Noise

I am sitting in my living room trying to write, while a crew of workmen literally saw through the brick around my glass block windows in order to fix the flashing.  It’s so incredibly loud that it’s hard to think.  I would leave the house, but I need to be here to wait for the new hot water heater to arrive.  I haven’t had hot water since Tuesday.  I feel the frustration and anxiety bubble up in me and it’s overwhelming and annoying.  I have things to do!  I need peace and quiet to do them.  Grrrrrr!!!

And then the light bulb - yet another metaphor for the struggles of dealing with cancer.

The noise.  It starts with that phone call you get, where a sympathetic doctor tells you the biopsy was abnormal.  There is the noise of talking, the noise of anxiety swirling in your head, that other voice that says, ‘no, no it’s not me, you called the wrong person’ and that weird white noise, making it difficult to hear or understand anything at all.  Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sound of crying.  You realize it’s you.

And then there are the noises of chemo.  The clicking and beeping of the pump that is shooting toxins into your bloodstream, killing the cancer, and anything else that gets in its way.  The shuffling of feet, and the squeaking of wheels going past your door, while another patient makes his way to the bathroom.  The happy smiley sounds that your friends and family make, trying to keep your spirits up, and the silent but very real sound you hear as you catch the eye of another cancer patient and immediately know that you are not the only one suffering.

The noise of radiation is beeping and buzzing, and the sound of holding your breath so that you keep your tattoos in line with the lasers that guide the machine.  It doesn’t take long, but in your head you hear, ‘don’t breathe, don’t breathe’ until you hear the machine stop buzzing and the tech behind the protective glass say, ‘ok, that’s it for today.’

The noise of the nurse’s voice is what you hear after surgery. “You are in recovery.  Your surgery is finished.  Are you in any pain?  Would you like something for the pain?”  And if you are lucky like I was, you hear your father’s voice telling you, “They got it all out, and your lymph nodes are clear.  The doctor said you are going to be ok.”  And you drift off into another blessedly noiseless sleep.

And if you are truly lucky, you hear your oncologist say, “You have done really well.  Go live your life and check back in with us in three months.”  You hear the triumphant voices in your head for awhile.  “I beat cancer!  I can do anything!”  And you hear the relief and congratulations of everyone who saw you through the journey.

But it’s never long before you start to hear the noise of fear.  “What if it comes back?  How can I move forward after what I have been through?  Will I ever be the same again?”

And that’s when you realize that it’s all just noise.  Hearing all that noise means you are alive.  If it bugs you, put on some headphones for awhile, but never forget the beauty of the noise of life.