Part 33 Reprieve


Radiation does not simply let loose its grip as soon as treatment stops. The effects are delayed – for days, weeks after I experience the aftermath. Continued chills, fatigue, salivary problems. I wake up some nights gagging on the mucous that rages in my mouth. And these are just the physical ailments. Psychologically, I am in just as much distress. But I am amazed when I look in the mirror and see how good my face and neck look! It is almost back to normal, no need for scarves to hide the damage. I have time finally to reflect. Until now it has been a blur of doctor appointments, medical options, treatment sessions, reactions to all that by my brain and body…For a short time I have a reprieve, and brief as it may be, I will savor it.

March 28 is a bright and sunny Sunday, with a cool breeze blowing. I make my way to church for the first time in a while. Anne-Marie, one of the ministers, includes Bree in her sermon, drawing from an incident the week before where Bree had stood up in the pew, grasping for dust particles she saw in the light streaming through the window. One of the female choir singers enters in her wheelchair. She has been temporarily immobilized by disease and cannot stand. Another male singer is also back after a rough chemotherapy regimen. He looks tentative, but at least he is on his feet. After the service, our children join others outside as they ride donkeys and touch other animals in a petting zoo, brought in for the day. Later in the afternoon, I take Bree to see the new film adaptation of one of my favorite books of all, “Alice in Wonderland”. Tim Burton’s version takes some serious liberties with the material, but we both enjoy it. After we arrived home, Bree got on her bicycle and somehow learned to ride by herself! I feel much better today, although I still can’t eat. It may be due to it being a very positive day, or maybe it is just my daughter’s description of the day as being “wonderful”.



Part 34 Rough rebirth


I return to work the next week. I am quite tired each day, occasionally leaving early to go home and rest. At night, there is more coughing and gagging, with little sleep as a result. I sip a Dr. Pepper, which is tasty while not quite sweet enough. Sores have formed on the back of my mouth. The mucous seems to be getting worse, and I am still chilled most of the time. I awake on Saturday after a rough night and slap a patch on my arm. I am clearly limping along now, glad to be officially through with radiation but depressed at the lingering effects that won’t go away. I spill Robitussin all over the floor, then as Becah is assisting me with the tube, water is spilled all over me. These mishaps are becoming common, and I never get accustomed to them. After days of no radiation I see little discernable improvement in my quest for normal.

The relatives soon return to dye Easter eggs. I hop on my bike that has been newly washed and pumped with air, and join Bree in a ride around the block. It is a warm, bright day with flowers freshly blooming everywhere and for a moment I can throw off my burdens and I am immersed in this time and I realize this is as good as it gets.

Easter brings the promise of rebirth, and it has never been more poignant than today. At church I find that flowers in the sanctuary have been donated in my name– one given by my family, one donated by the choir. Later for our holiday meal at my parents house, my brothers and I watch Bree and Brooke hunt for Easter eggs in the back yard. My mother has made her usual stellar dinner and my niece Laura has made a key lime pie, but I can’t eat a bite. If there is to be a miracle this season, I see it will be subtle, incremental, at its own time and pace.