Guinea Pig Dream

Friday, 1-16-09 Guinea Pig Dream

I woke at 4am with a smile. I dreamed I was in a friend's house that had pet guinea pigs. The pigs roamed at will, darting from under sofas, squealing and grunting along the base boards. Piles of guinea pig food pellets and pretzels adorned the kitchen floor. Everything was neat and tidy, except for the mounds of pig edibles. I wasn't exactly appalled, but I was oddly unmoved by her and her pets. Odd, because even in my dream state, I am an animal lover.

In the next dream scene, I saw guinea pigs in a giant tube filled with water. The tube was clear so I could see though it. The pigs were happy, but their eyes beseeched me as they twisted, rolling, crawling over each other, floating through the water swishing and bubbling through the tube. The pigs were huge, curly haired with fat bellies, not drowning or panicking, but I detected some yearning in their dark, round eyes. The tube strained, swelled, stretched to contain them all. I was separate from the pigs, we understood each other, but we weren't buddies. They weren't exactly mine, even though the tube was in my house. Pondering what to do next, I heard a gurgle, looked up and saw the tube open. It began undulating like a long, muscular womb gently plopping out guinea pigs, one by one, until suddenly in a burst of frothy water and energy, guinea pigs exploded from the tube, free, wild, happy. They said good-bye to me and wished me well. I felt light-hearted, free myself.

And then I awoke, grinning. What an odd, silly dream! So vivid! Abruptly, the meaning of the dream dawned on me. The guinea pigs were dying cancer cells moving through the blood and elimination systems of my body, being flushed out. They were my cancer cells and they weren't mine; we understood each other, but we weren't attached to each other. I remember receiving chemo, visionalizing the cancer cells dying, giving up their hold on my body. I had asked my body to work with the chemo, not overreact if possible, but help me eliminate the cancer cells. I visualized my Creator, the Great Spirit, flowing through my veins too, protecting me from too much chemo damage. Now, through this dream, perhaps my body is communicating that it did indeed work with the chemo. I laugh with joy, glad for the dream, glad for the eyes of the guinea pigs in my dream...glad to know they wanted to leave, and went willingly.

5:30 A.M. - I'm busting with eagerness to live this day. What a precious gift, this day, and this vitality I feel. I'm eager to tidy my house, to juice vegetables to feed my body, to welcome a friend I know is coming to visit.

Two days ago, in the middle of lunch, I stopped eating to listen. I thought I heard something, but instead I see the word 'fats' in my mind. Not fats, as in 'you fatty', but rather 'fats-- you need to start eating some good fats.' Since the intestinal tumor raised is guinea piggy head in my small bowel, my body has not been able to digest fat well. So, I totally eliminated fat from my diet. I wonder if my body is crying for some good fats, thus the word in my head. I'm afraid. I'm always afraid to change my diet after a crisis. But, I'm learning to listen to my body. I fill a mug with water, microwave it hot, stir in a smidgeon of coconut oil and add three drops of chocolate raspberry Stevia. I pretend this steaming mug contains rich, succulent coconut hot chocolate! I sip. Nothing explodes or screams or goes into convulsions. So, I drink the cup.

I've been adding smidgeons of non-flavored coconut oil to my coffee, olive oil to my soups. It's going well. Elimination (can I hint about body functions on a blog?) is going much better too. My body seems happy with the added fats.

Kim's new puppy, Teo, loves curling up to sleep on my belly. He always lies on the tumor side. I joked to Kim that Teo is a cancer sniffing dog. Psychologist Carl Rogers says people are wiser than their intellect. I'm suddenly curious. Perhaps my joke was actually an inner knowing. This afternoon, as I puppy-sit for Kim, I hold Teo on my left side. He is unhappy, and stubbornly refuses to relax. I hold him there, scratching his ears, his domed head, he closes his eyes but he won’t relax his body. He refuses to bend his legs. He stands forlornly on my left side. Finally weary, he drops his head on my lap, and still standing, he falls asleep. I feel foolish and cruel. The instant I remove my hand, he leaps up, walks across my belly, turns around three times right on top of the tumor spot, folds up, sighs and falls asleep. My face feels wet; oh good grief, I'm crying!

7p.m. - I'm utterly exhausted. I thought I knew how ‘tired’ felt, but I had absolutely no clue "BD". I had a busy day yesterday too, so perhaps the exhaustion is accumulative. I saw the surgeon, Dr. Piepgrass yesterday. Will get my mediport put in on Tuesday. It will lie under my skin next to the collar bone, which means I'll still have to get stuck by a needle, though the skin, to have blood drawn and chemo injected using the port. Bummer! But a tube sticking out isn't too sexy either, so I'm okay with it. Piepgrass assured me the port stick hurts less than the stick for an IV line. I was tempted to ask him if he knows from experience. I did tell him I’m wimpy about being awake for procedures, and he assured me I wouldn't remember anything.

"So if it really hurts at the moment of cutting, I just won't remember it afterwards?" He grinned.

Dr. Piepgrass is incredibly gentle and kind, an excellent surgeon. The lymph node removal he did on me was superb; the wound healed well with no recovery issues. He is a typical surgeon though, politely waiting for questions, but rather uncomfortable with conversation. Reminds me of a comment Gail Materna said: "Don't forget you are going to be talking to a surgeon. Surgeons interact best with patient when they're unconscious!"

Joyfully,
Sharon

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“Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. To these I commit my day. If I succeed, I will give thanks. If I fail, I will seek grace. And then, when this day is done, I will place my head on my pillow and rest.” Max Lucado