Life Interruptus

The Unimportance of the World in the Chaos of Disease

While politicians, mostly men and the occasional embarrassing female, fight among themselves, edging toward another dictatorship and World War III and the (hopeful) fall of the most despicable human on the planet; while democracy and the free world fall apart; while behind-the-scenes, old politicians work to uphold their failing bodies and minds; and while others have their fingers an inch above The Red Button; and while some have their phallic bombs destroying others’ countries — and while the earth screams out for help as it cracks in pieces and floods swollen rivers of tears; spews whirling, black tornadoes into fields of housing; and tsunamis and grey, blustering hurricanes gyrate in life-threatening anger with what is being been done to the MOTHER of us all, my own body has also revolted within the small world and pueblo in which it exists.

I have recently tossed aside a fascination and horror for the world’s state of affairs, including all the men who think they will get away with murdering their wives, and the mothers who slay their children, among the thousands of pedophiles, rapists, abusers, psychos and sickos bent on another kind of destruction — the personal one that is or was once clothed in “love”. These sordid tales along with politics have no slot in my mind now as I face, in wonderment, the advent of cancer in my right breast.

I have always been happy with my size 5 body and B beasts from a young age up to, say 20 years ago when its small frame quietly morphed into a doughy blow-up of its former self, due to menopause and an addiction to sweets. It also took on excess pounds when alcohol and cigs were no longer youth-cool and alcohol no longer served my professional career. The sugar addiction worsened during the simultaneous demise by cancer of my mother and sister, followed by the early death of my first dog, Barnum, who all died within months of each other.

“Bad, Bad Bette the Circus Sinner”. Artist: Bonnie Metzger

Back then, in 2006, there was nothing that could calm me more than fresh Connecticut lobster and fried clams at a typical, charming lobster shack in Mystic Seaport, followed by an ice cream swirl as my brother and I tried to lighten the load of what just happened and my burden in settling our mother’s affairs. Upon returning to my mother’s home, a bag full of mini Magna ice cream bars awaited me to rest atop the food that was backed up in my esophagus. No I am not 600 lbs. I am 30 lbs overweight. Sugar saved my sanity but was it sugar that caused the advent of this personal invasion or — is it the daily barrage of pings and pongs and orgasmic screams from the pickleball court recently built next door to my jungle home and rental business by a self-centered and entitled rico who belongs back in the USA vs this quiet, formerly respectful Mexican pueblo I call home? Perhaps it was the poison sprayed on the palapa over my gallery and art studio space, or that it is genetic. Or maybe it’s the chem trails that one savvy friend claims is the root of all of our woes. One will never know. It falls in with the state of affairs of today’s world.

Cancer infiltrated the pancreas of my paternal uncle; the breast, nose, bones and spine of my mother; the skin of my sister who was told melanoma had been removed before it spread everywhere three months later, and the larynx of my older brother who is alive today. I thought I was free from it, for how could most of the family die from the same disease? Surely, I, the adventurous one, the renegade, the sober one, the one who gave up meat in 1972 before it became a Medal of Honor worn on vegan chests, who chose career and adventure over confining marriage…surely I would be given an exit out of the familial legacy, as I was the only one given a ride out of family alcoholism, not without enormous amounts of difficult work and a hard-earned Phd in SELF.

But no. Cancer decided to nail me too. Thankfully, the Big Hands in the Sky, directed me to an annual, routine mammogram clinic which I contemplated not attending. Following the exam, la doctora left the room to talk with an oncologist surgeon. I suspected trouble when I was taken into the sonogram room, a sure flag that something was amiss. Deny it! Not me! But there it was on the screen, a brown, blown-up thing that looked like a cold nipple on a 40 degrees-below-zero Minneapolis night. Over six weeks, I was Xeroxed; squeezed; pricked and drained of blood; jabbed; scanned; cut; prodded; numbed; sliced; and put into a small jar for focused observation by others.

The bad news was good. “The tumor is small and only about one year-new,” said la doctora. While walking that rocky road with my mother, Breast Cancer was one entity in my mind. However, I learned that day that there are stages and levels and aggressive clues and treatment options; life expectancy predictions that vary from one type to another; return possibilities - or not - in other parts of the body; invasions or not of lymph nodes; different time durations for radiation and/or chemotherapy. No two are alike and each treatment varies from person to person.

