One thing about this is the fear. For me so far it’s been a fear of many flavors, but it never ever quite goes away. It sucks at the shoreline of my heart, rearranging my guts, cresting up menacingly and sinking back to build the surge all over again. My heart pounds and skitters. My sleep is muddled, dreams crumpling up and running backwards, blurting out sudden shocks. I cry unpredictably and often, alarming the mailman, upsetting the dog, who jumps up on my lap and licks me feverishly, peering into my eyes in what looks like concern. (Val speaks for her: “Hmm. What you have here is a nose problem. I can fix that.”)
On the other hand, there’s hope and and astonishing glimpses of the prettiest side of humanity. Things could turn out okay. Not now, not yet, but maybe later. And we are warmed by stunning generosity of spirit: Roasted beet soup arrives with garnish in little tubs. Tiny videos appear on our cell phones: California beaches; a baby hedgehog cupped in someone’s hands. While we were at the MRI this morning, a brave friend navigated the consumer labyrinth of IKEA to pick up the silly new desk that is to become Command Central, allowing us to separate home space from fear space. Letters arrive, and more food, and yesterday a big garbage bag brimful of rolls of toilet paper.
Tomorrow we edge a bit farther out of limbo: we’ll get the results of today’s MRI and meet for the first time with the oncology people. I’m scared. I’m scared to find out what our once-easy, active, outdoor life will become. Right now we have all the worry but none of the actual ill health (except for Val’s persistent cough). But chemo … it sounds like chemo will make it real.
But: I’m ready for the meeting too. I’m ready to start the fight. I want to tangle with the monster. I want to take it down.
The beet soup helps.
Deborah