I slide out of bed. I crawl to the bathroom on my hands and knees. Saliva fills my mouth. I put my head on the toilet seat and wait. My stomach contents rise. I vomit. But nothing comes out. Logically. From the moment I got my first round of chemotherapy, now three days ago, I haven’t had a bite down my throat. I search unsuccessfully for the right word to describe my condition. Hondsbeerd is way too weak.
That’s not how I imagined it. My oncologist told me that almost no one gets sick of this heavy course, thanks to the very expensive ‘miracle pills’ that are available today. So I wouldn’t feel well, I’d be tired, but I’d get through it admirably, as befits a strong woman. I would keep fit. Because those who stay fit experience fewer side effects. That has been proven. I would eat very healthy. I would drink three liters of water every day. I would move: walk, bike, maybe even swim. I would keep working. Yes, I would be an Instagram worthy model patient. Not too sick, not pathetic. haha!
I’m a sad bunch of misery. The chemo destroys the cancer cells, but also the rest of me. The world spins and waves. My stomach is contracting. My head is pounding. So that’s what it feels like to be poisoned. A strange shiver runs down my spine. I shake my arms, kick my legs, hoping to get rid of the nasty tingling. I want this to end – now. “The side effects are only secondary. This is over, this is over, this is over,” I murmur, like a mantra. But I don’t believe in it anymore after three long days in hell. And to think that this is just the beginning. Fifteen rounds of chemotherapy are still on the agenda. What a great prospect.
The perfect caregiver
Duncan kneels down next to me, he puts his hand on my back. ,,Are you OK?” I moan, in response. He shakes his head. “I don’t get this,” he mumbles. ,,All those fucking pills you’re taking – and it doesn’t help…” It’s cold on the tile floor. I get goosebumps and start chattering. “Come on, get back in bed,” Duncan says. He helps me up, supports me and tucks me in. Then he disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a new pill against the nausea, a lorazepam and cannabis oil. Like an accomplished nurse, he feeds me the medication, and gives me small sips of water through a straw.
I watch him. Until now, my illness was somewhat abstract. It wasn’t hard for Duncan to bury his head in the sand. This sometimes clashed with my need for comfort and with the unrealistic expectation that he could read – understand – my emotions and fears, even if I didn’t show them. I wanted him to put his arms around me in dark moments without me having to ask. And of course it doesn’t work that way.
But now Duncan doesn’t have to read minds. My suffering is now tangible. Duncan can do something. And in doing he excels. He is the perfect caregiver. He makes sure I don’t get dehydrated. He rushes up and down to the pharmacy for new medication, he changes my sheets every day—they smell like the poison coming out of my pores.
Thank God Noah is with my parents… I look up to him. ,,This for months… How then?” I moan. “You’re an asshole. You can handle this. You do this for us. For a long life for the three of us. Or maybe even the four of us, if we’re really lucky.” “Yes,” I say softly. And for a moment I feel blessed, right through all the misery.
Via Marith’s Instagram account @marithiedema can you follow her closely?
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