when an animal doesn’t like me it really impacts my self esteem
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It is a choice, very much so, I’m beginning to see it clearly now. Maybe I’m just not the kind of person who is worth choosing. It’s alright. I’ll move on.
Especially dogs! (I’ve come to accept that cats in general don’t cosy up to people, well not most people)
Not been feeling like myself of late. Old self, come back!
I saw an interaction today at work that reminded me of an experience I had as a student.
…
That isn’t the face he fell in love with. It’s my first thought when I see the two of them and I immediately chastise myself for such a shallow thought. But it’s true. I’ve seen her picture from previous treatments and it’s obvious the steroids have swollen her face and the chemo has robbed her of once long brown hair. The kind of smooth silky hair I spent my childhood envying.
He pushes her along in a worn wheelchair provided by the hospital. This chair has been warmed by many bottoms. A number of these bottoms belong to people who have passed away.
He accompanies her into the treatment room and it becomes a routine. She is in constant pain and moans at every attempt to move her but he lifts her out of the chair with ease and places her on the couch. At this point he helps us undress her, slowly, one sleeve at a time, pulling the thinning material over her head. She makes a joke about why she bothers with a bra and we all laugh even though we are all uncomfortable because frankly it’s more uncomfortable not to laugh at a dying woman’s joke.
He unhooks her bra and places it on the wheelchair before quickly covering her with a blanket. There must have been a time when undressing was an act that required little thought, a time where fumbling hands met fumbling mouths and their skin was a map of constant belonging.
Next comes the part I look forward to— the part I question looking forward to. We all pretend to look away but it’s one of those things you can’t help but watch. He places his hands on either side of her face and kisses her. It’s not a quick peck and it’s not an uncomfortable meeting of tongues. It is eyes closed, a slight parting of the lips, a tinge of urgency and a slow release. For a moment they slip into the past. You can feel it in the room, the momentary lapse in time that allows them to see each other the way they once did; untouchable. Just as quickly it slips away and you recognize that this is the way it has to be because denial is a much easier place to inhabit than this bizarre limbo of terminal illness.
When he leaves the room she lets out a sigh of relief because the part of her that was pretending for his sake can relax a little and she can moan a bit louder without feeling guilty. In between moans she tells us how much she hates having him see her like this, how he insists on taking her to all of her appointments even though her mother is available and willing.
Her hair is greasy and she begins wearing a diaper because she can’t control her bodily functions. Sometimes the odour is quite strong and she apologizes, and I tell her it’s okay but she continues apologizing and tells me about how she used to spend almost an hour getting ready in the morning, never leaving the house without make up.
I know so little about the two of them. I’m privy to these intimate moments during a tiny fraction of their lives and I feel like I know them. I don’t. I see a sick woman and a doting husband but there is much more to the story. I keep thinking about how her story will be cut short and his will be transformed forever.
One day he goes to kiss her and she presses her forehead against his and keeps it there. The world is their own again. He picked her up from work with a cup of coffee and it’s caffeine not morphine running through her veins.
It’s one of the things they can’t teach you in class, how to bear witness to another person’s pain because a lot of the time that’s all you can really do. You’re a spectator to this person battling the laws of the universe. Death has a scythe and cupid has an arrow and we all know who wins.
He pulls away and she smiles. I know he knows it’s forced. And she knows he knows its forced. But it’s all okay because even if the universe ultimately wins, I think that love with its finite set of infinities can teach us how to lose gracefully.
- Yasietha (via ninjawarriors615)
P.S.: Thank you Yas for putting so beautifully into words what we as radiation therapists (or anyone dealing with terminally ill patients) have all experienced but are unable to articulate.
Expectation is what your brain thinks and expects to happen; it can’t prepare you for the barrage of emotions that your heart feels when what you expect becomes reality.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve got no more words left. The word bank is empty for the day. I search hard but grasp at nothingness. Does that happen to others?
Uncaring
I guess in this instance trying is having no or little effect, or even, the opposite effect. So it would be wise to just… not try?
I guess when you put your heart on the line, this is what happens. You get disappointed. You get hurt. It reminds me why I chose to care less in the past. It is just so much easier. Become a robot, if I must.
Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that’s where I imagine it - there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.
