Exactly the Opposite of an Out of Body Experience

I've never actually had an out of body experience (though I did see at least part of Shirley MacLaine's crazy mini-series), but I think it's fair to say that the cancer treatment has created the exact opposite. At this point, I'm about as in-body as I could possibly be. 

Under normal circumstances, your body just works and you can basically ignore it. But once it's running with toxic chemicals, that becomes pretty much impossible. I walk down the hall and can't help but be acutely aware of where I am in space. Every step, every sway, and every inch between me and the wall resonates. Steps are even worse. Each step up, or down, demands conscious focus on how you're moving through space. Lose focus, and there's a fair chance you wind up on your ass. 

Speaking of which, on the first day in Costa Rica I slipped on some gravel and twisted my ankle. A month later and it still hurts. In short, I no longer heal. Every ache, pain, bruise or cut just goes on and on. 

And even normal stuff now demands body awareness. Routine experiences -- say, hunger or sleepiness -- become the starting point for lengthy ordeals involving startling responses and (metaphorical) pendulums that don't seem to ever stop swinging. 

But the worst of it is all the stuff that shouldn't involve your body, but now does. Specifically, thinking. It used to be possible to just think, but not so much anymore. Thinking now is like walking through water up to your waist. Who knew you could actually sense the inside of your skull? But I start to think, and my brain sort of begins to clog, my head starts feeling denser, my eyes get all scratchy, and pretty soon it feels like my brain is swelling up into my skull. 

Frankly, I could do with an out of body experience about now. Maybe I should go back and read some of Shirley MacLaine's books.