In the summer of 2016, I had my cancerous tits cut off and began six rounds of chemo to catch any stray illness my body might still be secretly housing. Because chemotherapy works by killing perfectly good white blood cells along with the cancerous ones, the chance of getting seriously sick from a typically mild virus skyrockets. To combat this, my doctor prescribed a self-injected white blood cell booster called Neulasta, with the warning that it “might cause a little bone pain.” What it caused was 12 hours of torment I’ve yet to recover from and still cannot adequately describe. Every bone in my body felt as if it contained a lit match, and the fire pulsed outward, biting at the inside of skin that seemed seconds away from bursting open. Simultaneously, my ribs felt as if they had collapsed inward to squeeze my lungs so that I was no longer doing what I would define as “breathing” as much as I was letting breath escape in short rattles. My legs stopped working on my way from the couch to the bed, so I crawled for several minutes before giving up and lying spread eagle in the hallway, whispering “please” to no one as my dog whimpered in sympathy beside me. I’m crying now, four years later, from the remembering required of my attempt to explain.\n
that the Black Death started in the mind, long before it started in the body: “Simply thinking about the plague makes one infected,” one such treatise read.But dead-bolted inside 900 square feet of my Brooklyn apartment, there wasn’t much to do but stand in front of a mirror, swallowing the light from mythroat for redness, or periodically testing out a little cough to see if it sounded wet enough to call someone.
dime-sized carbuncle filled with yellow-ish goo. She said it didn’t look like shingles, but came back with a prescription for Valtrex after my oncologist told her to just give me what I asked for. Baking is a cheerful activity that can kill hours, even weeks, of seclusion. There’s also a deus ex machina element to it, something gratitude-inspiring that has to do with watching yeast using its death knell to rise flour. I frequently gave thanks to the single-celled microorganisms I killed daily, the oven when the hot-cross bun or dampfnudle turned out alright, and maybe just to the idea of a time-consuming ritual that yields something sweet and soft.
Of the Carville Mardi Gras, folklorist Marcia Gaudet says the “opportunity to engage in normative behavior,” is critical for those labeled “abnormal.” Perhaps that’s why during my self-quarantine I sat in a recliner by the window for hours every day, the thermometer’s ping keeping the only time that mattered, and watched Gates Avenue between Bedford and Nostrand in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn as if it were a parade intended purely for me.
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