All my life I've depended upon sheer force of will to accomplish things. When I was dealt the leukemia card, I never once thought I wouldn't be cured (well, maybe once or twice). Cancer aside, I have a long history of making things happen through willpower. My return to running is a good example: my head says do it; my body feels like a whipped horse. Of course, my willpower is very effective in motivating me, but less so in getting other people to do stuff they'd rather not do. I force myself to do things I don't want to do, even when my body (and my brain) says let's table that to later or tomorrow or five years from now. Call me crazy, driven, obessive. Just stay out of my way.
Hubris, I know. Rationally, I realize I can't control matter, any more than I can will a heavy object to float in space or move across the floor. I had no control over those rogue blood cells that decided a coup d'etat would be amusing. I have little control over the nasty microbes in my environment that are surely out to get me. I try to avoid giving them a chance, but you can't control everything, or even much. It's a veneer, a protective shell this belief in mind over matter. Scratch the surface, and the chaos that lies beneath overwhelms.
Lest you think this is pure philosophical drivel, I'll provide an example of what I'm talking about. Here I sit, 87 days post-transplant and I'm apparently fine. Fine meaning the transplanted stem cells did what they were supposed to do, and I have not been attacked by any opportunistic infections, even though my immune system is like a house of cards, easily brought down. Of course, I try to control my environment as much as possible. I take my meds religiously; I worship at the fount of hand sanitizer; only foods which have been blessed by the All-Knowing Nutrionist pass my lips. You could probably do open-heart surgery in my kitchen, it's so clean. Even so, lapses are possible, and then there's all the things over which I hold zero sway: my son coming down with a cold; the wood smoke I inhaled on my walk; the honey I put in my home-made granola possibly not being cooked enough*. Each of these dangerous (for me) things happened yesterday. The only way to know if they won't harm me in some way is to wait a few days to see if the other shoe drops, that is, if I develop a fever, a cough, a fungal overload.
In the meantime, I soldier on, doing the best I can to stuff Anxiety in the broom closet (I'm not allowed to sweep or vacuum, so that's a good place to put him), kidding myself into believing I can control things, even with a mind that's a stern and uncompromising task-master. Matter always trumps mind, but I choose not to think about that.
*For some reason, raw honey is the only item on the "Never-Eat-Ever-Again" list for patients who've had transplants.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Weird, but I can have honey again in 2 years, unless my transplant team is trying to slowly off me. It's the increased chance of salmonella poisoning that we're susceptible to. I know what you mean about sheer dirth of will and all things environmental out to get you. You're doing an amazing job and it's only a matter of months before you're doing all the things you loved pre-diagnosis.
Post a Comment