Category Archives: Cancer treatment

Yoga!

yoga calendars

I finished chemotherapy almost five weeks ago. As of Monday, it was time to start radiation therapy. To do that, I first had to have another CT scan to make sure my organs are where they’re supposed to be, I guess. At this point, I don’t ask. I just do what I’m told with a soft “baa” under my breath. (“Baa” is the sound a unicorn makes when it’s pretending to be a sheep.)

Next, I had to have my chest marked so the technicians would know exactly where to aim their ray gun. That seemed like a sensible plan. From the extensive knowledge I had gleaned from TV hospital dramas, I thought they would put a couple of inconspicuous dots on my chest. They used to tattoo them, but now they use indelible marker, the kind you use to write your name in your underpants when you go to summer camp.

After they had finished with a bunch of poking and prodding and measuring and picture taking of various sorts, three technicians came at me armed with markers. I couldn’t see what they were doing since my arms were above my head in banzai pose and I wasn’t supposed to move anyway, but they went at it for quite a while. When they were done and I looked in a mirror, I did not discover a tasteful dot or two that could be mistaken for Mae West style beauty marks. Instead, I found what looked like a map of Arizona. My surgery scar pretty much follows the Grand Canyon and the the Hopi and Navajo nations are nestled in my armpit, where they are welcome. Despite daily stretching and yoga, I still can’t feel anything there anyway.

I have followed a very unfocused but dedicated yoga practice for about a year and a half, even more dedicatedly since I started chemo, partly to structure my days and partly because there wasn’t much else I could do. But instead of Vinyasa or Ashtanga, both of which I love but take a fair amount of power, I’ve had to keep to Hatha, Yin and restorative, which are slow and gentle and keep me centered and sane even if they don’t help much with muscle strength.lacquer box

 

I have a lovely lacquered box filled with colored pens and pencils and a variety of stickers and a pair of granny glasses which I use when I write my activities on my yoga calendars. If anybody were to ask me, “Where were you on October 4th?” I could honestly say, “I did a 38 minute Hatha yoga class followed by a ten minute anxiety relief meditation and then went to my final chemo session.” And if asked, “Do you remember any of that?” I could honestly say, “No, not really.” Chemo brain fog has its benefits.

Despite what my regular doctor said about metastasis and pneumonia, and I have since nicknamed him Death Star, the radiologist said that my lungs are now clear and any shortness of breath I’ve still got is because I haven’t been able to exercise properly for so long. He was very supportive of yoga. I had told dozens of doctors and nurses that I do yoga and really believe in its benefits, but I mostly got blank stares, sometimes even condescending sneers. Death Star scoffed at me, saying, “Yoga is easy.” I just raised an eyebrow and said, gently, “There are lots of different kinds of yoga.”

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel better. The evil chemo monster, kicking and screaming, is finally being dragged off center stage. Fears of some sort of horrid mutiny inside my lungs appear to have been unfounded. Radiation, so far at least, is quick and easy and unlikely to make me grow horns or start speaking in tongues. And I have permission to get back, gently at least, to doing some real muscle work. And that pretty much brings us full circle. I first noticed the lump about a year ago, just when I had started working on doing a yoga headstand. And now I’m back to working on the headstand. If you don’t believe me, proof is in the peacock.peacock butt

 

Do I feel vindicated? You betcha. Does it matter? Not a whit. The fact that I am starting to feel better matters more than anything else.

Advertisements

What’s that smell?

deodorant

Somewhere around the time I hit puberty, as my body began to develop, so did my personal musk. I graduated from little girl sugar and spice to something more mature and, like most people with any sense of propriety, started wearing deodorant. I continued to do so for the following forty or so years until I had surgery last January. Since then, my body has continually been pumped full of drugs and poison and stuff I don’t even want to know about. I have not needed deodorant, even during the long, hot summer. Instead of my own familiar musk, I smell vaguely of something between a chemistry lab and a gas station bathroom. My nearest and dearest, or at least near enough to notice, claim not to have noticed, and they get brownie points for politeness if that’s all it is. It’s not a bad smell, really, it just isn’t me. It sometimes feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, and that’s way too Silence of the Lambs for my liking.

The medical world doesn’t bother to tell you about things like this, partly because the journey is different for everyone and the possibilities of treatment side effects are endless. Chemo effects are also cumulative; even now, four weeks after finishing, I am still getting new ones, mostly mild but annoying and taken together, awfully depressing. I am waiting impatiently for the day that I start feeling better.

