I also endured psychological nightmares. The shortness of breath got so extreme that it triggered claustrophobia. Waves of panic hit the beaches of my psyche and crushed the fragile walls of my mortality. In the throes of an asthma attack, my entire being was focused on breathing. Every breath was an event. Every breath took intense focused effort. Respiration is so fundamental that evolution made it a priority process that operates subconsciously. It was bizarre, and exhausting, to have to think to breathe.
Doctor G, the family doctor, was an Armenian immigrant, probably trained in the Soviet Union. He told my parents there was little he could do to forestall asthma attacks and that it wasn’t even worth trying until the cats to which I was clearly allergic were barred from the house.
This wasn’t in the cards. For my entire childhood and beyond, the cottage in Pompton Lakes was home to usually one, but sometimes up to half a dozen or more, felines. Cat dander certainly fueled my asthma. But Doc G and my folks were all heavy smokers. It never occurred to any of them that perhaps tobacco smoke was a factor contributing to my degraded respiratory health.
Repeated near-death experiences associated with the odor and flavor of tobacco smoke were powerful Pavlovian triggers. Just the thought of smoking was sufficient to make me nauseous. There was never any risk that I would be a smoker.
The deeply ingrained stimulus/response function pertained to marijuana. I was unable to even contemplate smoking grass. I had no moral or intellectual problems with recreational marijuana use. It was just something beyond the abilities of my physiology.
Eventually, in graduate school, I ran into people who took pity on me and made brownies laced with marijuana for me. I had a lot of fun, and probably gained substantial weight in that period of my life. The appetite-stimulating effect of marijuana is strong, and the presence of a pan of brownies sort of closed the circle in a mildly hallucinogenic positive feedback loop.
A bunch of us left Gloucester Point one night, heading for the movie theater in Newport News. On the way out, I grabbed a big handful of freshly prepared magic brownies. Gobbled them on the ride. We saw Kubrick’s Vietnam War horror drama Full Metal Jacket. About the time the frustrated grunt smears his brains across the toilet tiles, I barfed. Apparently my grasp of brownies exceeded my physiological tolerance for the psychoactive compounds in the mix. My corner of the theater truly stank. Fortunately, there were few other moviegoers that night. And I suspect most of them were engaged in their own digestive tract battles with alcohol, marijuana, or worse.
So now as an aged and haggard cancer survival, I have my own renewable prescription for tetrahydrocannabinol, primary psychoactive component of the sap in marijuana plants. My THC is manufactured chemically, of course. But it’s still THC. Radiation oncologist Dr N decided I am the model candidate for the pharmaceutical efficacy of THC. I need an appetite to allow me to force in sufficient UN emergency rations to fuel my ongoing recovery. I need help suppressing chronic nausea. And I need assistance to battle the depression that followed the cancer treatments onto the landing beaches of my physiology…am I stretching this metaphor beyond its useful scope? I suspect so… .
Anyway. I’m in sort of recovery no-man’s land. I’m getting stronger. I don’t have much residual pain. I can get around to shop, see doctors, and I’m enjoying cooking when I get the opportunity. On the other hand, I continue to produce disgusting quantities of mucous in my battered oral cavity and throat. In fact, the differential between the thin salivary secretions in my mouth and the thick, syrupy gunk in my throat is increasing. The throat stuff is really, really unpleasant and hard to deal with. I have frequent coughing fits, and constantly leak goo from my mouth and tracheostomy infrastructure. I was getting excited about the possibility of returning to work, but clearly I cannot operate in a position requiring me to interact with others on a regular basis. The mucous production is not only discomfiting to me. It is a health threat to others, and one that I cannot control effectively.
So, I’m more comfortable in some ways, yet I have ongoing issues that render me unable to function in the real world. Sigh. It could be worse, I suppose. I have time now to read, write, think, and produce eclectic and idiosyncratic works of art. I’m actually beginning to find ways to make guitar instrumental music that works despite my primitive musicianship. All things considered, my life is not bad.
And that’s the real key. “Life”. I have it. Under circumstances that could very well have taken it from me. So…party on, all! If I could select one take-home message to give to all of you, it is this. Don’t let the process of living become something you do by rote. Pause periodically to actually think about a breath. Appreciate each breath for its life-giving properties. Enjoy each moment that you can. There’s only a thin line between being here and being gone. Take the opportunities to experience and learn from the little things of life that are usually under your radar. Someday we’re all going to have to shut down our radar stations and take leave of ourselves.
But hopefully no time soon. My love to all of you. Rock on. And on and on, while you have the opportunity to do so!
No comments:
Post a Comment