I have so much gratitude… for white cells working hard, for red cells delivering oxygen, for the Grace that allows me time to heal and be home rather than working, for the water that clears my system and the rain falling from the sky, for the daytime, and the night.
Chemotherapy Cycle 9 was pumped into my body on the last three days of 2020. It was doing its work, and is now moving on.
One thing I have learned about the process: predictability of unpredictability. I ponder what each day will hold, create, and express. I don’t ponder long; thinking about it is pointless.
The picture I have for the last few days is like I am a flying squirrel. I set my sights on a clear space through that structure over there, soar down from the tree, and, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak, it’s a window. Brakes on, mid air scramble, I open my arms and legs to stop the motion, and hit the glass, lightly, but in full bodied glory. That’s Cycle 9.
Part of the process. Unpleasant. Not the worst thing that planetary beings have experienced. Mild, constant nausea, fuzzy brain (at one point, so fuzzy that words didn’t connect into sentences), acid running through my esophagus, crispy skin issues… And when I sleep too long, my back throbs from inaction. The stoma has been creative, burning and reshaping. I’m a barrel of monkeys, or squirrels, squirrels is more accurate.
Cycle 9. What an incredible number. Three quarters of the way through this original goal of 12. Seeing the end (of this part) around the corner. Optimism. The mist is clearing around the next adventure. Mystery. Hopefulness. A mild sense of excitement. What will emerge? 2021.