Today is one of those days when cancer sucks.
I just had my eleventh chemo treatment this week, which went fine, as I reported yesterday. I am tired at the end of treatment days, but not in a world-weary sort of way, just because I’ve been wrapped up with cancer treatment for a roughly 10-12 hour period, between travel and actual Dana Farber activities. In short, I wasn’t especially tired yesterday, maybe just a little bit more than average after-treatment tired.
I decided last night that I would go to the beach today. It’s been hot and humid the past couple of weeks, and today seemed like the perfect day for me to finally get in some private beach time. I slept in, had breakfast, then packed up my beach bag to include all the things I might want: my journal and a pen, my tunes, a book, a banana smoothie, etc. It takes a while to adequately prep a beach bag, in my experience. I was also stalling a bit to be sure I wouldn’t have any unexpected and unstoppable toilet needs before heading to the beach.
Good thing I waited, because this turned out to be one of those endless diarrhea days. I took my initial two Immodium pills and then a third when poopy hell struck again. The third pill is generally the charm, and puts the kibosh on further explosions. I finally seemed to have gotten through this GI attack, so I bid Husband and Dog adieu and headed to a beach near work, thinking I could have access to a private bathroom there should I need it. (The benefits of living near the ocean!) Halfway there, I realized I needed to get to a bathroom ASAP. I also realized that I was not going to the beach today. So I turned around, came home, and ran to the bathroom just in time to avoid further ruining my day.
This wasn’t the end of the world, of course. I sat out on our lawn in a beach chair for a while, but it’s just not the same. I wanted sand between my toes and a swim in the ocean, dammit.
This is what cancer does. It sneaks up on you and ruins your day. Even if you’re trying to head that bitch off at the pass, it still manages to sneak up on you, stick it’s nasty little hyper-dividing tongue out at you, and laugh at your well laid plans.
On the other hand…
Last week I had one of those run-ins with unimaginable kindness that seem uniquely, or at least disproportionately, associated with life as a cancer patient.
I’ve been feeling very anti-social lately because of chemobrain. I find it hard to hang out with many people at once because my brain gets easily overwhelmed by the activity, or sound, or attention, or some combination thereof. Although I truly enjoy myself when I have one or two visitors, planning for the visits is also a bit overwhelming (even though it requires practically no effort on my part). As a result, I’ve not seen many people outside of work lately.
Going to the grocery store or other similarly anonymous places allows me to be around people without having to interact with them. I find this comforting, which is odd for a typically social person like me. I both miss hanging out with people and lack the desire to do so. It’s a frustrating mix.
Last weekend I went to a store where I can walk around and peruse clothes, shoes, and home goods. I found some clothes to try on and took them to the fitting rooms. I had to laugh at a couple of the shirts I chose. These were both black, long-sleeved shirts that looked very elegant on the hanger. I thought they might make good work clothes or night-out clothes (for when I actually have nights out again). But when I tried them on, the juxtaposition of these edgy, black shirts with my bald head was a little too jarring. I felt like a character straight out of a science fiction epic.
Hello, Captain Zarniff. It’s Ular Jaro, back from the seventh moon of Syra 11.
One of the shirts had a back zipper that I couldn’t manage on my own, so I did what women always do in this situation: I went into the shared fitting room space to seek out another shopper who could zip me up. Without thinking about it, I walked my bald head right out into the breach.
Luckily, there was a woman trying on a dress by the full length mirror, and she was happy to oblige. I complimented her dress and she unzipped me again after I’d had a chance to view myself in the big mirror (horrifying!). She was kind enough not to comment. We then went back to our respective fitting rooms.
A few minutes later, when I’d finished trying things on, I opened my stall door just as she did, and it happened that she was in the stall across from mine. She had on a different dress and asked my opinion. We chatted for a moment about the various pros and cons of each dress. Then, hesitating, she asked if I was in treatment. I said yes. She explained that she had had breast cancer some 20 years ago, and is completely healthy. She looked great: in her 60s, she was fit and beautiful with a long mane of healthy hair. (I notice hair a lot more these days.)
She then asked, again, very tentatively, if I would like her to pray for me. “I’m on the prayer team at my church,” she explained. I accepted her kind offer. Although I’m not the least bit religious, I will happily receive the love and good thoughts of any person who wishes to share them, via whatever process they choose.
Here came the weird part. She said, “Ok, then come on in to my fitting room.”
She didn’t seem like someone who would try to stab me with a pen knife, so I obliged. Don’t get me wrong, this felt exceedingly odd. But…she seemed completely sincere and strange things can happen when you tell people you have cancer.
She mostly closed the stall door, leaving it open just a crack, and then explained, about a foot away from me in this tiny fluorescent lit space, that many people had prayed for her when she had cancer, and she believes it made all the difference for her. She was never sick during treatment, she didn’t lose her hair, and she’s been healthy for more than twenty years. She was convinced that prayer saved her, and she wanted to extend the favor. She said, “I don’t know if you’re religious,” as part of her explanation, to which I responded, “No, I’m not. Not in the least.” Still, she kept going, but in a very respectful way.
She was halting in her approach, presumably because this was an awkward encounter and she was trying to make it as comfortable as possible. She put her hands on my shoulders, bowed her head, and began to pray. It went something like this:
“Lord, please watch over this woman.” She paused. “Protect her…our sister…” and then she looked up at me and asked, “what’s your name?”
“Sunshine,” I answered. She smiled, quickly, and then bowed her head again.
“…our sister, Sunshine, and keep her well…and let her get through this treatment without pain or sickness…”
She went on in this way, but to be honest, I didn’t hear much of it. I was completely overwhelmed by the pure intensity of what this stranger was offering me.
She continued, “…in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
As she finished, I was sobbing. She didn’t seem to have a tear in her eye. She smiled and wished me the best. I thanked her, still in a haze, wiping my eyes, and left the fitting room.
I didn’t “feel the hand of God” in this interaction or anything like that. I didn’t experience any tingly feelings or a wave of warmth. What I felt was the love of a fellow human who chose to share a random act of kindness with me. THAT is my religion.
And that is the kind of crazy thing that (mostly) balances out the bad days.