And here, in beautiful Mexico, the patient needs to hurry up and learn the lingo and even faster, take control of appointments, paperwork, and appointments with a variety of doctors while constantly blanking out in disbelief, stress and fear. My brain worked and then it didn’t as if San Francisco fog entered my cranium and obliterated every living thought there. Confusion replaced intelligence and memory as the fog swirled around my brain. The medical system here doesn’t email or send results from doctor to doctor, nor store them in the hospital or clinic for future reference. You, the patient, are in full charge of them forevermore, and if you lose them, oh well. You must be the patient, researcher, delivery person, Xeroxer, printer, and reminder to not only arrange appointments, but to arrive with the appropriate tests results that you’ve hopefully have remembered to have. Which is why an advocate is essential. The one who chose to support me is a friend who cleaned up the horrific animal situation here, with 17 years of spay and neutering and adoptions while seeing the worst of the worst unimaginable things. My case is nothing in comparison as she drives me to appointments or calls and texts to ask if I’ve remembered to do x y or z.

The idea of chemo and vomiting about sent me over the edge as vomiting has always been too low class for me. Not that it has a class. It simply does not fit my taste buds. Plus my esophagus simply cannot engage in such a distasteful deed. It is paralyzed. Achalasia, is a rare, mostly unknown, disease that destroys the sphincter to the stomach as well as the esophageal muscles, preventing peristalsis that normally pushes the food down through the sphincter into the stomach. With Achalasia, one cannot swallow or eat. The backup of food in the esophagus causes agonizing charley-horse spasms and the horrific projectile expulsion of food, along with painful acid reflux. I have suffered with Achalasia for 40 years when only 8 patients were seen at Mass General in Boston. The numbers now are far beyond that as thousands more people, from infants to the elderly, fight for their lives and weight in daily spasms of pain that most often outsiders, including families, blame on the patient for being “under too much stress”, which was the case with me. Or that it’s all in the person’s head. I handled Achalasia alone, not telling many for fear of ruining my professional reputation. The endless horrific tests were my burden alone, with tubes down nose and throat without painkillers, and balloon tears to open the closed sphincter which revealed success when doctors found the balloon covered with blood. No go-to-sleep meds. New life-saving surgery (Heller Myotomy) restored my ability to eat pain free, with occasional flareups of spasms and acid reflux. I was free. While I am in the final stage of the disease which most often results in the removal of the esophagus, I don’t envision that as my future and am grateful that I am in better shape than most people at this stage. I refuse to live as a sick person using Achalasia as my calling card and do not make it the focus of my life.

This time, I called out for help, knowing that the Big C had its grip on my psyche in ways Achalasia did not. No, this time, the dreaded enemy had come in the dark of night. The Teat Team, made up of my female friends from all over, responded on Facebook Messenger to provide advice, support, help and virtual soft arms to lean into. God bless women and friends who are the caretakers of the world and who are my lifeblood.

This past Thursday, an internist reviewed all the test results, clearly describing the state that my body is in, in order to approve or disapprove surgery:

Stage 1. Level 1 vs. 2 or 3 which would be a serious threat. Non aggressive. Unlikely to return elsewhere in the future. No radiation needed. Lumpectomy vs. mastectomy. Liver and kidneys - fine. Heart - great. Thyroid - good shape. Ct scan - no metastasis. Blood - no infections, no low or high glucosSure/sugar. Surgery - CHECK! I have dodged the bullet and face a small inconvenience with the pending Lumpectomy. For this, I am deeply grateful.

While the world burdens itself with the most horrible dramas this planet has ever seen, (aside from WW11), I plan to return to writing and painting. I have taken my casa off the market, bought a dilapidated table for my art. I will continue my five star rental business and create more events and shows for my art gallery. More projects are in the works for my Historic Project that captures the history of this undocumented pueblo that I started 11 years ago. Plus travel more. And plant my feet among people I love vs. uprooting in search for the next best thang, despite the old saying, “Small pueblo, big hell”.

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