Several months ago I celebrated a special anniversary: six years as an ovarian cancer survivor. While I do not proclaim this accomplishment with glowing neon signs and parades, nevertheless I do, within my deepest heart and blood, rejoice with the bubbling giddyness of having made it through another year, another Christmas, another birthday.
Even so, from time to time I reminisce about the days and weeks and months of visits to the Chemotherapy Suite at the Florida Hospital Cancer Center in Orlando. At my first appointment I was met with the caring kindness and empathetic knowledge of Susan, the chief oncology nurse. After explaining the procedures and meds with which my body was soon to become intimately acquianted, she started me on the first of six journeys into the world of chemo.
The room was quiet but not oppressive; about a dozen of my sister patients were arrayed in lounge chairs or beds, some dozing, some reading, some talking quietly with a companion. Several wore their illness outwardly: lack of hair, color, energy, warmth. Others, like me, kept it all inside as a shield against reality, as a mask to present to the world. I must not be weak; they’ll never see me cry. Well, cry I did, privately, into pillow or patient dog, or in conversations with God or my step daughter, but in the Chemo Suite I read or dozed.
After the second session, Susan told me to expect to be losing my hair soon, and, of course, she was right on target with her prediction. As bit by bit my short blonde hair was released from my scalp, I looked upon it as a sign that not only hair-producing cells, but also cancer-producing cells were meeting their match in the platinum-flavored brew that was slipping through my arteries and veins, through every cell in my body. After a few weeks other parts of my body were hairless and smooth, and I put my razor away for a prolonged rest.
I started a quilting project and completion of it by the end of my chemo was a goal that kept me focused through the dark times. Blocks of hearts and flowers made a large mosaic of color and shape, warming and covering me and demanding less concentration than talking or reading.
The aftermath of the third session was the worst, with a deafening weakness throughout my arms and head, a numbness of tears and thought. I moved as through thick oil or heavy sand, weighed down not by my body but by a sense of vulnerability, an enemy to be conquered but still sensed and feared. Reading was chore to be tackled with pain and electric flashes of sound and light; concentration of subject or topic an impossible task.
By the fifth session, my CA-125 blood tests gave confirmation to hopes and prayers answered; I was on the way to a promise of returning health and energy, with but one more session to be endured. My quilt was well on its way to completion and after the final trip to the Chemo Suite, my nurses and doctors celebrated my progress with tears and cookies, hugs and cheers. The follow-up CT-Scan confirmed that rather premature outburst of joy, and I returned to share the exhilerating news with my care team.
I return annually to the Cancer Center for continuing care. I cherish each person who helped me in this journey: nurses, doctors, co-workers, and my beloved step daughter. And I find myself blessed with the presence of a new person in my life, one who can look at my imperfect body, one who touches my scars and doesn’t look away, as another did. Yes, this is a better life.