Still, I am always looking for those shining silver linings, and yesterday, as I was taking off my shirt, I noticed a whiff of BO emanating from my right armpit. I sniffed. I sniffed again. Indeed, my right armpit was definitely giving off a human scent, a familiar scent, the scent of me. I welcomed it, nearly moved to tears. I know it’s only a baby step, but it’s a step in the right direction and I’ve been wandering around in circles for far too long.

Who knew a smelly armpit could bring such joy?

Beautiful and Ugly

I’ve always loved dolls and the delightful escapism I can find in their tiny world. This lovely if somewhat tattered display case resides in my living room.

doll case

I found the case, wet from rain, by a tiny shrine many years ago. The dolls are my own; I made some of them. I spend time staring at them, thinking, “What if you were real?” No more than that. That’s enough.

I also love fairy tales, but not Disney extravaganzas. While I love the music in Fantasia, I’ve always found hippos wearing tutus disturbing. I also have to admit I’ve never seen Bambi and don’t want to. Those aren’t the tales I’m talking about. Sometime around high school, I discovered Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books of Many Colours. This was one of my favourites (British spelling by courtesy).orange fairy bookIf you thought ballet dancing hippos were weird, there’s a whole universe of strange in these books. They’re fairy tales collected from all over the world. According to Lang’s preface, “cruel and savage deeds have been softened down as much as possible” and most “take the side of courage and kindness and the virtues in general.” Still, there’s enough weird in these pages to satisfy…well…me.

In the Scandinavian tale The Enchanted Wreath, there is a couple, each bringing to the union a daughter from a previous marriage. The man’s daughter is beautiful and good, no doubt a virgin (spoiler alert!) until the prince has his way with her, while the woman’s daughter is cross and ugly and the prince will never look at her twice because beautiful men don’t marry ugly women, at least not in Hollywood or the pages of fairy tales. Ugly men can marry beautiful women, however, (Mick Jagger, Billy Joel, love them both despite their looks) and we’re meant to accept that as a social norm. Check Google if you don’t believe me.

Both daughters are asked to go out in the rain to fetch the man’s axe after he’s been woodcutting, although why the dumb-ass can’t remember to bring it home himself is beyond me. Each daughter finds some cold, wet doves sitting on the axe handle. Beautiful feeds and pets them and is rewarded with a wreath of eternal rosebuds adorned by invisible birds that never stop twittering, which sounds a bit thorny and annoying, but I didn’t write the story. Ugly, on the other hand, shoos the doves away calling them ‘dirty creatures’. Her reward is that she can never say anything but, ‘dirty creatures’ for the rest of her days, which seems to be giving those doves an awful lot of  power and outweigh the crime, but again, I didn’t write the story.

Just imagine.
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“Dirty creatures.”
“Um…we’ve got some stale corn flakes. Will that do?”

Long story short, a prince happens upon Beautiful in the woods, falls in love and proposes on the spot. The king is displeased but gets over it; the kid had always been headstrong anyway and the girl is just so darned pretty. Ugly and her mother are also displeased but don’t get over it. Instead, they indulge in some unethical conniving, including drowning Beautiful who somehow turns into a ghost and then a slimy snake that writhes in the prince’s hand until he lops off its head with his sword and Beautiful is returned to him intact, complete with thorny roses and twittering birds. There’s no explanation of how he knew he should do that; I rarely use a sword to lop off the heads of people I love, hexed or not. Ugly and her horrid mother are banished to a desert island and everyone else lives happily ever after. And that’s how it works in fairy tale land.

In real life, the hexes are more straightforward and less easily dealt with. Since the curtain came down last October, I’ve made it through surgeries and chemotherapy, more needles and bandages than I can begin to count, mostly delivered with caring and professionalism but also half-lies and brick walls and indifference. And there’s still a long way to go. Leaving home for the final chemo session last week, I put my hand on the knob to open my front gate and thought “sixteen.” Sixteen times I turned that knob, opened the gate, walked to the station, got on the train. Sixteen times I opened the door to the doctor’s office, sixteen times I sat in the chair and went through the procedure, sometimes easily, usually not. Sixteen times I got up again and came home. Sixteen.

