When I learned that my cancer needed chemotherapy, I came to it with very strong ideas about how things were going to be: I will continue to work.  I will not allow this to dominate conversation. I will not feel sorry for myself. I will not complain. I will make sure my son and daughter are solid in their assurance that I'm fine and that I will be better than ever afterwards. And all that is well and good, except it didn't leave any wiggle room, it was too rigid. I realize now that I need more of a sliding scale, if for no other reason than to mitigate the guilt I feel when I'm not functioning at 100% and it affects others.  But I guess the biggest reason is that I need to acknowledge that this is a very unpredictable animal and I need to be prepared for that.  Because it doesn't matter how much research I do, or talking to others who've been through it, or having lived through it when it was my Dad - nothing could adequately prepare me to be in the center of this experience. I may have a general idea of what's coming next, but I can't know how it feels or how it will change how I do things until I get there. I came to this understanding over the past week, when I've come into situations that generated reactions that surprised me.  And as I've thought about them all, I understand it's all part of the same theme: My rejection (and ultimate grudging kinda-sorta acceptance) of the so-called "sick role."  

Up until now my viewpoint on sick role was mostly limited to being on the health care side of things. And I've seen people exhibiting both extremes. Some folks with a hangnail think the world has come to an end and others with every health disadvantage have me shaking my head in wonder at how on earth can they stay so up and happy and productive given what they are sitting in.  Even though I have cancer, I haven't been thinking of myself as "sick." No. I have a condition that needs to be fixed. So when I showed up for treatment this week and I was shown to an actual room with a hospital bed, I was hit right in the face with a different flavor. There's something, for me anyway, inherently different between a recliner and a hospital bed.  I balked.  And then instantly felt bad because it caused the infusion nurse to apologize. No, I don't want to be one of those difficult, entitled types of patients either.  Fortunately right at that time a volunteer came in with a rolling cart full of food, and I could immediately re-frame things: "That's not a hospital bed, actually I'm in the first class cabin on a plane to somewhere amazing!" 

This past weekend there was a surprise party for my oldest sister's 60th birthday. And in the hello's and conversation with immediate and extended family, I saw expressions of concern that I never saw before. THAT made things feel more real as well. I'm not a cry baby, I don't feel sorry for myself, but something in those expressions made me choke up and get teary. It wasn't out of feeling sorry for myself, but more a realization of 'This shit is real. I'm important, I'm loved and this is my family who I'd do anything for.'  But for some reason, it's just not easy for me to be the one on the receiving end of such concern. Maybe because it means I have to admit vulnerability. I wasn't gonna admit it then and there though, so PARTY ON and Happy Birthday to my dear sister Dana! while I went to the bathroom to get a tissue and take a deep breath. (Fortunately for me, I wasn't next in after my brother Barry - OMG I'll stop right there.) 

Undeniable physical changes have begun my ugly duckling phase.  Losing my hair has become a little game - each morning after brushing my hair I compare what's left behind on the brush to the day before, and then I scrutinize my head to see if it's outwardly noticeable yet. There's something alternately hilarious and disturbing about seeing balls of long hair in the wastebasket. Part of me thinks 'oh wow, that looks like the big hair from the 1980's, remember Twisted Sister?!' and the other part of me is so grossed out that I can't. even. look.  The other physical change is the port implanted under the skin on my left side near my collarbone. Such an odd sensation, to have this thing there, still sensitive. I find myself holding the seat belt away from me when I'm driving, I just can't stand the feeling of the pressure. And making sure to wear clothes & scarves that cover it up. It's so not normal looking, so foreign, and screams "sick person here." 

During this time of progressing lowered resistance and fatigue, obviously it's paramount to be exceptionally choosy about what I eat. Stomach has become sensitive to overly seasoned food, and things just don't taste the same anyway, so it's not too hard to stay the course. I'm keeping it simple with whole, fresh foods, and eliminating caffeine and sugar and most dairy. I do miss my cocoa laced coffee though! My kids have assumed the role of Food Police, and I don't even DARE - they'd be horrified. The fudge on the kitchen counter has been a daily test of my resolve. And my kids are a beautiful picture of strength. Since the day my son learned of this, he has been wearing a pink rubber bracelet, his silent fist pump of encouragement for his Mama. And my daughter sent me this text last week:

They've both been extremely concerned, and I imagine also scared at their ages of 17 and 15.  When you are a kid, your parents are supposed to be your superheroes, the strongest people ever. If something comes along to show them as fallible, it's frightening and disorienting.  Besides my look changing, I've been needing much more rest and sleep. They aren't used to seeing Mom nap during the day, or be slow and foggy headed. I'd like to think that Son and Daughter have been raised to be strong in their own right, and this little detour will nail it down. 

Let me leave it at this for today. This is a photo of my nurse getting my IV ready. 

Gowned and gloved. It's quite a sight, a little bit shocking at first, especially when you consider that she is protecting herself from the very thing that is supposed to be healing me.

But here is an antidote photo. This was taken on the 3rd floor of Dana Farber Cancer Institute, in a beautiful room dedicated to peace and tranquility, called The Healing Garden. I love it in there!

There's a soundtrack of birds singing in the background, and benches here and there to sit and reflect. In the back corner, almost missable, is this trellis. All the plants are climbing and growing, full of life and energy and health. And that's all we all really want, right? :)