The Alien Between Us
by
Cathy Crenshaw Doheny
An alien lives in my chest. He is pretty unobtrusive, just a bump about the
size of a stack of quarters implanted subcutaneously. A special instrument,
known as a Huber needle, is used to interact with him. This needle has a hole
on the side, rather than the tip, which enables an easier entrance into the
septum. Once the needle is inserted into my alien, also known as a port-a-cath
or port for short, he is given a good bath of saline, followed by a shower of
Heparin to clear out any blood clots.
The purpose of the port is to transport medicines into my bloodstream by way of
a major vein. The long wormy looking part, called a catheter, is threaded into
my vein. The medicine goes through the catheter and straight to my heart, where
it is promptly sent out into my bloodstream. My medicine is actually a blood
product, known as intravenous immunoglobulin or IVIG. It is comprised of the
antibody portion of the blood from a multitude of donors. These normal
antibodies race through my body to neutralize my native ones.
My own antibodies seem to be having some sort of identity crisis. They attack
parts of me - parts I actually need to function. They most like to attack the
myelin sheath, which insulates my peripheral nerves. They eat away this fatty
insulation, causing some pretty significant problems, creating what is known as
Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP), a neurological
autoimmune disease. When my CIDP is in full swing, I experience nerve pain,
muscle cramps and weakness in my arms and legs, and just plain exhaustion; all
because of some mixed up antibodies!
Did I happen to mention that these mutants also enjoy attacking my ovaries in
their spare time? Painful arms, cramping legs, complete exhaustion, AND
infertility; all caused by this bizarre identity crisis. It seems to me they
could have just pooled their resources and gotten a Porsche instead. Shouldn’t
my cells have at least as much sense as the average middle-aged man?
When my alien first came to live with me, I was a skinny 30-year old, which
made his debut a little more noticeable underneath my tight skin. To make
matters even worse, I had an unsightly scar of several inches right above him,
where the skin was cut for insertion. I soon became Rapunzel, attempting to
disguise my visitor. I wore high collars even in the summer, always conscious
of what others might think of the alien and what it meant to have him there. I
didn’t want their curiosity, pity, or disgust. I just wanted to be a young,
vibrant woman.
Most of all, I wanted to appear that way to my handsome husband, who
moonlighted as a control-freak. I worried that he would no longer find me
attractive, now that the alien protruded from my chest. He had not bargained to
have a science experiment for a wife. Despite his reassurances, I could not
trust that the attraction would continue. I deeply suspected that he had
married me for me for my appearance, rather than my many other attributes.
A month later, I discovered that I should never have been so concerned about
the effect of my alien inhabitant. I had just driven myself home from a daylong
IVIG infusion. My temperature was 101 degrees, and I was experiencing the usual
flu-like side effects. My husband was nowhere to be found, an increasingly
frequent phenomenon that I found to be particularly unnerving. So in my
feverish state, I decided to do a bit of harmless snooping. Notes from his
latest novel-in-progress were sitting exposed on his desk, a testament to how
trusting and naïve my husband had always known me to be. There it was in his
own handwriting: lewd scenes from his affair with a fellow professor. He even
provided a chart that compared me to his mistress. He had impressively done his
research for this project. I knew enough about my husband’s writing to know
that he wrote about his own life and hid it behind a “fiction” label. So, there
was no question in my mind as to the veracity of his newest material.
The irony of the situation lies in the fact that my husband started his affair
nine months prior to my discovery, long before my alien’s appearance. True, the
affair did commence around the time of my diagnosis of CIDP. I suppose he
already sensed what was coming: unattractive things like infusions, surgeries,
disabilities, and even an alien invasion. Of course, he would vehemently deny
the significance of the timing, citing simply a coincidence. “A mistake in
judgment,” he had said. Mistake or not, I knew that his judgment would always
be flawed. In a relationship, when trust is gone, little else remains worth
sticking around for. So, my alien and I packed up and hobbled out the door and
out of that marriage.
I had been married for only three years, suffered from a rare chronic illness,
carried around an ugly alien in my chest, and now found myself once again
single. Having learned too much from my failed marriage, I had very specific
ideas about what my qualifications for a mate would be. I was sick of hiding
being sick. On first dates, I would cut right to the chase, would spill the
whole story to the man across the table from me - divorced, first husband
cheated on me, living with my parents now, only working part-time, potentially
disabling illness, and oh, did I mention…. I also have an alien living in my
chest! If the recipient of that news didn’t go running from the restaurant, I
knew that I may have found someone worth getting to know.
I have to say, I saw more male backs than faces during the first few months.
That is, until I met Kevin. He found my profile on a popular Internet dating
site, and was already smitten by the time we talked on the phone. He was so
kind; his goodness made me wish my every breath could be consumed with our
exchanged words. He told me that it didn’t matter where we went on a date; he
would be content to sit in a dark closet and just talk to me all night. After
that conversation, I told my mother I was going to marry this man.
On our first date, I confided in Kevin my whole story, including the alien who
would always be accompanying me. Much to my surprise, his eyes didn’t look for
the nearest exit. He replied that he was sorry that I had to endure such a
horrible illness and that it could never affect the way he felt about me. He
explained that I would always be me; the illness could never change that. That
was all he cared about - so simple. He just wanted me, for the me who lived in
my eyes and laugh and tears. The following week he sat by my side, as IVIG
flowed into my alien. “That doesn’t sound like something you should do alone,”
he had said on that first night.
I told Kevin about my ugly divorce. He said he wanted to send my first husband
a fruit basket for being such an idiot to have let me go, so he could now have
the pleasure of my presence. We claimed our first kiss that night in front of a
fireplace at a quaint coffee house. I felt engulfed in this giant of a man, who
reminded me of a medieval warrior. At the late night end of the date, he asked
simply, “What do I have to do to get to see you tomorrow?” The heart that
neighbors my alien, sighed happily, relieved to have found its refuge from the
disappointment of living. Amidst the celebration of sighs, Kevin continued to
ask that same question every night until the day we married six months later.
Two and a half years following that glorious day, Kevin had the misfortune of
his own alien invasion. At just 35 years of age, he was shockingly diagnosed
with a rare cancer and needed a port to help him through intravenous
chemotherapy. He joked that some couples get matching rings to show their
devotion, but we always carried our love beyond expectations. Our matching
ports and corresponding scars represent our deep understanding of the other’s
adversities. More costly than the most expensive diamond ring, that
understanding binds our marriage through even the most grotesque alien
invasion.