my thanks

A moment’s rest, a hearty (pun intended) meal, a beautiful sun ascending over the Wasatch Mountains. I’ve been in and out of sleep most of the night. The nurses are ordered to poke and prod me regularly to check my vitals and be sure that my system is handling the chemotherapy well (no sudden, drastic turns for the worse.) I pretend they’re playing a game just outside my door, seeing how close they can bring me to the point of sleep before coming in for another pee sample. Resistance, I’ve been warned, is futile.

My heart is so full of gratitude this morning, gratitude at being rested and strong enough to be able to send a message back in response to the hundreds of messages that have flooded my inbox, as well as Frankie’s, Adam’s and Michelle’s, not to mention my family’s home mailboxes. In the initial response to my condition, there was very, very little time for discussion, input or even much choice in the matter of how to proceed. Action needed to be taken immediately, so the choice was made to begin chemotherapy literally within minutes of hearing the diagnosis. Medications and more tests were decided on, and I lay back in bed to await the first round and, well, stare blankly at the wall. One nurse (Gigi – she says my chakras are well aligned) lingered by my bed long enough to share with me two points. “These machines will work towards a cure for you,” she said. “We’ll all be working towards a cure for as long as it takes. But what these machines can’t do is heal you. That’s your job. That requires your own will, but also marinating yourself in love. So I need to ask a request. Marinate me. Keep it coming. I haven’t had time to respond individually, and as my strength becomes less and less each day with chemo, I don’t know that I will. But know that there is no black hole where most correspondence of this sort seems to disappear to. I’ve gotten each and every note, and they’ve constantly kept me focused on the positive: waking up and greeting the day and eating huge meals (my body’s fighting harder than it ever has, and my weight seems to be dropping rapidly as a result), puttering about and crying with the sunsets and enjoying Tuscan dinners on the facility’s patio with friends, filling my room with your energy and pictures (my room has become the defacto hang-out for nurses and doctors. They’re fascinated by all of you, so you know.)

There continues to be much good news to report each day. Yes, it’s accompanied by fear and anxiety; the two worlds seem to cohabitate my space well together these days. Chemo is a miraculous, devastating ordeal. But here I am in the middle of it, and I’m smiling. So thanks.