The effects of the last chemo have lingered, but i don’t think i have cold. Just a runny nose (a common chemo side effect) and a bit of a sore throat. My carbon footprint has increased greatly just from my use of tissues.
I ate bunches of herbs prescribed by dara, some oregano oil suggested by reni from edmonton and drank so much water my rings wouldn’t fit. Amy brought over life-saving soup last night and we all sat on the bed and watched TV. Better today.
Aside from my eyebrows, i think i miss knowing (or the illusion of knowing) the most these days. And maybe energy. I used to like having energy. It’s not that i don’t know things- cause i do. it’s just that it keeps changing. When my body goes out to sea, i must follow. And just when i get a good comforting idea in my head- the body takes it and folds it into a paper bird that flies away.
So each time is an opportunity to practice the important thing: this is part of it too. When i am sad- to say yes to it. To move through the dark overgrowth. To say yes to the quick fall of fear, to let the air take my whole self down. This is part of it. To say yes to the absolutely infuriating unknowns. Turning corners that lead back onto themselves trying to envision what my future will look like. To say yes to the love and kindness and generosity that it is hard to feel worthy of. This is part of it. This is what it looks like to be alive. Capitulation to the unpleasantness is not failing to fight. Letting others take care of me is not a failure of strength. It is giving each their due. It is life. It turns into something else when it is done. And i get to notice it and let it happen. Cry and then eat soup.
And there are so many good interesting things happening. A young woman came to my house the other day and sang to my body. She used her voice to penetrate the chest wall and ask the tumors to leave. I could feel the vibration of it in my chest. The kind focused intention of another human being trying to heal me. To sing the cancer out. To invite life in. She had a beautiful strong voice. She didn’t sing words. Only sound. It was one of the most lovely things I’ve ever experienced.
I noticed my old sneakers on the back porch today. Dirty, worn out addidas skate shoes with holes in the toes. My old self. A pang of hard sadness. That other life from before. I was so strong. So able. When i was first diagnosed I decided that I would not, then, have to buy new shoes – envisioning myself curled up in a bed for the remainder of my life. And how when i shared this with my friend Favor, she became irate. “That’s ridiculous. Need i remind you that your feet are the root of health? You need new shoes.” My new sneakers are even a bit worn now. With a touch of paint from my parents’ deck, some tread issues from my pronating, dirt from the many hikes i’ve been on. Living.
I went to work the other day for a place i hadn’t been in a long while. “Where you been?”
“Oh – I’ve been having cancer.”
Sad, serious look from the normally jokey man.
“i’m so sorry. That’s rough.”
“Yeah, well. It was fun at first but now i’m getting a little tired of it.”
My standard joke. Actually not that far off. I have one more chemo. ONE MORE CHEMO people. October 17th. And then i am on some other non-side-effecty drugs for the duration. If the tumor does not grow- i will get no more chemo.
It is hard to stay in the moment and not project myself out into november and december when (with luck) i will be the proud new owner of an immune system and hair. A body that might have enough red blood cells to ride a bike up a hill. Even if i still have little tumor bits. whatever. I am told they are actually very weak cells. mutants with a hard time organizing. free-market cells with no oversight. i wish them a speedy collapse.
But it is not November yet. And i will be as glad as possible for the next round of chemo. Welcome it in. Let it take me on the ride. out to sea again.
Thanks again for all of the help and support. It makes this so much better. So many things i don’t have to worry about. As soon as i am better I will be mowing all your lawns and painting your bedrooms and fixing your dinner for the next 30 years.
val
Good to hear from your Valerieness.
I say yes! Yes to you.
Follow the path of least resistance.
See where it goes, and there you are.
And if there’s a tear in your soup, so be it.
That’s the secret ingredient.
Your life is full of delicious dishes.
Thanks for sharing the recipes…
Love you,
Karen
I am a lurker. You don’t know me. We will most likely never meet. I came across your blog in a link in an email. I lost my father to cancer and wanted to read about you to hopefully send another human good energy. I send positive energy your way every day – hoping that my drop in the bucket helps. Then I realized how awful I was – I had beautiful healthy lungs that I was abusing by smoking. Daily. How stupid. I hated it for years, but couldn’t find a reason to stop – you are my reason. I stopped, two months now. You are the reason I may have a chance at not going through what you have been forced to go through. You may have very well saved a life being cut short. You may have caused a child not to be an orphan – a statistic. Your cancer is not good. You are. You need to know that. I don’t think “thank you” is right. I am not thankful for the intrusion in your lungs. I wish the English language had more words for “love” so that you can understand what I am trying to say, but it doesn’t. So a simple I love you will have to do.
Hey there, anonymous girl. This is Deborah. Your comment crossed my mind today, as it does from time to time. I was walking the dog and for no obvious reason I just remembered, Something good is coming of this. I meant to write you long ago and say how moving your comment was for Val and for me. It was generous of you to write. Thank you. I am sorry to hear you lost your father to cancer. I wish you all the luck in the world – with not smoking and with everything else. Hugs from Portland.
Deborah
your openess takes my breath away…my heart opens to you…i wish you well…your friend cynthia is my friend too…we are lucky.
Hooray for only one more chemo!