The last few days have been rough on me. Lisa and I were talking about my tumor on Friday and trying to picture how big it was. We knew it was 14cm by 11cm by 2cm, but we use the imperial system of measurement and, for me at least, centimeters sound tiny. They are not as tiny as I thought. Roughly speaking, Phil (I have named it Phil because I felt like it) is roughly 7 inches by 5.5 inches by 2 inches.
That is a lot bigger than I had imagined. Although it explains why my oncologist was surprised it did not hurt when he pressed down on my abdomen.
The size of the tumor changes nothing about my diagnosis or my prognosis. I get that, intellectually. But it is a big leap to go from “hey there is this tiny thing on my pancreas that needs to be snipped out” to “this thing is taking up serious real estate in your guts.”
So yeah, I have been depressed. I am also being very maudlin, and I cannot help myself from continually wondering if this will be my last [insert thing here]. Will Picasso be my last show? Will Dragon Con be my last vacation? Will this be the last time I close my eyes and fall asleep? Will this be the last evening I spend with my wife? My family? My friends? Will this be my last cheeseburger, and if so why the hell did I purchase it at McDonald’s?? Will this be the last time I have to shave my ears?
Ok, that one would not be so bad.
I am also struggling mightily with having empathy for the struggles others are going through. This is not necessarily a new feeling. For the last three years I have had to resist the urge to respond to every complaint I heard with “ok, sure…but have you lost a son?” Now I get to add “do you have Steve Jobs killing cancer?” to that annoying voice in my head. I want to be selfish and in my feels and am really struggling to give a damn that someone may have gotten the wrong latte at their daily Starbucks stop. It is unfair and self-centered, especially considering that having empathy for people and their own personal struggles is kind of a big deal to me, but I have my moments regardless.
I think I am coming through the other side of it, but I am still feeling very emotionally heavy right now. I am hoping that I will feel better after my appointment at Moffitt next week, and in the interim I am very much looking forward to being back in the Shimberg tonight for the first time since before the pandemic started. I have missed it terribly, and I could use a little theater magic right about now.
I rarely comment publicly on your writing because I just tell you what I think in person lol. However, I’m going to comment long and loud on something you said here so you can refer back to it whenever you need reminding.
You are not expected to have empathy for anyone right now. In fact, I’d argue that you — the single most empathetic person I’ve ever met — have my blessing to be as selfish as you want for as long as you need. I know you know that, but I will still remind you over and over anyway.
Believe me when I say it is not unfair or self-centered of you to expect to be able to focus all your energy inward so you can get better. In fact, that’s what you’ve told me for three and a half years, and you’ve been right. Now I hold that space for you. You don’t have to listen to have to *anyone* complain about petty stuff or even give it a moment’s thought — and this is a hill on which I will fight until I have no fight left in me.
Fire, firewall. Tomato, to-mah-to.
I love you.
I love you, fire. 🙂 I would be in a much different place without you helping me through this.
To piggyback on what Lisa said, you have every right to these feelings. You are going through a grief experience and with that comes similar phases. All cancer patients have this type of journey and I’ve spoken to many over the years. I’ve told this story many times. Getting a cancer diagnosis is like getting on a very scary water ride. You don’t want to get on it but you have to. You don’t know how rough it will be or where it will take you. You get on and hold tight. You can’t bring anyone on the ride with you. They can only watch on the shoreline. They cheer for you from there. Sometimes you hear them. Sometimes the roar of the water drowns them out and you feel very alone.
Eventually the ride ends. That ending is different for so many but it always ends. It literally dumps you out on the shoreline where your people are waiting to take you home. Home is either tangible or metaphysical but you always get to go home.
Mike, there is no rule book here. Cancer is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you are, how much money you make, how old you are, etc. I sat next to a child during my chemo treatment one time and I really understood that I was on this ride. We were both plugged into our poison bags, as I liked to call them, and we talked about music, acting… anything but this liquid flowing into our veins. It’s surreal and you’ll experience anger and acceptance. Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself but in the end, you fight. You give yourself the best chance to beat this thing and you do what you need to do to get there. You have many more firsts ahead of you than lasts. I’m on the shoreline waiting for you.
Thank you, Roz.