I was asked to write the below this week. Done, I am now attacking my work space, an intimidating task as I hoard EVERYTHING just in case it could be used in a future project. I want clean. I want work surfaces. But my evil twin brings home every tossed aside item I come across. This cleaning of the art space is a soulful negotiation between my two selves.
So rather than write a new blog post, I share what I just wrote for something else, hoping it just might serve a purpose here.
Chemo: How I Faced It, Tips I Might Share – A Personal Perspective
A photo documents me beaming out as the very first chemo drip started. My long hair, a source of life long pride, was having a good hair day. A table was laden with healthy foods and drink. I look strong and hopeful. The truth is moments later I asked everyone to leave, turned off the lights and I lay there crying the slow, quiet tears of defeat that seemed to befit a younger stage IV ovarian cancer patient.
My six frontline chemotherapies were pretty standard. No real crises outside of the ongoing saga to find a willing vein. Oh, to have had the starting wisdom of a port! Eventually I got “plugged in”, infused and left, counting off one more chemo treatment until they were done, as was all my bodily hair, and I walked out to build a life in remission.
I approached frontline chemo as an endurance test. I rigorously took notes and followed them attentively. I started a “blackout period” free of all supplements and green tea the day prior to each infusion that lasted for the two days after infusion. A support team coordinated having food available and people to look in the days I would feel the sickliest. The days, in fact, when the last thing I wanted were visitors. They were assigned to bring a book and leave me be, that is if I didn’t head them off before arrival with assurances of just how fine I was. Compared to the horror stories of imagined chemo, I had more good days then bad albeit always weary in a newfound way. I walked every day. I ate well. I enrolled in a local clinic for immune deficient people that offered weekly treatments of acupuncture, shiatsu (Chinese massage), and access to a cancer-trained naturopath who assigned supplements that my Western team of medical experts then approved me to take. East met West courtesy of my body.
I was recovering from surgeries to my chest and abdomen and the news that I had one of the worst cancer diagnosis imaginable. Shock, grief and a raw primal fear I had never before experienced were daily components of my initial reality. The routines of chemo survival helped me by being concrete.
My husband and I moved in with friends in the city when it was obvious I faced a huge medical phase. This decision allowed us to under-function initially as friends took over being the competent leads. They told us what to do when. This allowed us space for walking through our emotions. Living with friends infused such a sober period with joy, love and laughter. I don’t know how we would have handled this same crisis at our beloved home in the woods but I suspect the increased isolation would not have served us well.
Four years later, I am a chemo pro. My port is a dear friend and I have different tactics for the different chemo regimes offered up. My life is good; I look healthy and bike or walk everywhere. I feel strong and hopeful most of the time. I have pride in a new head of hair even if shorter.