I have cancer, and I loved Malignant Metaphor. I loved Mitchell’s objectivity and honesty. I love those who can plow through reams of science and pull it together in a way that pokes holes in some of the unproductive myths we assume to be absolute truth. And I especially love it when that research yields a perspective that is in the end calming and encouraging rather than alarming.
I loved that she respectfully discusses our fear of cancer. She reminds us that it is our nature to construct a narrative when we’re afraid. “Random is not emotionally satisfying,” she writes. So we look for causes, cures, and metaphors that comfort us. We construct myths, both helpful and otherwise.
In a short history of fear, Mitchell outlines some of the major terror-inducing illnesses of our past. The Black Death. Leprosy. The Spanish Flu. Tuberculosis. TB, responsible for a quarter of all European deaths in the 19th century, was seen as evidence of moral weakness, of lack of ambition, of being an overly sensitive romantic. How’s that for an unhelpful myth?
And now, cancer. If you get cancer, you’ve got faulty genes. Or have had a bad lifestyle. Or have the wrong attitude, or the wrong personality.
The genetic link, it turns out, is a small one, responsible for perhaps two or three percent of cancer cases, she says. And with some obvious exceptions, lifestyle correlation has been inflated also, and doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. In addition, the idea that we can prevent cancer yields feelings of shame and guilt when we fail. Did I eat too much meat? Too much sugar? Did I sleep too little, exercise too little, work too much, drink too much? Not likely significant factors, says Mitchell. Did I allow myself to feel too much stress and anxiety? Suppress too much emotion? Allow too much negative thought? Again, no. The findings of a meta-analysis on personally types found no higher risk in those characterized by the suppression of emotion, pessimism, depression, and timidity.
The commonly used war metaphor falls shorts too, in Mitchell’s eyes. War is violent, implies a death toll, and is guilt-inducing. If I lose the war, was I weak? A poor fighter? Guilty of choosing the wrong course of action? “I think the brutality of the cancer metaphor saps our society of some of its productive vigor,” she writes. “Guilt and blame and fear are paralytic emotions, a black hole for energy.”
It may be a counterproductive and malignant metaphor, but we’ve come by it honestly enough. The battle with cancer clearly can be a matter of life and death, and the origins of chemotherapy itself lie in the use of chemical weapons—the original team of cancer drug researchers at Sloan-Kettering literally originated in the US government’s Chemical Warfare Service after World War II.
And though treatments and management of side effects have improved with time, and researchers now often look to the plant world for treatments, it can still feel very much like a war. Taxol, the drug which comes from the bark of the yew tree and which saved my life five years ago, nearly took it earlier this year. It is a potent therapy, and wears the label of weapon well.
As much as all this is true, I too am looking for a better metaphor. Some of us live with cancer for many years, much as others live with diabetes or high cholesterol or other chronic disease. I sometimes view it as more of a boxing match, one in which I occasionally get beat up, but also patched up again, and in which a defeat doesn’t need to spell death.
As to looking for fault, I’ve quit. The reality is that with a few exceptions, cancer is random. We have a long history of making up stories in the face of fear and poorly understood phenomena, stories that comfort and calm us, and that may or may not carry an element of truth. And the reality is that it has always been easier to hold victims responsible than to take responsibility as a society, which in this case would demand research on larger environmental causes that call into question an entire system of production and manufacturing.
Mitchell is a science writer, and it shows. She confirms my own inclination to take fund-raising messages with a generous shake of salt. Cancer is not, she says, when you adjust numbers for age and population growth, more prevalent than ever. And though it can still be deadly, survival rates for most cancers have increased.
Cancer is not happy news, no, but there is reason for optimism. We have a long history of facing challenges like this productively, and every reason to embrace life and health enthusiastically even in the face of current cancer realities.
I’d fallen into a short, weird sleep just before an appointment I had last week, and was groggy and out of sorts when my alarm woke me. My husband, working from home, offered to give me a ride.
“I can drive myself,” I said, hearing an edge in my voice.
“You’re groggy, and upset, you probably shouldn’t,” my husband said, “plus it’s five minutes away and a ride will save you parking fees.”
“I don’t care if I spend $1000 dollars on parking, or whether or not I arrive alive,” I came back.
