It hurts tonight. Right across the side of my throat and neck where the lump is, and up the side of my face past my right ear.
I’ve taken my painkillers – but they don’t seem to be kicking in. At least, not yet. I was surviving on soluble paracetamol and codeine, but then the doctor gave me something called Tramadol. It’s supposed to be stronger, but I can’t say I’ve really noticed.
I tried to go to bed an hour ago in the hope that I could sleep it off. No such luck. I just couldn’t get comfortable, no matter how I tossed and turned. So, I’m up again.
When it feels like this, I’m reminded just how bad my situation is.
Don’t get me wrong, I know it could be a lot worse. The doctors say they have caught the cancer reasonably early, and before it has spread too far.
But that doesn’t change the fact that, as I sit here, I have one of the deadliest diseases known to man inside my head!
Just think about that for a second.
I carry this thing around with me, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week – inside my skull. I provide it with a warm, moist environment in which to survive, grow and feed.
I’m feeding this bastard! This monster inside my own head.
Does it have a plan? I assume that, if it were to be left unchecked, that it would continue to spread – but does it decide where to go next, or does it just take the path of least resistance?
I’m terrified it will reach my brain.
And that’s not such a leap, considering it already shares the same container as my grey matter.
I wish I could reach inside and just rip it out.
I suppose that’s what surgery is, in the end. A controlled way of ripping the beast out from inside me. But my growth is already too big to be operated on. I wonder if it knows that.
I wonder if it feels safe.
But, of course, it’s not safe. At some point within the next ten days, it will be under attack from both radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Or, to be more exact, we both will. Attacking just the cancer alone would be like trying to fry an egg while leaving the shell intact.
I’m a shell.
I protect this f*cking thing from harm.
The radio waves will have to pass through me to get to this thing. The chemicals will have to scour the inside of my body, searching for it.
It’s going to hurt, and I’m scared.
I’ve tried to stay calm and not admit that to anyone, but it’s true. I’m just as terrified of the treatment as I am of the disease it will try to eradicate.
Will the cancer be scared, too?
Once it is under attack, will any kind of self-preservation kick in? Even on the most basic level, all living organisms want to stay that way – alive. Is it any different for living organisms we don’t like?
This sounds mad, and maybe it’s the effect of the painkillers talking here, but they say babies in the womb can pick up on the feelings and emotions of their mothers. Will this be the same?
Is this thing my baby?
Time and time again, people have told me to stay positive, and not to give in. Positive thinking is the key. I will beat the cancer. I must beat the cancer.
If it had independent thought, would the cancer be thinking the same thing about the treatment I’m about to undergo?
I wonder what colour it is.
I really don’t want to know, but ridiculous questions like that keep popping into my head.
You know – the head I now share with another living entity.
I know I could Google it and see plenty of pictures of various forms of cancer, but I can’t imagine anything worse, to he honest. That would terrify me to a degree I don’t even want to think about.
I tried to joke about it today. I told my wife that it wasn’t cancer, but a second brain developing. An internal back-up drive where I could dump random knowledge, leaving space in my main brain for new story ideas.
We laughed at that. Together.
We laughed at the cancer inside my head.
Damn, this thing hurts!