CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
In Limbo
April 1, 1983… There is something left to be desired about living in a state which can be described as "limbo." I am neither happy nor unhappy. I cannot plan, because planning would only dig my sense of "loss" to a deeper level. I am unable to live my life in the ways in which I like for fear of ruining the Alivizatos miracle cure and because of my general lack of energy. I think I can do something but when I actually try, it fizzles into dust; I haven't the energy. I sometimes feel a world apart from all else… in Greece I lost my zest… or what zest I ever had… for living (in my sense of the word). Perhaps I can look forward to normalcy only after the six months period has come to an end. At least then I'll know my verdict. . . as I had before I went to Greece.
June 26, 1983… Today the bomb blew up that was ticking in my brain. I guess one might say that emotional explosions are a rarity in my case, however, I am lucky enough to realize when I've reached the point of mental saturation. It seemed of late, that all I heard were complaints and conversations necessitating an obligatory response of heartfelt sympathy.
I should never expect less than the truth when I ask "How are you?" There is then a symphony of habitual ailments; I receive quite an ear-full and the health report is consistently poor.
The next uplifting conversation was with Max, the master of personality, and a virtual ball of fire, (I jest, of course). His lamentations include numerous health difficulties, among them his artificial limb. Undoubtedly he is far worse off, in my opinion, than I.
However, I don't relish conversations riddled with bits and pieces of Greek reminiscences; I prefer to forget the entire affair. Moreover, I battle to maintain somewhat of a conversation. . . silence can only last so long before I become unsettled and feel nervous tremors pacing through my stomach. I am thoroughly exhausted once I am home. I am so tired of sob stories; they are no longer any good with me. I wonder if I lack tolerance for people who eternally lament their personal plights. Others also have problems, but muffle them to a far greater degree. Life's too short to taint other's lives with one's own depressions and sorrows; talk but do not burden! Perhaps, also, I have no sympathy for people who completely deny death and cannot accept it as a normal part of the life cycle itself. I hope my mind can now relax… I have twice today relieved it's pressure. I can now, with luck, bid my senses goodnight.
August, 1983… Is there really any sense to my life anymore? Sometimes I hate my life. I seem to be going nowhere… my pendulum has come to a slow stand-still. It seems that all the progress I had made 2 years ago has left me empty-handed and stripped once more. Selfworth is altogether laughable in context with my life. What, after all, is my purpose for being here? I do no more than spend other's money, take up space and burden my family with my lack of physical attributes. I feel that I could hold no job. . . I sometimes spend hours in one day running to the toilet. After eating, I always run the risk of feeling enormously nauseous for the duration of several hours. And stamina? Sometimes I have it, sometimes I don't.
Marriage? Who and how? At times I can barely take care of myself. Kids would be unthinkable, for reasons of conception as well as taking good care of them. What would you do while you were afflicted by runny bowels? And as far as a husband goes, he wouldn't exactly be getting "prime stuff." I'm a sight to look at… the type of body that deserves a full wardrobe at all times.
I don't understand why my cancer has to grow so slowly. Life can be such a burden. Some days I feel as if I've done nothing except eat, sleep and feel sick. And yet I feel guilty for not "pulling my weight." I don't want to be a chronic complainer and ailing 'til death bids me depart. I feel like a pussyfoot. . . I need ice or I'll overheat or sweat; I have my personal air-conditioner so I can survive the summer headache free. Sometimes I can't do much in the physical sense, and I feel as if my body is going to the dump. I have a whole sack or two in the cubbyhole filled with slacks and jeans that my ego will not allow me to throw away. False hopes still contemplate "recovery" in a bland sort of way. I suppose with all sincerity, however, that such luck is not to be mine. In all likelihood, I'll live to a ripe old age carrying an overgrown watermelon in my stomach, only to die by some freak car accident. Dream on, Laurie, for dreams carry no malignancy; dreams can be kept alive or brought to nonexistence as the individual mind sees fit. They can nurture or destroy the dreamer simply by his own desires.