“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all” - Helen Keller
So far, my life continues to feel like an adventure, even with the mounting challenges. Tomorrow I begin a round of chemotherapy. I had hoped to avoid this treatment but am now finding myself curious about what it will mean, how I will experience it and what changes, inner and outer, it may necessitate. Already, as I learn more about my nutritional needs, I have made changes in my eating habits and am better informed about nutrition generally. For some time, I haven't felt much like eating, although when offered food that someone else has prepared, I'm hungry. For the moment it seems that eating is not the problem, cooking is. When Carol said she was preparing a turkey breast, could she bring one over to us, without hesitation I gratefully accepted the offer. That is new behavior – my midwestern upbringing, a control issue or just a habit has always required much protest whenever someone offered their help.
When one part of a system changes, the whole system is altered as a result. That is what has happened to the system that is me. As I continue to accept, without resistance, the abundant and generous offerings of food and assistance, my experience of myself is changing. While the creaks and twinges in my body may be associated with the process of aging and exercising less, I am noticing the adjustment my body is having to make as ancient tensions are releasing. I know from my study of psychology that our defenses must resolve slowly lest the exposed vulnerability be too tender to endure the experience of pain. It would not surprise me if, similarly, there is discomfort in the body as the long standing patterns of holding slowly let go. The pain is in balance, though, with an ease in relating to the outer and an absence of worry. The welcoming of these gifts of food, time, loving attention and support with thanks instead of protest, validate my belief in the mutuality of the process of giving – that people really mean it when they thank me in return for receiving their offerings with an open heart. I am not surprised since I know that my service to others benefits me perhaps more than it does those I serve.
I have never felt more connected to my fellow humans. I am now sitting in the chemotherapy suite, a long room with several reclining chairs stretched along the windowed wall. My chair is tucked in a corner, facing the windows, where I can see the tops of autumn-colored trees against the blue sky. Across from me is a very fit-looking young man, working on his laptop with his earphones in place, hooked to the machine which is infusing him with whatever drugs his disease requires. I will probably refrain from asking him what brings him here, although I am curious. There are many young people here, some my age, and some in between. I, too, have my laptop, earphones, and books, and, maybe most appealing, the opportunity for a nap! I'll be here a few hours, at least two, maybe four. I will come back in a week for a second infusion, then there will be a week off. This sequence will repeat four times, interrupted once for my annual trip to Palm Springs, with the blessings of my doctor.
I have been writing this post over a week's time now, having arrived at the Saturday before my second Monday infusion. I am propped in my bed, writing on my laptop in bed, another “first.” So far, my spirits are not impacted by the chemo, but I do feel less energetic physically. Laurel just brought lunch, gave Van instructions for preparing it, and came up to visit me, in my bed. At this point, working from my bed is a luxury, rather than a confinement; learning how to be active and rest at the same time – so many new experiences.
My cancer will not be cured, but the healing continues and deepens.
