Hades Lapdog

The prolific sound of the slithering serpent engulfs my hearing, a constrictor that encircles my mind, toying with me as it tightens and loosens its’ hold. Its’ impending presentation sends a chill down my back, as scales push up against my flesh, hissing to make its’ presence all the more known. Black as night, it lurks in the shadows and then opens its’ mouth like a display case, revealing piercing protruding fangs, dripping venom that could easily devastate my fragile body, but then retracted- like a gun that is aimed but not fired. The satisfaction of the game illuminates its’ glowing green eyes, all the more disturbing is that it seems to thrive, a true formidovore (feeds on fear).

This is the anxiety that I harbour, a heavy weight that is affixed to my mind, intent on keeping me down. An effort that I reject and counter at every attempt – necessitating my ever-present state of high alert.

This is a “pet” that I unconsciously adopted and that has no business being domesticated, as wild and unpredictable as it gets. Hades lapdog.

Ssss

The seething movement commands my hair upright, walking on pins and needles in anticipation of an attack. Am I being trained or conditioned to defend myself against such a lethal predator? I need not look very far to see the Rod of Asclepius emblazoned on my wrist, the symbol chosen by Medic Alert to signal my classification as diseased prey? I’d like to think of it as a warrior symbol, an assertion of my commitment to be the best that I can, in spite of my opposition.  

The bruises are worsening, a minefield of black and blue markings dominate my subcutaneous injection sites, a constant bi-daily puncture to mitigate blood clots emanating from my machine-like heart valve. The cold metal nails its way through my skin as I manoeuvre the syringe to eject yet another battle weapon, a potion that stings and burns with each application, a declaration of its’ foreign placement.

I feel suspended on a balancing beam, forever swayed by the wind, some weeks more than others but managing to keep my feet planted. The flavour of this month has been methotrexate, 2 rancid yellow pills that are being used to suppress the riot happening in my bone marrow. A riot that is currently obstructing the development of healthy immature cells that are not being seen in the blood periphery and thus we assume are deleted. In parallel to this plan of action, the steroid taper continues, as does my energy dwindle though I am managing the side effects like the tenured patient that I am. A badge that leaves me feeling petulant but…grateful that my experience sometimes affords me insights that others may not have, and perhaps that’s a good thing. 

Education by way of experience can be dangerous and yet it has always been theory that escapes me without being anchored by application. In any event, I would have been okay being blind to this, to have the good fortune of forgetting but as trauma would have it…that’s not happening.

The symbiosis of patient and practitioner is a delicate web, a dependency that is born from apprehension and fear. In my experience many of these relationships have developed into trust though I acknowledge myself as a member of my own medical team. This means that I am responsible for voicing my thoughts, symptoms and feelings regarding my treatment course and then defer to their expertise to focus that input into a considerate model. 

This is not the default. 

Today is not a great day but it is good. As the commotion settles, as does my distraction giving rise to my heinous mental tenants. I need to somehow force them into submission, rising above the mental trickery that they weaponize. 

Today, I’ll smell the flowers, I’ll take in the scenery and I’ll treat myself to a liqueur coffee. 

I’ll do it because I normally don’t, I’ll do it because I normally won’t but most importantly, because I can. 

Existing is not living.

If anyone is experiencing similar challenges in their recovery, I am happy to lend an open ear. Feel free to contact me through the contact us page below.