Sharpening one's senses

Argh, mornings. Mornings are hard work. I am aware this statement is no grand revelation, insightful breakthrough of the mind, or epiphany; I have never liked mornings and I imagine about half of you out there would agree with me. But, currently, mornings aren’t worth getting out of bed for. Except that I am forced to. Pain has again arrived. Right sided rib and lumbar pain this time, restricting possible slumber postures to a mere two. Tactical Sevredol intake no longer seems to help; pain is winning the war on opiates. After a night locked and rigid, morphine levels diminishing, well mornings become unbearable. Pain wakes me. I rise, perhaps dress, then collapse, breathless, back upon the bed. Breakfast is impossible. Coffee, also. And I am just a dreadful person to be around. To say my fuse is short would be a gross understatement. It is morning now.

I am aware of my cantankerous nature. I work hard to bite my tongue, to try and diffuse my irrational agitation, but I tell you pain makes social interaction pretty difficult. I have no patience or tolerance or compassion, and I despise feeling this way. I preferred being brain numb and sympathetic than alert and cranky. A tourist, on a walking trail just ahead of us. My pace is that of a sloth; there is no chance that anyone will hold us up. We have nowhere to be, no reason to rush. This particular tourist, on this particular day, seemed fond of taking photos. She stopped, often, her phone in front of her face, snap, snap, snap. A sandy track through the manuka trees, a manuka tree, farmland, a cow, a stile, a stone. Snap, snap, snap each time she stopped. She never held us up. She had no impact on me, nor anyone around me, yet I was fuming. Then the pointlessness of my anger aggravated me further. I wanted to scream and cry and tantrum and rant. It requires too much energy to be angry. I can’t go wasting energy on minor incidents that have no ramifications on anyone else in the slightest. Outrage is pointless. It is hardly an emotion, it is a reaction, and an unproductive one at that.

Snap, snap, snap

Chronic pain seems to do that to me. The pessimist emerges. I concentrate on what I dislike, rather than what I like. I place fault at the feet of those around me. It is not the tourist who has caused my anger, I have caused it. I am on the verge of an eruption, the pain needs to be stopped. So another trip to Wellington, attempting to eradicate the pain, again, with radiotherapy. There are many types of pain, and most I can manage. Often, pain passes. That is how I tolerate  it. I know that it will pass, and I will feel good when it does. The pain I am experiencing now has been progressively worsening since December. It doesn’t go away. It is dulled by morphine, but always a small portion remains, chipping away at me. The radiation team suspect that the Hodgkin’s lymphoma cells are now inside my ribs, slowly expanding the bone, and that this expansion is causing the pain. Which is how it feels to me; like someone is trying to inflate each rib, coupled with a nerve pinch.

My appetite since the TimTam incident has not been great. I am not sure why this is. It could be disease, I certainly have some gnarly neck nodes at present. But, to be honest, I do not wish disease to be the reason. I am opting for denial. So, I shall look for other excuses. Mainly taste, I think. Since the November head radiotherapy, my taste has been lacking. I can recognise the six base ‘tastes’ and a few specific foods, but not much more than that. Fortunately, I can taste strong coffee as ‘coffee’, but I can’t taste any subtleties. I can barely taste beer as ‘beer’. It is not worth taking me to Garage Project at the moment. Occasionally, I find myself craving a dish that I know I shan’t be able to taste. This seems odd to me. It appears I can activate taste receptors within my mind but not in reality. Initially this lead to disappointments, further tantrums. But I no longer submit to these cravings. Still, the tantrums tend to remain. There are dishes and drinks that do taste exactly as expected, Coke, unfortunately, being one. Sometimes it is a relief to eat something and have it taste precisely as you remembered. Often, I am just left disappointed. I guess this is what global food corporations thrive on. A consistent bland taste.

Also, I have no sense of smell. Like I cannot smell anything. Again, this is side effect of the brain radiotherapy, so I’ve been unable to smell for about twelve weeks. You’re probably aware of the time frame. I do keep harping on about it. Anyway, it is unlikely my sense of smell will return. It is a peculiar feeling, having a core sense wiped out. Granted, smell would have been my choice, if I’d had a choice, I know I am fortunate. But I do feel a little dull, like I am missing more than just my sense of smell. Perhaps its absence will enhance my remaining base senses, and I will be a superhero again. Yes, again. Ok, I may have a Marvel complex. Actually a Whedon complex is probably more accurate. Like anything that vanishes, I did not realise how much I relied on scenting until I could do it no longer. I have had to adjust how I cook; watching the onions sauté rather than spinning around once they’re fragrant. This is on those rare days when I happen upon the energy to cook. And to be fair, I cannot tell you how palatable my creations are because I cannot taste them. It may be best for me to forgo cooking. My laundry abilities are also hampered. Either I must recall what I have worn and when, an unlikely prospect, or new systems are required for detecting dirty clothing. The old sniff technique is no longer valid. Dr Urbino’s affair remains secret. Florentino never gains his true love

Appetite, ah we’re back to appetite. Smell seems to contribute much to appetite. Perhaps I require bells to stimulate salivation as I no longer have my onions. Oh shit, my onions, I forgot my onions. Hmmm, well, I am sure there is a recipe out there that calls for blackened onions. No, no, don't worry, I'm not cooking. I know much better than to blog and fry. An inability to smell also impacts on food storage. I have never been one for expiry dates. But now I cannot smell if the hummus or milk, is foul. I just blissfully use it. Perhaps this is the cause of my nausea.

There are positives to an absence of smell. Public toilets, long drops, neither are a bother. Except I need to look a little closer before rushing on in and settling down. I guess pungent smells are meant to repel, to alert, to let one know that something is amiss. Smoke, gas, heat, petrol, biological fluids; all void in my nasal cavity. A little disconcerting, again when cooking. However, another positive, at least my nausea no longer feeds-back upon itself. Why the nausea? I do not know. All I know is that it isn’t smell related, but it is rather frustrating. I have become accustomed to vomiting in public, much like I was when I was eighteen. Except now it is daylight and I simply remove my hat, receiving compassionate glances rather than condescending snarls as I hurl into a garden.

So this turned out to be one giant moan. I do, once again, apologise for that. I guess I could claim this as an update of radiotherapy side effects, but really we all know I just felt like bitching. As usual. But writing this post has been helpful. I’ve realised that I probably ought not to cook dinner tonight.