With all of that, the past year has sucked in more ways I can name, but at the same time, it has brought so much love into my life. I am finding it not only in other people but also in myself. I find a capacity for giving and sharing that I didn’t know existed, a mutual need for human touch, for connection, but also to let go of the people who, intentionally or not, cause me nothing but pain. I hope this is a form of wisdom. I’ve got my people, all of us perfectly imperfect, all of us on a journey, all of us in the same boat, whatever form it may take, wherever it may be sailing, to paradise or to a desert island or just to the  convenience store on the corner.

I have found the strength to trust myself, to make decisions and live with the consequences, right or wrong, to feed the doves or shoo them away. I’ve never had to face this kind of challenge before, never really been sick before. The surreal world of Cancerland has posed such contradictions, such questions, offered so few answers and I am the kind of person who needs things to be straightforward. I am only now beginning to realize how much this has changed my life, not just my body, but also my mind, my outlook, my overall perspective. Forever, I will have this threat hanging over me. The old normal will never return; I have to learn to live with a new normal. The collateral damage is still unimaginable to me, the snake still writhing  in my hand. I can never know which way he will turn his slimy head and I seem to have left my sword somewhere, perhaps next to dumb-ass’s axe.

This journey is both beautiful and ugly and that’s real life, unadorned by the good or the bad, the dancing hippos or perpetual roses or slimy snakes or jealous stepmothers. Despite all that, or maybe because of it, somehow we find a way to keep going.

three princessesw

Pop-Tarts and Peace

I have spend the past two weeks suspended in limbo, waiting for the final chemo session early next month. In the meantime, I have very little work and very little energy so my tired body creeps through the days as slowly as the minute hand makes its way around the face of the clock.

Persistence of MemoryI am the mushroom platypus thing in the middle. See the resemblance?

I keep rebuilding my perception of reality only to have it knocked out from under me and having to start again. There is a limit to the number of times one can do that, but the alternative is hiding under the blankets until pigs fly, hell freezes over and Trump grows a conscience, none of which is likely to happen any time soon. Well, given advances in plastic surgery and aerodynamics, the pig thing might happen, and global warming is bringing us closer and closer to the possibility of frosty hell, but I’d bet my last Pop-Tart that Donny will never grow up. So I choose to get up each morning, ignore the tangerine-tinted buffoon, and try again.

The Pop-Tart Philosophy

Pop-Tarts

Tragedy and/or trauma bring on the five stages of mourning as the psyche tries to absorb and cope with loss. That mourning has five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I had assumed the scenario goes something like this:

Monday: Don’t be silly. We still have plenty of Pop-Tarts.
Tuesday: Damn! Some douche canoe ate the last Pop-Tart.
Wednesday: I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a Pop-Tart today.
Thursday: I’ll never have another Pop-Tart. How can I go on?
Friday: At least I got to enjoy the Pop-Tarts of the past.

But it doesn’t. It’s a messy, unpredictable tangle of what the human heart and brain can and cannot deal with. I still hover between denial and depression. Most of the time, my reflection either startles or saddens me. More recently, there is anger, and along with anger comes fear, or maybe because of fear there is anger. Bargaining has not happened and is unlikely. Who would I bargain with and what would I offer? And acceptance? How can I accept something that cannot be defined? How do I plan for the future when I don’t know if I will have one?

We watched Erin Brockovich a few days ago, and I know it’s idiotic, but I found myself resenting the sick people because at least they could blame the gods of corporate greed for their trouble. There’s nobody to blame for my situation, not even myself. So far, at least, I’d been able to meditate my way past those feelings of frustration and helplessness. But then I did a stupid thing. I binge watched some old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, unfortunately the part where Izzy gets cancer. But her scenario was adorned in delightful Hollywood optimism. Not only did she survive death, within a month her hair had grown back and she insisted on scrubbing in on a five hour surgery, with only a couple of bites of banana to sustain her. Izzy, you go, girl! If only I had your strength.

The next morning, I woke up so depressed that not even a cocktail of yoga, meditation, Xanax and Pop-Tarts could snap me out of it. I’ve been bald for five months already, and my hair won’t be coming back anytime soon. As my frustration grows, my patience wears thin. If one more smug person smiles at me and says, “Don’t worry. It’ll grow back,” I may have to plunge a fork in your eye. Consider that fair warning. I know you mean well, but please be aware that a person who has cancer is not just dealing with contradictions on the scale of the Grand Canyon, e.g., you can’t even feel the disease while the treatment is making you very sick. That person is also trying to deal with the limits of their own mortality, trying to get up each day knowing there is a silent, greedy killer lurking in their cells, a dormant volcano on the molecular level. Round and round the mulberry bush we go, never knowing when the weasel might pop.

