The Dark
Medical staff continue to tell me that I am extremely healthy, for my age. I’ve even been asked detailed diet questions, as though that bread I eat for breakfast ensures great cholesterol numbers. I want to respond, ”If I’m so healthy, why am I here getting treatment for a serious disease?” I smile back, the easy patient.
I started the year with a biopsy, followed by a surgical procedure, then four weeks of radiation. I was able to select twenty musical artists, one per radiation session. Repeats were allowed. I took delight in going back in time so that I could surprise the technicians. They all look like they are in their twenties. I think my biggest hit was Otis Redding, whose name I had to repeat, as the tech asked, “Otis who?” The next day when I entered the treatment room, both techs were listening to Otis blasting away on the speakers. One, a guy, had done internet checking. “Did you know how old he was when he died?!” (Yes, I did. And I knew why so many young musicians died in plane crashes, going up in weather which should have grounded their flights, to meet book on the next night’s concerts.)
My husband attends the sessions with me, until he convinces my son to take off work and spell him for a break. Most often the waiting time is much longer than treatment time. The day my son came, I was happy for him to get a life wakeup call. It was not meant to be. There was no wait in the first room, which never happened again. And the second waiting room was empty. My son took a nap while I had treatment and I had to wake him up. His experience was a fairy tale version of my other days. I guess fate had other plans for him.
I wear a satin mask to block the treatment room’s bright lighting. At first the mask seems spa-like. Then I have days I am glad it catches the involuntary tears overflowing in my eyes. When I tell a friend of this odd development, she informs me, “You just don’t want to be there. Your body is telling you that.”
When I complete my final treatment, I ring a symbolic bell. I inform the discharge nurse I’ve not had any of the promised fatigue during my month of treatment. She sternly looks at me and informs me, “You will tomorrow. And for the next two weeks.” Sure enough, I fall asleep sitting up with glasses on and my computer on in my lap the very next day. That nurse was prophetic.
My husband is aware of the importance of “rest and relaxation” for my healing journey. He has taken on chores which were never in his column before, doing all the dishes, unloading the dishwasher. He has instituted a new system for reminding him when dishes are clean. My sister made an art project of making a tent card, beautiful lettering for “Clean” and “Dirty.” This has been an all-encompassing project. I don’t want this pampering to end, and I only have one more week before we return to the Former Days.
I also delight in sleeping a lot. I don’t have to explain if I sleep eleven hours. I’m healing! Sleep is my alternate setting, but now it is the main event.
I am done with treatments; other than a prescription I will take for five years. I was unaware prescriptions could go so long. I had lunch with a friend who had a similar medical journey to mine, and she informed me she was glad to be taking her meds for the rest of her life. She was so upbeat she infused me with optimism. Only five years, what a nice interval!
This same friend has also told me I have endured the worst, am on to a new path. My husband and I have been invited to an eclipse party in early April. Everyone is so excited that we will be experiencing darkness for several minutes in the middle of the day. I look at them and think I’ve just gone through the darkness.
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