I am an alien. Not one of the tentacled ones or even multi-eyed ones. One of those big headed ones that always looks a little lost. That’s what I see when I glimpse myself (sans head covering) in the mirror. I’m one of those bewildered, naive aliens, one that, perhaps, got accidentally left behind to fend for themselves in this unfamiliar place.
Once, I thought that the cancer center would one day become a familiar and perhaps even comforting place. But it hasn’t. When I think of it, my stomach twists up. It’s sunny and well-lit. The chairs are comfy enough and certainly the nurses and staff are kind and caring. But the place still gives me the heebie-jeebies.
And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it shouldn’t be a place I’m too comfortable. And because it makes my skin crawl, I try to not think about it too much. I have this habit of thought that I think, ultimately, is problematic. I’ll think about an up-coming situation, say, a chemotherapy treatment. I’ll try to imagine and plan for every scenario and situation. I’ve convinced myself that this makes me feel as if I’m in control, as if by imagining every scenario, I can be prepared and in-control. Difficult things might happen but at least I’ve already thought it all through. I’ve troubleshot all the troubles before they’re actually troubles; shot them right out of my imagined gray-clouded sky.
Or so I’ve often felt.
Of course, none of that is actually helpful. Imagining every possible outcome doesn’t actually grant me more control, it doesn’t make the bad scenarios less or more likely to happen.
Lately, as I’ve tried to imagine my next treatment, the sensation in my gut is so unpleasant, that I switch topics. Sometimes, I even manage to just bring myself back to my present moment, where I do have some (albeit limited) control and where I’m able to sometimes eke out small moments of enjoyment.