These are strong words, unsettling to hear from your own mouth.
I can be a bit of a pill sometimes, or, as my five-year-old long ago once put it, a bucket of pills. Not that I’m the only one in my world capable of displaying unexpected pill-like behaviour—it’s as common as the common cold. But perhaps being a slightly harder-to-swallow pill is unavoidable after so many endless months of swallowing buckets of pills. I am, after all, having potent medicines pumped directly into my veins every week, medicines which put essential benign cells under constant fire as malignant ones meet their destruction. I am working long overtime hours on a confusing and challenging job.
These days, I get sore hand muscles from carrying a grocery bag a little too heavy, or from holding a pencil a little too hard. These days, some of my veins feel like someone has threaded a hard knotty piece of twine into them. These days, I’ve had headaches to trump all headaches, which is something of an adjustment for someone who’s always been proud of not really knowing what a headache is.
I sometimes feel like I’m a weighted wobble doll, a matryoshka doll, a daruma doll. I get knocked down, bounce back, wobble around, find my balance. Repeat. But then I think simply being alive is to get knocked down, wobble around, and then find our balance again.
I’ve given the cellulitis the boot, and fully plan to continue taking back my space in other ways too. As the single long-time and respectful resident of this body, I believe I have some rights, and these squatters, thinking it okay to move in uninvited and then charge rent rather than pay it, all the while multiplying as prolifically as bunnies—they are going to continue to hear from me, more assertively than ever.
Despite the punches and punching back, it’s been a lovely fall, warm and color-rich, sunny and dry. I’ve enjoyed an impromptu couch-surfing stay from my daughter—seeing her in the mornings again, having some creative feminine energy in the house, bonus conversations, a bit of a rerun of days long ago slipped by. I’ve enjoyed naps in the October sun, and visits to the sunny and oxygen-rich pyramids of the Muttart Conservatory. I’ve enjoyed visits with the kids and grandkids, and visits with friends, and lovely everyday gifts from those just here for me with things like an apple fritter, a story to make me laugh, or an enthusiastic declaration of “I’m going to go hug these lab results”.
At a week-night supper my mom cooked for us last week the gifts were of two kinds, the very tangible, and the less tangible. There was the lavish spread: a large platter of delicate salmon and vegetable side dishes enough to cover every ounce of space on the table. And then there were the goodbyes at the end of the evening between my 86-year-old dad and his sister, and my mom and her sister-in-law. The former playfully and laughingly slapped each other around a little, the latter—two women surely not even five feet tall—looked affectionately into each other’s eyes, touched each other’s cheeks, and got verbal reassurance the other was okay.
I had a glimpse of truth in that moment—we live for beauty and meaning and love, ever more so as our bodies begin to betray us. And these things sometimes lie in places not readily evident in our busy lives. My many months of underachievement are no less meaningful than those of the brilliant and energetic young adults looking for better cancer treatments. We are so much more than what we can produce and measure. We are what we value and nurture, valuable simply by virtue of being, by the fact that we love.
It was a morning for feeling needy and pathetic and nearly too proud to permit any kind of love directed my way. I’m still not used to operating at half-battery, and it can make me bristly. Feeling half-productive, half-fun, half-useful, half-decent, half-human can make me decide I’m utterly unworthy. Ahead of me was an afternoon of chemo, which of course was the reason for the bristles, but it also offered up an unlikely and happy little coincidence.
Before the serendipitous conversation could happen though, the one that generated the first genuine smile of the day, I tried befriending my misery by stepping into the role of observer, standing back from my emotions a little, trying simply to see them without judgment, and perhaps even switch the energy driving me to a more neutral and advanced part of my brain. Beneath the surface layer of self-reliance that was telling my husband I didn’t need him to accompany me to chemo, I soon saw several layers of anxiety—fear of being viewed as needy and weak, fear of the impact my being sick has had on what I have to offer as a partner in my marriage, and fear of things not going well on this day, fear of pain, fear of the future.
