Chap. 3 — The Descent
As the weeks passed, the terror took root inside me.
It exhausted me. I began losing weight rapidly—my body emptying itself over and over again. Scared, I went to see a nurse practitioner who gently suggested time off work and prescribed medication. I took six weeks off work. I tried taking the medication. But as soon as I placed the pill in my mouth, a burning sensation shot up my spine. Panic seized me. I spit it out.
I couldn’t force myself to take the medication—and deep down, I didn’t want to. I had been on antidepressants for decades. I longed for relief. But my body said "No."
Time off work brought no peace. The terror was relentless.
Some days I walked the streets, earbuds in, music blasting through my iPod. I would sing out loud, not caring who heard. I was singing for my life.
Other days, I found refuge at Cheeseboard, a co-op pizza shop where the lines ran half a block long. Amid the clatter and live jazz, I tried to connect—to find some trace of life I could still anchor to. Sometimes, if the music felt right, I danced outside on the sidewalk. In some broken, sacred way, I was trying to survive and feel free.
I sought help from doctors. One offered nothing—no plan, no warmth, just blank helplessness.
Eventually, I found a non-traditional MD who worked with herbs and supplements. It felt like a small lifeline. During one visit, I mentioned a possible hemorrhoid. She examined it and wasn’t concerned.
But by my next visit, something had shifted. She told me she’d awakened in the middle of the night with a knowing: It could be cancer. She referred me to a specialist.
That appointment with the specialist became its own trauma. While I was still on the table—vulnerable, exposed, my face still to the wall with him at my back—the specialist abruptly said, “It’s cancer.” No preparation. No tenderness. I left his office shaken.
I temporarily stepped away from the traditional medical system. Instead, I turned to healing through touch—massages once a week, then twice, sometimes three times.
Looking back now, I understand what I was really reaching for. Yes, I was trying to calm the terror. But more than that, I was trying to connect. To be seen. To be heard. To be held.
This is when I deepened my therapy work—twice a week at first, then three. My therapist, Carol, kept assuring me: “This will end.”
Still, I would leave her office and walk the streets, watching people laugh and talk. They seemed alive in a way I couldn’t reach. I felt like I existed in a parallel dimension—visible, yet unseen.
One of my small sanctuaries was a local restaurant. I’d sit quietly with a bowl of soup, watching others live their lives as if I were outside a window—both ghost and guest.
Eventually, I saw a gastroenterologist who spoke with me for over an hour. He referred me to a top specialist at UCSF. The wait would be long, he warned. But grace stepped in: I got an appointment within two weeks.
The biopsy was done. The hemorrhoid removed. It was cancer. Because of its location, they couldn’t be certain the margins were clear. I was referred to a seasoned radiologist in Berkeley—thankfully nearby.
The terror remained, silent and burning, every step of the way.
⬅️ Chap. 2
➡️ Chap. 4
⬆️ Return to Hub List
🕊 A Living Memoir
Thank you for reading. If you’d like to share something, reach out > here.