On Emotional Pain

I can't eat today. I mean, I could probably eat something if I had any appetite. But the thought of food is just, unappealing. I go to Palo Alto later this morning for the chemo portion of my cancer therapy. I call it my cancer abatement program, as if it were similar to mosquito abatement, or iceplant abatement in the nearby sand dunes.

Still, I am enjoying this morning. Following some "Good Luck’s at my morning meeting I went for a walk, a long walk, with two recent friends, one as recent as this morning. From downtown Carmel to the Pebble Beach Lodge, and back, along roads, trails and cart paths, near the beach and parallel to some of the signature holes of that famous golf course.

Those girls are serious walkers. While setting a brisk pace they did stop periodically to admire the view. The nearly robin's egg blue canopy overhead was unbroken, from horizon, to horizon, to horizon, to horizon. While passing a number of people along the way, only the caddies are afoot, lumbering under the weight of two sets of clubs and their own girth. For myself, I cannot understand why someone would not prefer to walk on a morning such as this, in a setting such as this. It is March 19th, so close to the bay that you would need to choke up on a sand wedge to stop short, sixty-eight or seventy degrees, only the most gentle of breezes blowing intermittently. This is paradise.

Our conversation ranges from children to birthday parties (one of my companions' is tomorrow - I am too wise to inquire which birthday it might be), the recently passed St. Patrick's Day, church and Easter celebrations, the meaning of Lenten sacrifice, and my cancer. While it is never far from my thoughts I am amazed by how uncomfortable my companions are talking about a topic they bring up. "What type is it?" "Aren't you frightened by this?" "How much weight have you lost?" "What is the long-term prognosis?" "Does it hurt?"

The last question stops me short. I don't know how to explain the true nature of the pain I am in. Physically there is some great discomfort, yes. I don't know that it rises to the level of great pain, at least not since the last procedure. I have always had a high pain threshold. But I don’t suffer well. I can't really share the emotional pain that continues to eat a hole in my middle, the pain of going through this alone.

I have not heard a word from any of my family in some time now. Growing up in a clan that lives in the great state of denial, my admission that I suffered from an alcohol and drug problem, and my decision to seek treatment and a life of abstinence created a gulf that seems too wide to bridge. Even Christmas cards go without a response.

What I do receive is forwarded email requiring that I in turn forward it to ten people in twenty seconds or lose my immortal soul, or anti-Obama rhetoric, or jokes - some quite funny. In our last telephone conversation my parents asked for the address of my blog page, claiming that the previous links I had emailed them didn't work. I asked if they would please let me know their feeling on my prose and poetry.

In the nearly two months following I have dropped a couple of emails to say hi, let them know I am still alive. But I have yet to receive a single response.Are they at all interested in what I might think or have to say? Would they be curious about the man I am turning out to be? Or is the request for my blog address just the way some folks make small talk? "How's your second cousin's dog?" "Can't believe it's not raining." "Blogged anything lately?"

The pain of going through life alone is nearly indescribable for me, and I have been told that I have a way with words. There exists inside an emptiness that I can’t describe as pain, yet it hurts. A therapist told me that, yes, it is pain, recognized or not.

I am tired of this pain. I am tired of wishing things were different. I am tired of being kept at arms’ length. I wonder if they have even noticed I no longer respond?