I’d gone out for a bit to return a poorly chosen bathmat and had a little time before my appointment, so I stopped for a cup of tea and watched this internal landscape of anxiety for a while. I didn’t judge it (anxiety is, under these circumstances, they tell me, completely normal), but I did give it the boot. Nothing personal, just tired of it for the moment. We’ll have tea again soon enough. Not judging is important, but so is perspective, and perspective only comes with sitting back, watching, listening, and deciding what is most necessary for the moment.
Watching the chatty anxious thoughts retreat, I began to envision being assigned the best nurse and having the smoothest infusion ever. (Not that envisioning it is any guarantee, but it is calming, which is never a bad thing.) I began to remind my body to accept and welcome the drugs that kill rogue cells, remind it to let them do their job before kicking them out, and remind it that it has an almost tireless ability to repair essential innocent cells caught in the crossfire.
So an hour later, when my husband told me on the phone he really didn’t want me going to chemo alone, I agreed to swing by for him on my way to the hospital.
We arrive, and my nurse introduces herself. I miss her name the first time around (memories of painful phlebitis distracting me again), but I like her face; it is warm and exotic and open. In response to her “how are you today?” I return a half-smile, and a half-hearted “fine”. A C-plus, maybe, if I’m going to be generous. She’s warm and attentive though, and wonderfully skilled—no retries on getting into my vein today—so I try to salvage that C-plus. I manage a better smile, and tell her a deeply felt thank you. She’s humble, and shrugs it off as luck of the draw, that on another day that same vein may not have been as receptive. I ask her if she enjoys nursing. She does, though she was terrified of needles and blood and starting IVs when she began her career. Now, just a few years into it, she does nearly a dozen a day in the chemo daycare unit.
I tell her she’s good, and she makes me do the requisite name spelling and birth-date recitation.
“You have the exact birthday my mom does!” she responds, smiling widely. “Same date, same year. And mine is three days before hers, on the 16th.” Why she told me that I don’t know, but it’s funny, because not only do I share her mother’s birthday, my daughter share’s hers.
It’s just a couple of dates, but it’s more than that. The gentleness with which she handles my chemotherapy makes it feel like my daughter is sending me her love, which she probably was.
Another patient on the other side of the room was surrounded at that moment by almost the entire remaining nursing staff in the unit, having a serious reaction to the same drug that had caused mine last winter. Feeling a powerful wave of compassion and empathy, I remember the practice of Tonglen, which others have done for me, and for my daughter, and so, as the nurses do their job with the Benadryl and other tools at their disposal, I begin inhaling this woman’s distress, exhaling relief and compassion and empathy her way. It’s an active, physical, non-desperate form of prayer that I love.
The nurses, from where I was watching, were care and compassion personified, professionals in every way, but human beings too, who understood that it is the little kindnesses that matter as much as anything during a crisis like this. The patient stabilized, and my session, with a few adjustments, went well and ended. On our way home, we stopped for coffee and a muffin on a tree-lined street patio, and though I knew that the effects of my treatment would gather momentum as the afternoon unfolded, it was a lovely moment.
In the days leading up to this one, I’d felt a deep fatigue, an effect of my chemo-depressed blood counts alongside an intense week of extended family gathered from all over to celebrate my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. So much stimulation and emotion packed into a single week. Cousins and aunts and uncles I hadn’t seen since the last funeral I was able to attend, siblings and nieces and nephews I hadn’t seen in even longer.
In the two weeks before the event—before the mixed-bag verdict this week that my treatment is working but that I’m definitely in for another three months of it—it was a happy time of planning and anticipation for this reunion. It was a time of large and lumpy inflamed veins calming down and receding into the background thanks to some wonderful medicine. It was a time of late-summer outdoor lunches and suppers, of new harvest potatoes and peach cobbler, of desperately sad refugee images on our TV screen, of bike rides and sunflowers, of warm, warm winds turning to crisp mornings, of hot showers, of crumbled frozen oatmeal squares, of laundry, dust bunnies, recycling and all other things quite ordinary, and one evening, sitting in the backyard of some friends, an astoundingly full super-moon.
Full, that’s what keeps us going. It’s been a long haul. Nothing compared to the long difficult paths many of you are on, but still—nine months now, and it’s the love that keeps me going.
