Tuesday, 12. 12.06

I sometimes catch myself studying the image in the mirror. I notice the black lines under my eyes and flakes of dead skin on my upper lip. I examine the shape and color of the scars on my left shoulder and tummy. I wonder if the bruises (from the body strap I wore to support my abdomen right after the initial surgery) would ever go away. After walking a lot, sometimes my toes turn pale, as if someone had put baby powder on them. My hair (all of them all over) seems to have stayed on so far, but there’s no knowing when and how it’s going to fall out. I can’t scratch an itch spot on my right shoulder blade because the catheter prevents my left arm from wrapping all the way across my chest. When I’m physically tired after a long day of running around, the wound on my tummy aches just enough to make it difficult to walk. Feelings of anger and grief linger close by, ready to be unleashed.

I know it’s good for me to get out of the house, but being in public places is no longer the same. I’m more sensitive and irritable than usual. I now have absolutely no immunity to tear-jerking and graphic movie scenes. I get nervous when people cough or sneeze around me. I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke while or after someone has a puff. I’m in a constant fear that fellow pedestrians might bump into me causing harm to my catheter or wound. I avoid seeing, and being seen by, people I'm not very close with. Some people don’t know how to face me; some may even be scared of the disease. I see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices.

Life also becomes a bit of a joke. While my cousins are stressed out about not having the perfect outfits to go to their friends’ weddings, I spend half an hour figuring out how I can put on my overalls because the buckle on the left strap rubs against my catheter and it hurts. While I force myself to eat more to avoid anemia, TV commercials brainwash women to starve themselves. A stroll on Zhong-Xiao East Road (the fashion center of Taipei), I feel isolated and lonely. All the blinking colorful Christmas lights and tempting Christmas sales have nothing to do with me. It's not like I would jump into a tiny Tee and some butt-hugging jeans with a pair of boots with heels that kill, sipping egg nog and socializing. My next chemo is on Boxing Day. As much as I would like to be strong and upbeat, I'm sorry to say that celebrating Christmas is not on my list of priorities this year. In the midst of all things Christmas, all I really want to do is to take it up with Him in private: "WHY ME?"

I don’t expect anyone to understand how I feel and why I feel the way I do because I myself don’t even have a clue. I just want to be normal again. I know I’m not an insecure person. I’ve lost the old me, and I haven’t been able to make peace with this alien sense of self.