Seasons Beatings
There are times when it feels like there are too many hours in the day. Minutes take a lifetime to make up the hour, and an hour can wheel away slowly, trying to make itself count toward the day. On days like this, both the body and mind are heavy to carry.
Frustration, exhaustion, doubt, anger, and defeat don’t just creep into my mind space; they are ready to throw a bash that has my name. I don’t want to be at this party, but I’m a reluctant host. I’ve succumbed to the pressure and let them do their thing. They are ungrateful guests because they don’t even clean up the mess they’ve created.
I did not sign up for the season, but I am here. Journeying with cancer. I don’t want to be reminded of my frailty, but the realness of the myeloma is laid bare. I find myself curled up in the foetal position; it brings comfort and the memory of a time when I was sheltered and trouble-free. Is it also a cry for the maternal? I sigh and curse in a single breath. It’s how I feel. Bible verses or video sermons feel hollow. Who are they for, I question? Makes me question your intention, or even how you view my journey. Some folks seem prepared to read an announcement in the Daily Nation. Is it their perception of the disease or how they’ve learnt to cope? A kind of lonely rears its head, because you see only sympathy in their eyes. I retreat into my foetal position, pull the covers over me and try to find a hope or sleep. Sleep usually comes faster. It helps me forget.
I didn’t sign up for this season, but I won’t let your projections or fears stick to me. It’s already bad enough that my mind can get rudderless. On some days, I have the will to fight back, and on some days, kaende kaende, and que sera sera.
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Don’t ask me whether I’m winning. I hear your question, but do you see my situation? Myeloma si malaria. There’s no quick fix. Just getting up is a victory in itself and then stepping out of bed a reminder of the uncertainty that lies ahead. I have learnt to live in the moment. I can only promise now.
Sometimes care needs to be presence, a hug emoji, a listening ear, or a smile reminding me that I am still human. I welcome empathy that also reminds me of your humanity. Pity in such situations seems to add to the darkness that lurks around.
I didn’t sign up for this, but the man in the mirror, staring at me at times, feels like a stranger, and he demands a lot of me. He keeps challenging me to look at the man within me.
I am not my disease, I want to shout! Sometimes, I wonder who I want to shout at: myself or the folks around me. Though there are moments it feels that there is nothing left of me but that. Dreams halted. Hope deferred. Pain an unwelcome bedfellow. Such is the singular reality of this journey. Silent tears glide down cheeks that are either full or gaunt. I’m still here, I want to bellow. But what does that here look like? The here — sometimes it depends on how I stepped out of bed, who I saw in the mirror, or who resides in the quiet of my heart.
I didn’t sign up for this season nor any of the previous seasons, but this is my current path. It demands, saps, breaks, moulds, scares, scars, builds and even grows you. Ask anyone who has been on this journey, and they will attest that an encounter with cancer changes you.
I didn’t sign up for this journey, and it doesn’t define who I am. Yet every day it asks me to face myself, never quite knowing who I will meet in the mirror or in my heart.