I plan to settle in for a few days of recovery after this week’s treatment. Sleep is the perfect escape, but always elusive during those first few days. I wake shortly before 4AM. My husband is awake also. We toss and turn for a little while; I read. Then we talk. About our reflexive protections, how we try too hard, or cling, or shut down when we’re terrified. At 6, I’m hungry, and get us both some yogurt. I’m still hoping it might buy me another hour or two of sleep. I read some more, which is usually foolproof. I doze a little after 7:30, wake at 8:30 with a start. My feet hurt, it’s time for my medication. A new day. The mirror tells me my cheeks are flushed, a side-effect, but Day Two is always infinitely better than Day One. Later in the day, I get on my bike and visit the queen of energy medicine. She looks at my labs, and tells me I’m rocking this. It’s a good day.
Saturday found a tired and depressed me lying on the couch with my equally tired and depressed husband, me being very careful not to bump my very sore arm in any way. Listening to music and to summer sounds coming in through the open window, reading, napping, my more minor aches and pains gradually receded a little. For a while, it felt very much like the cabana we had in Hawaii all those years ago, minus the warmth of course, and the breeze and the sound and smell of the ocean, it being a cool rainy August day in northern Alberta. But still, it was lovely, so lovely.
What is it that is most potent in making an ordinary, tired, post-treatment afternoon lovely? It can’t be the exotic extras of tropical breezes, not really, not when the feeling is the same as the one that comes from the simple presence of the human being faithfully sharing the moment with you, can it?
That sore arm–it’s throbbing with yet another damaged vein, inflamed and hard and the diameter of a pencil just underneath my skin. This is what my treatment does to my veins and other sensitive cells: it burns them.
Earlier this week, friends tell us about their daughter’s pain, about their anguish, sweeping and soul-threatening. I think of another friend with cancer, of her family’s grief and fatigue. My nights are restless, morning coming too soon, way too soon, 5:30 AM too soon. I’m tired and want the blissful escape of sleep, and on one particular morning am weepy and angry, not the tiniest bit capable of gratitude.
So I drop the bar a little. Gratitude can wait; it will return in due course. For now the task is to tolerate the emotional and physical realities of the moment. I’m sick. I’m trying to get well, and this is, as one astute friend put it a few days ago, a challenging job. It is an exhausting job, and a boring, lonely, uncomfortable, and frightening place to spend so many of my days.
The living room abruptly feels beyond familiar and boring, impossibly and endlessly the same. I’ve clearly spent too much time in here over the past eight months, time enough to develop a serious case of treatment fatigue and cabin fever.
It’s too early in this chemo cycle for the idea that has now popped into my head. My body is fatigued, my blood counts are low, and I probably shouldn’t, but I’m alone, and a little impulsive at the moment—I start pushing furniture around to rearrange it all, so it feels a little different, gives me a little different view. I don’t have stamina enough for a bike ride or a walk, but this, the little bursts of energy required for moving furniture, this feels good.
I try to keep a gratitude journal of sorts, to remind me when I feel anything but thankful; I learned this not from Oprah, but from my parents. I decide now, in this little window of opportunity, to visit it.
I felt well, relatively, with my week off treatment last week, and my Folk Music Festival experience was, as always, rich and wonderful, delivering hot August days and nights, and sound enough to fill thousands of hours and ears. Also wonderful was the supper we had with friends the night before this last treatment. And then it was back to the Cross Cancer Institute, gratitude becoming a little elusive again.
The best kind of medicine arrived again though, as it always does. This time on day two of my chemo cycle, in the form of a friend dropping by with an impromptu lunch, bringing rice rolls, beautiful sweet corn from her garden, a lovely pineapple coconut loaf of bread, and an open grounded spirit, ready to engage, to understand my experience, and to be real about her own.
Staying grounded is vital. I have a number of reasonably reliable tools to that end, but none more so than face-to-face human connection.
Is that vein infected, I wonder for the millionth time? It sure is red and swollen. I’ll call the hotline tomorrow, or take it in to Emergency if it gets worse, I promise myself. For now, I immerse myself in Gabor Maté’s In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. I’ve read it before, but the title beckons. I’m living with hungry ghosts of my own right now, ghosts that seem to have grown larger with illness, with being unemployed, with not knowing my future, with being unsure of my role, my purpose.
