I am angry at my psychiatrist.
Two weeks ago, I spent nearly an entire session talking about the option of stopping treatment. I was seriously considering it; the psychological toll was beating me down and if treatment wasn’t making me better, maybe I needed to take some time to not feel worse.
It was clear I had given this thought, that it wasn’t some whimsical notion birthed from the stream-of-consciousness that often makes up my sessions. I even ended saying, If the results aren’t conclusive, I’ll probably stop chemo for awhile. That’ll be hard to explain to people. If there’s progression, it’ll be easy to decide: I’ll just do treatment. So when I saw him this week and spoke about how difficult it was to choose between three equally bad choices and he said, You know there’s another option available to you that you may not have thought about and that isn’t often brought up and I sniffed, What is it? and he answered, You could stop treatment, I wanted to say, Are you fucking kidding me? Did you not look at last week‘s notes? We just went over this! but instead I simply said that I wasn’t ready to stop treatment, nor did I need a break because I am already taking a break. And then I wondered if I was boring him, if that’s why he couldn’t remember that we’d already talked about this, and then I was mad at him for making me think he might think I’m boring.
And I’m angry at my oncologist because I need to have a 10 minute conversation with her about this Phase I trial so I can make a definitive decision whether or not to go ahead with it but I can’t do that without finding out if she feels it’s worth the risk to go on the AMG 386. And I left a phone message a couple days ago and I emailed her this morning and she still hasn’t responded to me and I know she is busy but instead I feel like she is ignoring me. So I’m mad because I’m just asking for 10 of her minutes, that isn’t so many, and my minutes are perhaps less than many, and I’d rather not spend the ones I have endlessly going over the potential side effects of each drug, which I can’t stop my brain from doing. And the longer I think about side effects, the more likely it is that I’ll choose based on which drug is least likely to make me ugly.
And I’m angry at everyone who asks me what I’m doing next week or if I want to grab a coffee on Thursday or go for a drink on Friday or if I want to go to a show on the 13th because I don’t know what I’m doing, I literally don’t know, and asking me to make plans right now is like asking me to do a back-flip, I just can’t.
And I’m angry at everyone who asks me how it’s going or what I’ve been up to because what I’ve been up to is simultaneously growing cancer and destroying my immune system with chemo, don’t you know? And I’m angry when good things happen to people and I’m angry when bad things happen to people, though secretly I feel a little good to hear about bad things happening because then I feel a little less alone, but only if the bad things are really bad will I feel a bit good. And that makes me angry at myself because, seriously, what is wrong with me?
But mostly I’m confused because I don’t know if this anger comes from being sad, or if I have been sad so long that I’ve forgotten about anger, and I don’t know how long I’ll have to live with these feelings or if there will ever be a time when I don’t feel them.