exploitation

The bad
Since I was a teenager, most of the limited attention I possess was devoted to the plethora of crap I had to do to survive, to keep a grip in the face of my reality being erased by those who refused to acknowledge what I was going through - and I barely succeeded at times, and failed dismally others.

Family, friends, health professionals ignored and dismissed my very real and painful experience of my being vulnerable to exploitation, while simultaneously exploiting my vulnerabilities to manipulate me into believing much of the time that I wasn't vulnerable. (Yes, this head game was brought to you by your taxpayer). I was then freely available to be a crutch on which they could prop up their reputations and egos .

"we saved your life with no side effects - aren't we fabulous people (bah - fabulous martyrs ) for still putting up with you and all your imaginary complaints - the imaginary complaints about your memory, attention and focus that we use against you, to give us the edge we need to dismiss your complaints about memory, attention and focus ... "

The good
Going to have to think about this one ... (I will deliver - please bear with the slow thinker that is me.)

cancer memory

From Whence I Came:
A few years ago, I moved to a new city, partly with a new life/career/city/school plan, partly with the intent to escape the trap of an oncology clinic I was in; I desperately needed follow up care for the chronic late-effect monkey on my back that no one in the adult oncology unit would acknowledge.

The first oncologist I met with at the new clinic looked over my protocol and promptly dismissed my late effects concerns, saying that I should have 'no side effects'" based on the gallizion drugs that were pumped through my veins - absolute rubbish. Back on the merry-go-round to demoralization I was. It's sad to say that so goes most of my encounters with anyone who I try to tell about late effects.

To Where I Landed:
Last week I gave a 3rd try at finding a decent disability counsellor at the institution of higher learning that attend. I show up at the appointment with the feeling of dread that accompanies these kind of prior negative experiences - the one where there is a firewall between the truth of your experience and the person who is listening to you.

The first two counsellors lived on that planet of neverneverland - no doubt they are neighbours of my former oncologist who, as his first act as the planetary government leader, deemed self-delusion an acceptable professionl practice.

And Now I Am Here:
So there I am, checked in at the appointment desk, feeling anxious and jumpy, easily threatened and irked, my injustice red-flag-o-meter on high alert. I'm delayed because the counsellor is on the phone. Argh. Next, a woman comes along and buts in front of me and into the counsellor's office. Grrrrr. (now you're expecting me to find a moment of zen, right). So I do - I get up and walk out.

I go for some cheap but flavoured coffee, and seriously consider blowing the appointment off - until I remember that the psychiatrist who did my ADHD evaluation thought that a "referral summary" consisted of revealing all the nitty-gritty of my life history on paper (I made this discovery while getting documentation for my tax write-offs - ADHD is the closest legitimate dx I can land on in order to get services and write off my hefty out of pocket expenses).

So back I go to at least retrieve the offensive document. Now I'm 20 minutes late and I've been rude to the nice library technician who tried to embargo my coffee. (Why would I get coffee when I'm jumpy you ask ... that's another chapter for the section on "cancer and you: your guide to the effective use of addictive substances").

Despite my immature and spiteful lateness, the counsellor sees me. And I have one of those moments that I've been having more and more often as of late.

And Here I'll Stay:
She's fabulous.

She's respectful, sharp, knowledgeable, not the least bit bloated with 'power-over'. Instantly she knew that chemotherapy's effect on memory, concentration and focus is well documented.

Phew. The usual helping professional induced panic attack averted - an actual possibility for rehabilitative progress arrives. Order is restored to the universe for a fleeting moment.

cancer fatigue

I've already mentioned a bitchin' cancer book that I came across recently - After Cancer.

Of much of the literature that's been published on cancer survival, this is the first I've seen that actually gives a name to an often disbelieved and ignored late effect ... the kind of disbelief that approaches scorn gets levelled at survivors who are labouring under the ongoing fatigue that persists and persists and persists past the end of treatment.

It is called Cancer Fatigue. Now you know.

cancer rage

I've read over a few of my earlier posts and my rage and bitterness at the aftermath of my cancer experience is clear. Removing a couple of them is a possibility - I'm not sure if censoring that experience is necessary, nor am I convinced that spewing venom is the expression most befitting.

It is real and honest, and uncomfortable and off-putting as they are, for now they stay.