Maté reminds me that addiction arises from the desire to be free of wanting, free of longing for a different state. “The addict craves the absence of the craving state. For a brief moment he’s liberated from emptiness, from boredom, from lack of meaning, from yearning, from being driven, or from pain.” He reminds me that that emotional isolation, disconnection, powerlessness and stress are the conditions that create the neurobiology of addiction in human beings.
I don’t want to encourage this kind of neurobiology, and resolve yet again to resist the temptation to allow feelings of powerlessness and disconnection to grow during this period of unusual stress. I drag my husband and my throbbing arm to see a musical radio play at The Fringe Festival. I love Edmonton for these things. The play is funny and silly, the singing beautiful, and it keeps me smiling.
Afterwards, we do what we do less often now that I’m not well, but used to do regularly: on our way home, we stop at a little wine bar across the street from where we live. I have a blueberry tea, and we share some snacks, and I’m still uncomfortable with my arm, but it’s lovely to be out.
When I wake this morning, another overcast and very cool August morning—eight degrees when I first check—I gingerly check my arm. It’s still tender, but not throbbing, and less red, just an angry, enlarged vein. Friends have suggested brunch. We end up on a rooftop under heat lamps, and, again, it turns out to be a couple of hours of the most excellent kind of medicine. My vein will heal, as will the rest of me.
I woke too early today, too much on my mind, envious of my sleeping husband. I read an article on the health and cancer-treatment benefits of intermittent fasting, thought about it for a little while, and found myself responding contrarily. When isn’t intermittent fasting an unavoidable, built-in, and unpleasant feature of cancer treatment? Besides, endorphins and pleasure, essential to healing, can be hard to come by when you’re in cancer treatment, and food has always been a reliable stand-by for me on that front, so I doubt I’ll be voluntarily restricting intake anytime soon.
So I make myself a piece of toast with butter and soft mild Gouda, and feel a little less contrary. But you’ll forgive me if this post is all over the place? Attribute it to the rocky terrain I’m on, or chemo-brain? To chipping a tooth yesterday, on a piece of toast of all things? To noticing I’m losing my very, very short hair yet again?
It’s Day Four of this round, going better than last, and the one before. Fresh morning air is coming in through the open door. I feel a moment of gratitude. One can be contrary and thankful in the same breath, right?
I got out on a bike ride on the weekend, and out to eat, and to the Heritage Amphitheatre at Hawrelak Park for the Father John Misty show, thanks to my sister for the last minute nudge. Got a very warm welcome from friends, another endorphin rush. I felt good, very, very pleasantly surprised, almost normal.
I’m not normal anymore though, and I never really forget. Even when I think I have, even when I’m having a great week.
I really did have the loveliest birthday week. Family and friends were beyond generous and kind. I even had all three kids here with me, including the far-away California one, which was a lovely, lovely birthday gift. But here’s the thing—treatment is difficult even when it’s going as well as it is for me this time around. And what happened back in February—when treatment definitely did not go well—has lodged itself in deeply in some part of my brain, from where it occasionally rears its roaring head, as it did the day before my most recent chemo last week.
I’d calmly headed out for my usual pre-treatment blood work and consultation at the Cross Cancer Institute, seeing no clouds of any sort on the horizon. This is routine and straightforward. But what should have been a brief and uneventful visit stretched to three hours, and submerged memory, like an angry volcano, had time to erupt.
The lab took five minutes. A consultation with a new resident took six. The consultation with my oncologist took another six. Ninety-five percent of my morning was spent waiting, seeing so many sick people come and go. This, if you need help imagining the problem, is a lot of time to absorb the treatment fatigue in the air, the oceans of grief and fear in worn-out bodies and fear-filled faces waiting with me, waiting, waiting.
I’m finally finished, leave, and see immediately that I planned poorly. I need to talk to someone, vent a little tension, but it’s a workday, and nobody is available on short notice. One dear friend is enduring her own Cross Misery at this moment. Nothing is wrong, but everything is. I can feel the surge of a powerful wave of regret and need. Today may well have been my last chance for a couple weeks to milk feeling well, to eat out, to have fun, and it’s quickly slipping away. And I need to put into words all the hope, courage, fear, grief, denial—and in some cases, relief and joy—carried in the halls of the Cross.