But while anger and frustration fuel me, they are exhausting. I have to find a way to make peace, peace in my thoughts, peace in my words, peace in my heart. I suppose that’s what they mean by acceptance: serenity, courage and wisdom. I will keep trying.

Desiderata

Cow Plop ‘N Beans

My chemo vacation is nearly over, three glorious weeks of not once being jabbed with a needle, not once having fluids removed or injected except voluntarily and through the usual portals, not once having to find the courage to open the door to the doctor’s office, not once having to walk past the line of women waiting to see the doctor when I’m on my way to the chemo room.

I had thought this vacation would be wonderful, a respite from poison being pumped into my body. I thought I would start to feel better, but twelve weeks of poison take their toll. I still feel like clobbered cow plop. The worst of it is not being able to breathe properly. The chemo monsters thought it would be fun to set up camp in my lungs. If I try to walk faster than a blue-haired-granny-shuffle or climb the stairs or even bend over to pick something up, the monsters start poking at my lungs with tiny daggers and pitchforks and other implements of destruction. I imagine this is what asthma must feel like. It sucks.

I asked my nurse about this and she said there’s nothing I can do. “Just be lazy!” she chirped. But the more I sit still and do nothing, the more it feels like my very soul is clotting in my nether regions, currently oozing along at the rate of molasses, but threatening to pull a Lot’s wife maneuver and turn to stone. I try to do some yoga every day, including at least a gentle inversion. The lack of blood in my brain is making me woozy. Just the other day, I imagined I was being attacked by a polar bear at Costco.

slutty bear

So I’m thinking let’s get on with it. I want to be done with this already. Ah, but there’s the catch. The first round of chemo was meant to compromise my immune system. The next round intends to pulverize it into oblivion. “Be very careful,” says my nurses. “No diseases, no injuries. Your body won’t even be able to cope with a hangnail. But don’t worry. You’ll probably only feel like hammered shit (she used a slightly more technical term) for three days. Just carry on with your normal life.” So all I have to do is make sure I don’t bump into anything or trip over anything and none of the 12 million other people in Tokyo decide to sneeze on me.

Well, that sounds easy enough.

As always in this hideous process, the waiting is the worst part. None of the medical people will commit to anything. I may or may not feel just fine; I may need to spend the next three months in bed whining and throwing up and generally being hateful. And there are a myriad of possible variations in between.

So I am trying to cope with this looming unknown and the anticipation is turning me into a quivering bowl of lime jello. (I dislike jello in all its forms but lime is particularly awful.) I slept for eighteen of the past twenty-four hours, partly healing, partly hiding, trying to find the strength to follow through on this nightmare.

Here are two ways you can help.

  1. Just a couple of days after I shaved my head, I got a message from a very well-meaning friend asking how my pretty blonde curls were holding up. I crumpled. It felt like a very well-meaning punch to the gut. So if any of you feel the urge to assure me, again, that it’ll grow back, please don’t. I promise you will receive a very well-meaning but very solid sucker punch to the kidney. You have been warned.
  2. Please don’t come at me with another miracle cure. It’s too late. The surgery is done, the treatment begun. Parts of me are lying on the top of a trash heap somewhere nasty being picked over by seagulls. I am attempting to cope with that grief, so please spare me the latest miracle diet/exercise program/jungle plant/exorcism that will make this all go away. Just the other day, I watched a yoga video featuring a charming Indian fella who ended the class with a long list of powders guaranteed to cure cancer in all its forms. Unfortunately, the only ingredient on the list that I recognized was cow piss. So now, on top of everything else, I have buy a cow.

cow

Reading back over this post, it seems I am not my usual gentle, benign self. I apologize for that. If anybody has any spare amulets or talismans or fetishes or fairy dust or just plain good intentions, could you give them a gentle push in my direction? Anybody got any spare magic beans? I have one, but I don’t want to spend it.

elepant bean

Poison

When we are faced with the unknowable, we search for solace and reassurance wherever we can find it. Some people turn to religion, others to denial. Although I’m a big fan of denial, I have tried as much as possible to turn to understanding. Early on, I read that my hair falling out was good because it meant the chemotherapy was working. But then yesterday I read that, in fact, all it means is that the chemo is having an effect, not necessarily a good one.

arsenic

Chemo is, in fact, toxic and my hair fell out because the chemo damaged the cells in my hair follicles. It is, in fact, damaging cells in my entire body, as one would expect of poison. This is only logical. If the wife discovered her husband was cheating and started mixing arsenic into his lemonade, then he suddenly started growing taller and more handsome, we would know either she can’t read product labels or we are reading a fairy tale. There is some logic to the workings of the universe.

