Living in Denial

How is it possible to have something so much in your face and yet still be in denial? Even the very act of writing this blog should signal that I have accepted my cancer diagnosis, that I am dealing with my reality. I wish that was true but denial is still very much alive.

The fire hose has turned into a garden hose and I am still getting wet but at a slower pace. Once I was discharged from the hospital after 11 days, a kind of routine settled in. I count the beginning of my week now from each Tuesday when I return to the hospital for my "infusion." I start that day by taking 10 tiny steroid tablets and then within a few hours I am off to the hospital where they give me an identifying wrist band, take vials of blood from me, weigh me and take my vital signs, just as I did as an inpatient. I rattle off my name and date of birth on each occasion and they take scans of my wrist band, making sure it is indeed me, Marianne Downing, who is receiving the treatment.

In the infusion room, they send for my injection of a drug called Velcade which has to be injected into my stomach. Two nurses are required to determine that they have the right drug for the right person and then one of them dons a yellow protective suit and two pairs of gloves before once again scanning my name band and then injecting me. I'm free to go home after this, only to don protective gloves myself to administer 11 tablets of another chemotherapy drug in the evening.


Usually exhausted by now, Tuesday evenings consist of making my bed with huge bath sheets because of the night sweats that surely will come as a result of the steroids. A change of clothing and a few more hours of sleep before daybreak finally arrives. I feel fortunate if I have slept for four hours on these nights.

Slowly, as the week progresses and I flush out the chemotherapy drugs from my system, my life becomes more "normal". Well, almost. My appetite has gone wacky and everything tastes of metal except for a very small variety of food that is better suited to babies than to a grown woman: mashed potatoes; mashed squash, porridge or oatmeal as the Americans call it. Not exactly exciting fare but I am doing my best to maintain my weight. They tell me I am going to need all my reserves for future treatments that are yet to come.

Cancer treatment has therefore permeated every aspect of my life, taking it over and I feel swallowed whole. And yet, I am clearly in denial. As a former therapist I can recognize the tell tale signs that I am hiding my head in the sand. When I was first told about "multiple myeloma" I avidly googled like crazy to see what they were talking about. What I read was frightening and overwhelming. There was this redeeming information about needing to find an expert in this particular cancer which led me thankfully to the Huntsman so for that I am grateful. However, that little bit of knowledge sent my head and emotions into a tailspin. After one full day of looking it all up, I stopped searching, unable to look at another word.

At the Huntsman hospital you are constantly surrounded with the reality of cancer. There are the little baskets everywhere of knitted hats which are free to all cancer patients, a reminder that the hair is not long for this world. There are the other patients of all ages in various stages of their battle in the corridors and meeting areas, many with bald heads, masks and holding on to poles containing IV fluids. There are the stands of masks and hand sanitizing liquid on every floor to remind people that this is a fragile population. Here am I in the midst of all of this, an actual cancer patient.


I have to pinch myself and try to face up to the idea that I have cancer. I remember that this has always been my nightmare, to have a long-term disease that would gradually take my life. But I am not there. I live in a fantasy world in my head where Cancer is something out there among the masks. It's not real. To make sure that it doesn't apply to me, I make sure that I don't read the magazines that are cancer focused. I put a shield up so I can't see the doors of the cancer library on the sixth floor of the building and hardest of all, I avoid well-meaning friends who want to visit to commiserate and who greet me in hushed tones that speak of their sympathy for my plight. I can't bring myself to speak to them because cancer is out there, not something so close as in my own body. I am in denial.

As time is wearing on, my natural curiosity is slowly beginning to return to me. Still, I only want to talk to medical staff, experts who deal with this stuff day to day. I can write this blog and I can pick me up one of the knitted hats in all good conscience because I am going to need it. The fog of disbelief is finally lifting and I am thirsty for knowledge about what to expect. signs and symptoms, treatment options. I have begun to take greater comfort from speaking with other cancer patients because after all, I belong to the club now. "But don't push this" I tell myself. if you come and visit me or call me, I am still going to avoid you for the moment. Denial is having trouble giving up its grip on me and I am holding on for dear life for as long as I can.