Sheila Post!

Yesterday as my former neighbor and long-time friend Rebecca Pompon and I were driving back from our long-standing Sunday grocery shopping trip, the subject of belief and spirituality arose. Rebecca’s always a terrific person with whom to discuss human behavior, religion and the ways of the world in general, and yesterday was no exception. She was recalling a discussion she had with a friend about how to cope with difficult situations; in particular, the recent news of a relative’s dire illness. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be the type of person who could just ‘put it in the hands of God?’” her friend asked Rebecca wistfully. “To just be able to say, ‘God will handle everything.’”

“Actually, no,” Rebecca had answered her friend, which sparked an interesting exchange between the two of us – so interesting, that our previous conversation about the tasty risotto corn cakes we’d had for lunch was all but forgotten. “I think I’d rather be able to feel like I was actively doing something to deal with the situation. Handing it over to God seems like giving up control.”

Control. The word, by its very nature, is a strong one. I completely understood what Rebecca was saying. I am also not a person who believes so strongly in a higher power that I can ultimately put my fate into its hands. Like Rebecca’s friend, I have often wished I was – it would make for a lot fewer restless nights. But on the other hand, I have always been someone who needs to have a handle on the outcomes of situations. I’ll squirm in my seat and finally blurt out “turn HERE!!” when Jason is driving, even though I know he may have a different route in mind. I need to know the exact location of the remote control at all times. And don’t try surprising me by taking me out to dinner to a “special place.” I need to know where we’re going so I can be prepared!

Getting a disease like cancer – in which body parts are removed, skin is repeatedly pierced, and nausea is induced every other week for a number of months – is difficult for control freaks like me. Knowing that errant cancer cells may be staking out my internal organs and planning a sneak attack is disconcerting to say the least. We arm ourselves with green tea, Brussels sprouts and the city’s best oncologists and hope for the best. We swallow fish oil pills the size of the fish themselves and study meditative practices, all while trying to push thoughts of our looming mortality from our minds.

I had a procedure at Swedish today called a “portacath placement” in which a surgeon inserts a small, quarter-sized device just under the skin near the collarbone. It remains in place for the duration of chemotherapy treatment so an IV line can be placed directly into a vein through the portacath, eliminating those repeated piercings I mentioned earlier. It’s a day surgery that employs “conscious sedation” instead of a general anesthetic. Instead of being completely unconscious, I would be given a drug that the nurses told me would make me “not care” about the knives, tubes and other scary things being wielded above me.

“But what if the drugs don’t work and I do care, right in the middle of the procedure?” I asked.

The nurse, well-meaning but obviously missing the true nature of my question, tried to assure me.

“We won’t start the procedure until we’re sure the drugs are working,” she said. “It’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable. I promise you, you won’t feel a thing.”

It wasn’t the physical pain I was concerned about. In fact, if I had my way, I would have opted for just a local anesthetic and no drugs at all. My biggest fear was being sedated to the extent that I could not convey a need to the nurses. What if my heart started racing, but I was so doped up I couldn’t tell them? Or if I suddenly lost my sight or started choking? Or if I started to panic but couldn’t move my body? I’d be too sedated to bring it to their attention.

It all comes back to control. Or the lack of it, over these past several weeks. I’ve been driven places, excused from obligations and told to take naps. Before my diagnosis, that would have sounded like pure heaven. But being faced with something that takes your day-to-day routine and turns it on its head? It sucks rocks. Big time. Will I be able to go to Dom and Lynna’s wedding in Steamboat Springs in June? Guess we’ll just have to wait and see how the chemo goes. Will I be able to keep going to my spinning classes? That’s probably a decision my doctor – not me – will have to make.

As time goes on, I do think this experience – as scary and uncertain as it may be - will serve me well in the end. I may not put my situation in the hands of a higher power, but putting it somewhere besides my shoulders every now and then is not such a bad thing.

And a nap would actually feel pretty good.