No problem, I tell myself, I’m an adult. I’m hungry, I’ll lunch alone and run some errands, and talk later. I do this, but did not anticipate lunch would feed the powerful wave of emotion that had hit me. It did. The house was empty when I returned, and when my husband eventually did get home from his meeting, I no longer trusted myself to talk much. I filled in the broad strokes, but they were slate gray and brown and not terribly pretty.
I get on my new birthday bike, which has been the best gift ever. I won’t go hard, I promise my sore muscles. But I do go hard, and further than I planned. On the way home I stop at the grocery store and fill my pack. I think I have my bearings. I get home and remember—chemo tomorrow. And the wave crests. The limbic part of my brain now fully trumps the logical. I wanted today to be a party. I want not to be on the sidelines most of the time when others get to enjoy wine and a bounce in their step and easy untroubled nights. I’m teary and angry and self-pitying.
My husband was patient, and alongside my fear and anger, I felt much empathy for his listening ears. And in the night, his arm around me, I know that though my experience is mine alone, I’m not at all alone.
I finally step back a little from the ambush and see a bigger picture again. It’s been a lovely, lovely ten days, no chemo, so many moments of joy. At my mom’s sunny dining table, I’d eaten my first big plate of food in five days, and it was so good. I left with a satisfied tummy and a giant bag filled with leftover goulash and mashed potatoes, mashed yams, homemade apple sauce, bread, broth, oatmeal cookies and honey cheesecake (for my bones, I tell myself). Have I mentioned that my mother is 80?
A wide river of birthday pleasures is where I was camped for ten days. We ordered in giant platters of amazing Greek food on my daughter’s birthday. And on a perfect, velvety summer evening the night before my own birthday, in the backyard of some very gracious friends, we all ate mountains of divine BBQ’d chicken and couscous, and the most decadent chocolate caramel cheesecake ever. I was high on love and a giant glass of Sangria, last week’s chemo finally taking a proper back seat to my life. On Sunday we enjoyed another made-to-order evening in my sister’s backyard, complete with yet another luscious homemade cake—this one a creamy nutty layer one that is my mom’s signature cake. Birthday kindnesses and lovely, lovely words—words like drops of sweet cream—kept falling on me. A yellow rose and a box of chocolates, a cream-coloured rose from a roommate from 40 years ago, a giant bouquet of chrysanthemums. I felt ridiculously spoiled.
Then I say a bittersweet good-bye to my son, and with it comes an acute awareness that my children have quietly slipped by me in the passing lane. They are smarter, stronger, braver, more honest, and more talented and accomplished than I will ever be. This brings me great pleasure.
I wake early on the day of my treatment. I take care of appointment scheduling puzzles and housekeeping details and pay some bills, and I steel myself. I’m greeted by yet another nurse, who hooks up a juicy deep vein, and, after grimacing for a second, I smile and thank her, and settle in to watch and wait: A slow, clear, silently toxic drip that will beat up my cancer. I focus my mind. Allow the drug to do its work, exhale unwanted effects, and resolve to tolerate what I must with grace.
We finish, and pay today’s slightly smaller but sill giant parking fee. (Do they really have to charge cancer patients these rates?) We leave the dark parking lot and drive into skies turned very dark over the last hour. Hard, hard rain and hail fall, and then, just as suddenly, the sky is blue again, the air fresh. At home, on the balcony, the sun on my legs is warm and soothing. I fall asleep instantly. I sleep again after a little supper, and then most of the night.
I want it to rain. Rain, rain, rain, steady hard rain with the power to wash the hot, smoke-filled air and put a damper on the hungry forest fires raging out of control all around.
But then, I often want a lot that is beyond my control.
Just a few short months ago my doctor told me things were looking so good that I didn’t need to worry about resuming chemo until the fall. And just as I’d written my enthusiasm and joy about this amazing news, we learned that our niece had died of her cancer, and that our good friend’s cancer had gone on a massive offensive, progressing to where it had not been in many years, and later, that another friend who lives with chronic debilitating pain was suffering a turn for the worse.
