There was a time when I preferred to close my eyes, escaping the reality that my sight vitalized, corroborating a medical testimony that would imprison me and undoubtedly persecute my body. The all consuming blood was found tainted, flowing through my veins, denatured, destructive and inescapable. The arraignment was pushed forward with brute force and blunt tips, using an absent and otherwise unequipped defence team. I characterize my sentencing as a perversion of our justice system, unpardonable yet lacking mens rea, a deterioration of our law letter turned crude- where victim is patient- the viral outlaw. The hospital leaves no room for appeal or the possibility of early release, good behaviour is encouraged yet rarely rewarded – a life long verdict, freed only by exsanguination.
For a blood cancer patient, the concept of blood as a life force is paradoxical – swinging at both sides of the pendulum, degenerative and progressive. Our life force is broken down into a series of compartmentalized counts, often below the lower limit, a judgement of sorts claiming immune-inadequacy. For me, it initially introduced itself as a vehicle, containing contaminated gore with a flashing dashboard signalling for a mandatory oil change.
I’m sure you can relate to the feeling of being dirty, whether it be mud stained shoes or smudged lenses, the satisfaction we get from cleansing is often powerful informing us of our ability to resolve, to recover. Unlike that scenario, I didn’t have the option to remediate on my own but a diffident hope carrot was dangled. I leapt for it…
If only I could apply a filtration device to boost my bone marrow, to mobilize cellular production at a palpable not palliative rate, I’d be unsullied and aseptic. Like a piece of farm fresh meat, I felt denuded and exposed, frigid from the cold intake of IV medicine and then left to radiate. Add some matched stem cells, a splash of anti-rejection meds and a quart of luck – that’s the recipe for rebirth.
Now, let’s not call it a comeback, I got parole. Still far from free, my parole officer(s) are in close contact, watching my every move for any sign of my sanguine nightmare. Red stained and stuck to my soul, the Scarlett Letter reminds me of my stem cell adultery. Maybe I did jump ship when times were tough, our relationship had become annihilative and I chose life; however, frightening.
Punching another hole in my Everest belt.
These days, I prefer to keep my eyes fully open, taking in every aspect of my landscape, the people in it, the voices that echo and those that have gone mute. My existential discernment is on hyperdrive, absorbing every morsel of inspiration that is available, examining every angle, taking photographs, establishing a vivid mental archive – enabling the paragon of mental dexterity. Pivot.
In my mayhem, I conjure a calm from chaos, sitting in my home with family and friends, still prescribing to the idea that my future is boundless. Close your eyes, omit the noise, what do you see? What are the sounds, setting, voices? How are you participating? We spend a-lot of time wanting to be displaced, constantly yearning for other perspectives that seem all the more conditioned to our circumstances- deceived by delusion, diluted sentiment turned dissatisfaction.
For now, my blood is flowing and bountiful, medicated and in commission for its’ various tenants
For now, that’s all I can ask for.
“If you’re able, please consider being a champion of the cause through blood donation. One average patient needs 18 people to donate each month.
The treatment time for leukaemia, lymphoma and myeloma can last for years…
For more information, please visit: https://blood.ca/en“
The Hopeful Motif 