Have you ever seen a wrecking ball hit a brick wall? Yesterday, when the chemo started dripping in, it started the rise, the lift, of the crane. Last night I started to feel the impact coming, and this morning I was hit. I dragged myself through a shower, popped my anti-nausea meds and sat on the sideline of the field across the street with Greta’s baby monitor in hand while Maren participated in our neighborhood Easter Egg Hunt. I watched and I quietly cheered. Brad hunted with her, and our neighbors gathered and took pictures. It was a lovely, if chilly, event.
I went back to sleep until it was time to get my injection. The day after every chemotherapy session, I will go back to the office to get an injection that will boost my body’s ability to make white blood cells. This will allow my blood and my body to recover faster, so that my chemotherapy drips can be closer together and more effective at killing the cancer. It is another tool in the arsenal. Brad, Maren, Greta and I drove back to the office for the injection.
I popped another anti-nausea pill and a painkiller so that I could put my best Mommy face on. Maren and I went into the doctor’s office alone: she happily pushed all the elevator buttons and all of the handicap door accesses. The nurse, the only one on duty this Saturday morning, greeted us warmly and immediately set Maren up with juice and cookies. Maren explored the chemo room as I filled the nurse in on my symptoms and side effects.
Maren covered her eyes when it was time for me to get the shot, but I had her peek out at my smiling face while it was happening. She seemed comfortable and cheerful. For her, my doctor’s office is the cookie stop, the place with elevator buttons to push, the place with lots of comfy chairs just like the chairs at her grandparents house. For me, this room, this office, it is where medical miracles happen. My Maren and I both like this place, and can’t wait to come back.
I have always been a gifted sleeper. I can fall asleep on command, almost anywhere. I wake up refreshed after 5 minutes or 3 hours. I sleep on airplanes and in cars and on the floor. Today I was thankful for the gift of sleep; the sicky hours were mostly spent in dreamland. One dream, the only one I can remember now, was that the liver biopsy showed no cancer. Throughout the day, I stirred and listened as my family went about Saturday play and everyday life. I busied myself with resting and praying, thinking and dreaming.
The wrecking ball is clearing my body of the cancer and something beautiful is being planned in its stead. I anticipate, I dream, I expect the beauty to come.