My energetic home-care nurse, Zaid, has just unhooked me from the odious portable chemo pack, so I am officially finished with round #1. In honour of my friend Jen, who disliked hers equally, and nicknamed it "Flo," I have nicknamed mine "Flo 2," and I'm going to enjoy my two weeks off before she's reattached after round #2.
This round of chemo itself was painless, and there was no nausea during or after, though I'm told this is not likely to be the case as it ramps up over the course of the next five sessions. That said, I have some powerful nausea meds on board, and have no compunctions about using them. The "Chemo Daycare" facility at Princess Margaret was really pleasant—large cubicles or small rooms on a sunny floor with big windows. My nurse, JoJo, was attentive and caring, which never hurts.
On the way out, feeling a bit stoned, I fell into conversation with an older woman who gave me advice on how to handle what was to come. This generosity of my fellow patients has been a gift. On the way home, a friend introduced me to her neighbour who had done her own stint at PMH, and advised me to invest in fig newtons, or all things, which she swore by in order to keep the nausea down.
This theme of kindness and generosity, and gentleness, especially from women my age or older, who are either in my predicament or have survived it, has been the most life-affirming part of this otherwise unpleasant process. I am drawn to their language, and am struck by how well I speak and understand it, and how it resonates.
Too, the wall of love from friends, "live" or virtual, has been ridiculously buoying. The messages here on FB and IG, the flowers, the cards, the caring—I feel all of it in a real and tangible way, and the gratitude I feel makes me a bit weepy at times.
Last night, my glorious next-door neighbour brought over a bowl of fresh salsa that his wife had just made 15 minutes before. Dear God it was delicious, and while I'm sure other food has gone down better over the course of the past six decades, I'm at a loss, just now, to remember what that food might have been. Maybe love is the magical ingredient she used.
Not for the first time I'm recalling, and drawing on, the wisdom of Fred Rogers. When he was a boy, he said, he would see scary things on the news. His mother told him, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping."
Lucky me—I've not needed to look. The helpers found me all on their own. And I'm so beyond blessed by them
