Last night my dreams were a mish-mash of the too much going on in my head. With my scar revision and Jackson being sick this week I have gotten behind where I want to be on the playbill for the next show at work. And I learned yesterday that a young woman I know is dealing with her husband's recurrent cancer that has him very ill and bed-bound and her two daughters, one two year old and one two months old.
I dreamed I went to work in the evening to work on the playbill but instead of going to the theatre, where I work, I went to the hospital, where I used to work. And I couldn't find my office. I wandered the halls of the place, which looked like the maternity unit I worked in, but housed cancer patients instead. And I kept opening doors looking for my office, for my computer, so I could get the playbill done. I kept apologizing to the nurses and the patients and cursing the 'chemo brain' episode that had left me unable to find my office. In my dream I finally called Sonja, my boss at the Palace, to ask her if she could please tell me where the office is, because I seemed to have forgotten the way. She was no help. She said she didn't know either. Then I woke up.
It didn't even occur to me in my dream that I don't work at the damned hospital, I work at the theatre. My dream self would have felt so much better had I realized that in the halls of the maternity-slash-oncology ward and said "Duh, I don't have an office here," and then trotted off to the the car and driven to the Palace.
Cancer on the brain. I tell you it's, a killer.
Ha Ha. It's a killer.
I have been thinking about this super-cool young mom who is in the incredible position of being bodily care-taker of two very small children and a very sick young man. His cancer is rare, treatment is a crap-shoot. And she feels guilty for not being sick. She told me the she gets a break occasionally, but he doesn't. He is stuck with cancer 24/7.
Survivor's guilt is a bitch. I have it in droves. On Planet Cancer tonight - the Myspace for the young adult cancer community - I learned that an 18 year-old I have been following has died. He has been slowly dying on his couch in Australia for months. His body betrayed him worse every day, but his mind was vital and scathingly humorous and his was wisdom far beyond his years. While I am glad he isn't in pain anymore, I am more than pissed off and devastated by his death. I never chatted much with him. I read all his postings and comments and blogs, but I kept my distance. It was survivor's guilt that made me not want to draw his attention. I somehow didn't want to rub it in his face that I am sitting here today healthy and 32 and he won't see 19. I finally commented to him when he blogged Tuesday that it would probably be easier on his little brothers if he gave up being at home and went inpatient. He broke my heart and I wrote to him simply "You are awesome and you don't deserve this. I fucking hate cancer." He wrote back to me on Wednesday, "Thanks Marsha, awesome too." He was beyond complete sentences. He died yesterday. Goddammit.