My brain’s still operating strangely, slowly, a sluggard of drugs. Three o’clock in the afternoon, having only just really begun the day. Tea and Scrabble with H. earlier, feeling strange and anxious all the time.
Last night—the experience of seeing a double rainbow arc perfectly across Oxfordshire. A strange electric sky—and myself uncomfortable and drugged in the middle of it.
And always saying well, I suppose there is tomorrow.
This incredible sense of panic now, near-hyperventilating with having half-allowed my mother to book a flight for my return. Eventually I will have to do it, admit that America is there, my blank accidental future too, that everything I’ve ignored all this time still exists as profoundly. I try to convince myself it will be “good to” be home, to “sort things out”—but truthfully I want to see no one; I want to hide here.
How adolescent it all sounds. But this terrible sense of foreboding overwhelms—a dreadful, panicked, powerless feeling in which everything sinks in: the cancer, the lack of prospects, the dim grim end of our love.
Today on the train the air felt electric with waiting rain. A peculiar light in which even the Didcot power station appears majestic. The woman beside me wore a polka-dot dress and crossed her thin ankles on the seat opposite. I thought: how I would like to be reading these stupid journals in twenty-five years time, with all their desperate insistence on considering mortality, on feeling helpless in and worthless to the world, and to know that even this was a phase as everything else was, and that I did what I cannot even fathom now: live through it.
L. wondered whether four months since receiving a diagnosis had been enough time to “process” the reality. I don’t know—have not considered it. My first thought, nearly, on learning I had cancer was that I am not the “kind of” person who can handle it—believing that my inability to cope with it somehow made me immune to it. But nothing changes, not really—what, after all, is the “reality” of a disease you can’t see? So I have chemo and get sick and my hair falls out like in the movies and that becomes normality to me. I felt a rush of sadness this morning thinking how lovely it would be to be in my London flat today and feel some ownership over my own life—but I am not in mourning for it. What should I mourn for but the loss of myself—or, will I get to the point at which I do not realize I am already gone?
God, the uncertainty of the other side of the Atlantic—all the pain in between. My impossible love. I am so sorry for everything.
A series of countdowns now. 10 days til home; on return, 3 days til biopsy, then 8 til surgery.
In the bath I look down at my complete, living body and want to scream with rage and pain.
Thinking about the sadness of hometowns, unearthing old loves. I don’t want everyone else to go glibly on with their own existences while I falter and flounder. I was always so far ahead…
Did any of the rest of my life actually happen? Because I seem to have been deposited here without any point of reference.
I have been constantly waiting on the world to offer me something.
I am terrified of stretching to what would seem to be the outer reaches of my ability and finding nothing to draw on. Which explains to paucity of my production.
Usually I grow bored with blank notebooks, buy a new one in an attempt to strike out upon some more significant course and catalogue it. Now I’m faced with an insignificant ending, and a new notebook readily assigned with the symbolic pressure to be meaningful.
But tomorrow is just another Friday
And I am still the same sad, sick self
Waiting for the crash that’s about to happen. Conspiracies of doubt and hope both. That they’ve not given me this drug at all. That 1/6 NHS patients actually receive some sort of placebo. What the yellow bags on the IVs mean. And then the other side–that perhaps this will be the one. Not feeling sick. The steroids, perhaps, eight every day. Anything’s better than before. Before, no effect. Apart from five days of death wishes. Yet I woke today, and got out of bed. Hours in the bath with Faulkner. K’s gone to London and I’m watching the leaves shudder on the trees. My mother miles away, accusational emails. I barely know what I am saying.
Something unsettling about the clink of silverware in someone else’s house
When here you are
Shut away at the periphery of a bad marriage;
You are a lie, like everything you do,
Grasping at some unperformable truth in saying:
“Yeah, I’m fine thanks, and how are you?”