Day: February 8, 2007

Last year I wrote a series of entries detailing my experiences with radiation therapy. I likened the process to emptying a box. It fit, because once the therapy was over, I packed it all away so I didn’t have to think about it. Unfortunately the box sat in the back of my brain and leaked. The process of writing the entries let me empty the box. Once the box was completely empty I felt better and I moved on. There was some evidence that the box emptying worked, but I wondered whether the emptying of the box would be effective in helping quell my typical January depression. I still can’t call January a happy month, but this year it definitely had a more hopeful flavor to it. I planned ahead and kept busy rather than wallowing.

I haven’t reread those radiation entries. I have been afraid to. I put the entries behind me in much the same way that I put the radiation experience behind me. There comes a time to just move on. However, this time I understood that there would also come a time to revisit. I waited until after January was over. I waited for sunny weather. Then today the smell of Howard’s protein drink triggered some old emotions and I decided to just get it over with. I read them all.

I wrote many of those entries with tears rolling down my face. It was a huge purging of emotion. I remember feeling so strongly about what I wrote. All I found today were echoes. My eyes watered a couple of times, but not much. I was very surprised to read about some specific details. I read about them as if I were reading something that someone else wrote. It is as if, having written the experience down, my brain decided the memories were no longer pertinent and dumped them. Seven years after radiation I could still recall the puzzles I put together in the lobby. I could still recall some individual pieces and puzzle sections vividly. Today my memory of those puzzles is vague at best. How can I remember something vividly for seven years and then forget it a year later? I emptied the memory of emotion and it just flitters away.

I’m so glad that I wrote all of these radiation experiences in such detail. At the time the detail was necessary to the emotional purge. For the future the detail will be necessary because I’m going to forget. I’m going to forget. It was the worst, hardest thing I’ve ever been through and I’ve gotten over it. It no longer haunts me. All that are left are random hidden pockets, like the smell this morning.

I haven’t put it behind me. I’m beyond putting it behind me. Things behind me are like a shadow that follows me everywhere. I’ve done better than putting it behind me. I’ve absorbed it. My radiation experiences are no longer something to bury, or run from, or leave behind, they are just one of the many pieces of experience which make up the whole of me.

I’ve decided to open up my “radiation saga” beyond just those on my friends list. Feel free to read if you so wish, but be warned that it is a record of old pain not happy reading. The Radiation Saga

Howard is currently on the Atkins diet because he’s determined to lose weight. I’m not joining him in full-on Atkins, but I’m reducing refined sugars and simple carbohydrates. I’m doing it in part to keep Howard company, but even more because I’m tired of the 10 extra pounds I’ve put on since Patches was born. Dieting together is not something Howard and I have ever done before. It has been kind of fun to talk food and try out some of the low carb options that are available these days.

One of the things that Howard occasionally eats are the low-carb Atkins shakes. This morning he offered me a taste. I brought the open can near my face and then the smell hit me. It is amazing how powerful a trigger smell can be. I instantly handed the can back and tried to quell the flood of unleashed emotion. Eight years ago this month I was in the midst of radiation therapy for a (thankfully benign) tumor under my chin. The radiation made my throat sore. Not just sore, but actively painful whenever I swallowed. Imagine a really bad sunburn on the inside of your throat. Eating was a painful chore and so we used protein shakes to attempt to get enough calories into me to keep me alive. I now loathe protein shakes. I will probably always loathe protein shakes. The smell of that Atkins shake went straight to the back of my brain and unearthed a swell of depression and hopelessness and exhaustion. I had to fight back both nausea and tears.

Fortunately mornings are busy and I was able to dive into the tasks and reassert normality. But when I threw something into the trash and saw the can in there I loathed the can with a vehemence which surprised me. The cans in the box on the shelf weren’t as bad, but I didn’t like them either. Prior to smelling one, the cans had no more emotional content for me than the jars of spices they stand next to. I need to get over being angry at cans because it is silly and because Howard finds the drinks useful. But I’m not going to smell one again.

Smell triggers are sneaky and powerful. The smell of a clean baby makes me feel happy and glowy like I did when I snuggled my own children as babies. The smell of pine candles feels Christmasy. There are myriad other smells which trigger emotions both happy and sad. Some smells even trigger specific memories or images. Sometimes the smell triggers one emotion, but the context makes us feel differently. If a person who desperately wanted another baby smelled clean baby, the smell would trigger happy emotions, but then remind the person she can’t have that. She would end up depressed or crying because of a happy smell. If the smell trigger is out of place, like pine scented candle outdoors in summer, it creates a dissonance that I have to pay attention to in order to resolve. I think this might be one reason that the protein shake smell had such a strong effect on me. I was standing right there in the kitchen where I used to be when I drank protein shakes. The location was right as well as the smell.

I know that it is possible to defuse smell triggers. Another smell associated with the actual therapy itself was the sharp smell of ozone. I discovered that some brands of plastic wrap have this same smell. For a long time, a whiff of that smell would make me nauseous. But I’ve had enough contact with plastic wrap since then that the smell no longer affects me. Perhaps I should try to defuse the smell of protein drinks. On the other hand, I couldn’t avoid plastic wrap easily. Protein drinks are much more rare and expensive. Avoiding protein drinks is easier and less expensive than defusing the smell. The other, other hand (not the gripping hand, because it isn’t stronger) is that I hate having that smell as an emotional landmine ready to ambush me. More thought is required.