found out it had been several hours and I was in intensive care). Immobilised, I still couldn’t speak, sinking deeper and deeper. I was in my body, but my heart barely was. I passed through both sides of consciousness, at times feeling closer to death than life. My frantically pulsating anchor was unmooring, seemingly