I never did publish that post. It seemed gloating, self-absorbed. But then a short five or six weeks later, I got my own bit of bitter news—some suspicious pain, a reminder that I never did finish treatment back in March, some worrying test results, and an all-new treatment schedule of my own, one that was definitely going to interfere with my enthusiastic summer plans. No big surprise, but still, my husband and I sat down at the kitchen table and wept.
The good news was that we were going with a different drug, one that carried no risk of the horrible neuropathy and systemic pain I experienced in February, one that was going to be “virtually impossible to have a severe allergic reaction to.” This was calming, hopeful, gratitude-producing information.
Still, it is a chemotherapy, medicine on a mission to kill cells both problematic and essential. I tend to be both optimistic and anxious, sometimes in equal parts, sometimes in swings of extremes, but I set out for my first treatment relatively tilted toward optimism. It went well. Until two days later, when I again found myself weeping and cursing both the universe and our not-very-progressive state of cancer treatments. I spent nearly the entire time between my first and second treatment feeling miserable in old familiar and entirely news ways. And tonight, at 4AM two days into this most recent cycle, I’m insomniac (thanks to side-effect medications), and waiting desperately for rain.
Life, eventually for most of us, turns out not to be the proverbial box of chocolates Forest Gump’s mother promised after all. It has far too many bitter, not-at-all chocolate pieces, bad-tasting surprises covered in very bitter-tasting chocolate look-alike.
Still, through the heat this past week, I found sweetness alongside bitterness again too. My daughter has been wanting to accompany me to treatment for a long time now, and had the day off this time. She’s just finishing a move, and carrying sorrow and struggle of her own, but she put her curly hair up, and put on a bright yellow dress, and looking like the original blossom of beauty, drew smiles by the dozen walking through the halls of the cancer clinic with me. She held my hand as they started the drip, and we chatted, and I felt loved. The treatment was the most stream-lined ever, record-breaking for me. Not a hitch, in and out in an hour.
Another dear friend, highly skilled with tiny strategically-placed needles, offered instant nausea and pain relief and an amazing endorphin bath for my tears the next day. I felt loved. Another friend, by way of the music she makes, offered her version of prayer. I felt loved. Another offered steaks for the boys and birthday cake for two of us. I felt loved. Another yet is planning an intimate potluck birthday get-together to include a few other friends and our now-grown children. I feel loved. My sister, dropping in with a lovely plate of cooling watermelon in bite-sized juicy delights, had set a picture of me as her phone wallpaper. “I was having a moment,” she told me. I felt loved. My mom called to see what goodies she could cook up for us: Baked ribs for my husband, sugar-free apple-crisp for me, and who knows what else she’ll whip up. I felt loved. She’s 80, which is how long I plan to stick around in spite of the odds against me. Others texted and called, offering to come visit, or chat by phone, which I will joyfully accept with every significant return of energy I experience, I promise.
My youngest son, in excruciating back pain over the past month, picked me up from my needling friend’s place yesterday, and elicited the same enthusiastic looks and smiles as had my daughter’s sunflower-yellow dress the day before. No, it wasn’t a yellow dress, though it may have been as much his shorts and shirt as his charming grin. My son from California, the one who will be wearing his outstanding laugh and energy and medical mind, is coming for a visit, and will be here for his sister’s party, and mine, and his grandma’s, and just hang out with all of us.
I feel loved.
I have new and better chemo side-effect management pills this round, so should be much better by today’s end. Better yet, I get this week off treatment entirely. I’ll get to go to my daughter’s birthday party, and I’ll get to go to my own, and I’ll get to hang out with the kids. Love, like light on a horizon, or stars in a dark desert sky, beckons.
It may not be exactly the summer I planned, but I’m going to be hopeful the treatment schedule will accommodate at least one traditional highlight for me: Four days of the Edmonton Folk Music Festival, for which we always go to great lengths to get tickets for. Many favorites coming this year: Angus and Julia Stone, Brandi Carlile, Danny Michel, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Harry Manx, Sinead O’Conner.
So alongside the box of imitation-chocolate covered bitter misery, there have been genuine chocolate surprises. And, from the weather experts yesterday, a promise of rain, lots of rain, cooler clearer air. I’m counting on them.