A
gentle rain washes away the green pollen mist and a light breeze
stirs the curtains at the windows. We sit, my friend Jean and I, and
talk about everything and nothing – her cancer treatments, the new
temporary dog groomer I've found, how she still misses her husband,
what life and the future hold – it's comfortable and easy, sad and
optimistic at the same time. She looks tired, a little lost, and her
mind sometimes wanders. The radiation has stolen her ability to
taste and made it hard for her to swallow. The chemotherapy is rough
on her immune system. She grimaces and forces down a glass of
gatorade. But her smile is still there – it takes a little more
effort and lasts a little less long, but it's still there. This
isn't her first battle with cancer and she isn't the giving up kind.
I can't help but wonder if I were in her place, would I have her
courage and grace or would my faith be as strong. Even facing
cancer, there's a touch of mischief in that smile, a hint of the hope
and humor that sustains her. I'm not at all sure that I would be so
strong or so stubborn.
She's
about to start the 3rd week of a 10 week treatment
protocol – radiation five afternoons a week plus chemotherapy each
Thursday morning – her doctors are hopeful and her spirits are
mostly good although every now and then her eyes cloud over and I can
see the worry and the fear and the weariness. They creep around the
edges of her mind, beckoning to the dark places we try so hard not to
think about. She catches herself, shakes it off, closes her eyes and
forces herself to breathe and relax, to meditate and let go.
“My
mind needs healing as much as my body,” she tells me. Her voice is
thinner, shakier than I like to hear, not quite as convincing as a
couple of weeks ago. Seven more weeks of this, I think, will she ever be the same?
We
have a lunch of buttered croissants, beef broth and smoothies and the
minutes slip by as minutes will do.
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