My name is Isabel.
I am a wee little girl.
I am 22 years old.
I have black hair, though I wouldn't be able to remember what that looked like on me.
These are facts.
But lately I feel like something has changed in me that goes beyond factual. Lately I feel like I am defined by something I do not wish to be.
My name is still Isabel.
I have liver cancer.
These are also facts. But what makes them so different from those above?
***
It is currently 12:17am. I should be asleep as I need to be up in less than six hours for another trip to the hospital, and it seems I need all the sleep I can get of late. I am not enjoying the frequency of these visits. I have always tried to avoid the hospital as much as I could at all costs. Perhaps that was my downfall. Guess we'll never know.
My eyelids are heavy but I lie awake listening to the soothing voice of Jon Foreman strumming along to his guitar, wondering if a boy out there could write me pretty and heartfelt songs like these. Yup. I am still the same old silly girl. More than that though, I am wishing I was asleep instead. But there is a pain that won't let me. A pain that keeps me up; a constant reminder that I am not alright. And I am torn between being thankful for this pain and hating this pain.
But for now I stand neutral, like Switzerland, a little bit dozy on painkillers, but still not enough to knock me out just yet, so I sip my cup of coffee (only joking - it's a glass of water, though it makes me sound like more of a legit writer if I say I'm drinking coffee as I write this) and get to writing. Do I have the words? I have not written in a very long time. I used to love words. The beauty of the formulation. The way they looked on paper. The grammar. The typography. Prose. Poems. All of it. But now writing seems like some stranger I used to see in a coffee shop some years ago whose face I now barely recognize. These words at my fingertips feel unnatural. Or maybe it's just because for the first time in what seems like years my nails aren't painted some shock-horror of a color that always makes my mother shake her head at me. But for now the words are taking my mind off the pain. So write on, I shall.
Once upon a time I wanted to be a writer. Realizing my attention span and actual writing abilities (or lack thereof) would not accommodate this dream, I moved onto dreaming about being an editor. But I get bored easily. And I am the kind of girl that would write "Great attentoin to detaiil" in her CV. So that dream blew up pretty fast too. Lucky for me, a new world of writing had been brewing. The great world of blogging, where you could make all the mistakes you wanted, be as boring as you wished, have about two readers in the whole wide world and still feel like an accomplished writer.
So here I am.
Today I was told for the first time that liver failure can often lead to confusion. I was confused about this. I was advised to put things on paper for later on. "Just in case". Things you always talk about but never actually intend to do. Like make a list of 'Things I Want to do Before I Die'. I can't think that far ahead. Maybe the confusion has already set in, but my mind just kind of shuts down when I try to think about things like that. So I will just write what I can. Starting with documenting the past few weeks. Knowing me, I will forget. So maybe this will just be to remind myself later on. Of what it was like. Of what 'this' was like. And you can all come along for the ride. Some of you may not have heard the story yet. Most of you have heard it lots, but perhaps from others. Either way, part of the beauty of a blog is you can skip the parts you don't like and get to your favorites. Like a dessert buffet.
Sometimes I feel the need to be perpetually funny. I love to make people laugh, even if at my own expense. Right now I am feeling that urge. The need to make you laugh. I want to be funny. But I think the fact of the matter is that I have inherited my dad's sense of humor. As in... Not funny. I am okay with that. I will laugh at my own jokes, and you can laugh along too if you want to be nice. I have made numerous inappropriate jokes about the cancer lately. Sorry if this has made you feel uncomfortable. It's just how I do.
***
Liver cancer also makes you pee lots, which also, along with the pain, wakes me up in the middle of the night. I swear you could mistake my symptoms for being totes preggers. My stomach protudes at about the 3-month mark (buh-bye summer clothing!), I have random food cravings for about the first time in my life, and have been completely put off foods I used to love. I feel nauseous pretty much ALLLL the time, and the smell, or even sight, of certain things makes me want to hurl. That and the bladder. Arrrgh the bladder. Just that instead of a cute baby to look forward to, I just have... cancer. I used to joke about it being my 'alien baby' before I knew what it was. I still kind of feel that way. This weird thing inside of me, so alien to me, that I'm constantly aware of... It's a pretty strange feeling. Stop trying to kill me thanks. You need me to survive too ya know.
This is getting a bit out of control. Before I sign off, I just want to leave you with a quote I have rediscovered and am struggling with. It's in my book of quotes. Yes, I have a book of quotes. My beautiful friend, Ginnie, got me my first moleskin for my birthday a couple of years ago because she knew I am a well and true black-notebook geek and covet all things moleskin. It's a quote dated 24 April 2010:
"Can I thank God for trusting me with this experience, even if He never tells me why?" - Helen RoseveareIt sends a little chill down my spine. Can I? Can I truly be thankful? Even with the possibility that on this side of heaven I may never understand why?
But below the quote I had written:
"The secret of trust doesn't lie in answers; it lies in acceptance."
Lord, thank You for trusting me with this experience. Help me to accept. Humbly and gracefully. Give me strength to endure, just as Jesus did on the Cross. May I never lose sight of You.
Amen.