For chemo, the reality is that while the toxic concoction is damaging healthy cells, which have the capacity to recover, it is also damaging cancer cells, which do not recover, at least in theory. The problem here is that every cancer is different, every person’s reaction is different, and unless another tumor makes its uninvited appearance, there’s no way to know if any of this is working. Everyone has cancer cells in them; most of the time our immune systems can murder the little buggers. Perhaps my extensive surgery and clean removal of the tumor was enough and my natural immunity could have killed off whatever cancer cells remained. Perhaps not. There’s no way to know. And radiation, which is supposed to have the same damage/repair effect, can also cause further damage to my already compromised lymph system and/or ignite some new type of cancer and then we start the whole inexplicable, unreliable, horrible process all over again.

It pained me to discover that the only proof there is that any of this treatment works is statistics. Women who undergo chemotherapy and radiation have a better chance, just a chance mind you, of outliving those who don’t. I can’t help thinking of going to the floating duck game at the county fair and expecting to pick the duck that wins you the giant teddy bear instead of the cheap plastic key holder. Statistically, it is possible to win that bear, but I wouldn’t stake my allowance on it. There are to many variables, too many ducks.

big bear

Yesterday, with all those contradictions gurgling through my chemical befogged brain, we went out for my birthday lunch, and not far from home I managed to trip over a pothole and tumble to the ground, not in that adorable way a toddler falls-down-goes-boom, but arms and legs flailing, ending up on my butt in the middle of the street. At least, much like a toddler, I started sobbing. And it only got worse as concerned strangers stopped to ask if I was all right. One woman even offered to drive us wherever we might want to go and when we said I was all right, she fetched a towel-wrapped ice pack, handed it to me, and drove away. Perhaps my bleeding palm touched her heart. Perhaps the bandana on my head told her all she needed to know. Either way, that simple act of kindness made me cry even harder, not jut from pain but also from frustration and helplessness.

I keep expecting to wake up from this nightmare and discover that it was all a fairy tale after all, that I chose the right duck and won the giant teddy bear. But the fact is that I didn’t choose any of this. Who would? The thing I have to remember is it’s not about choices, or at least not about liking any of the choices. When offered a choice of Japanese sweets, which generally look pretty and taste awful, I can always say I’m on a diet. But what’s the correct answer to, “Are you ready for your chemo now?” And how do I say yes to radiation when I know it may do more harm than good? But at the same time, how do I say no?

Fighting the Good Fight

boxing glovesSomewhere around 2005, I wandered into a ‘Fighting Exercise’ class at the gym, which turned out to be a form of boxercise, and I fell in love on the spot. It wasn’t long until I was doing kick boxing at sensei’s private dojo. I indulged in that exercise heroin for the next ten years, a stress-reducing producer of cleansing sweat. I will always love the resounding ‘thwack’ of a glove hitting a mitt.

So I thought I knew what fighting was, and couldn’t really understand what people meant when they talked about ‘fighting’ cancer. For me at least, so far at least, the whole process has been pretty passive. I try not to squirm while people in white coats and shower caps take things out of me or put things into me, and then I try to make my peace with yet another scar, another list of warnings and precautions, another rope binding me to a tree just in sight of Emerald City, knowing the heroin is in the poppies, not the gym.

If you do a search for chemotherapy side effects in Japanese, the first to pop up is irritability. (The American Cancer Society list doesn’t include it at all. That tells you something about Japanese society. And American society, for that matter.) The Japanese are masters of understatement, and in this case, they’ve outdone themselves. I can’t vouch for Japanese women, but pile chemo onto my naturally testy personality and you unleash a scaly, fire-breathing dragon that wants nothing more than to lumber along the streets of Tokyo Godzilla-style, punching old ladies, squashing butterflies and stomping on kittens. I thought the Nicodemon was scary; the Chemomonster is worse.

nemo kittens
No, that is not Nemo. It’s Godzilla. Trust me.

At the same time, as the chemo works its toxic evil, I get progressively more tired, a type of bone-weary I have never experienced. I have to walk slowly, can’t carry anything heavy, am becoming horribly sensitive to loud noises. Sometimes breathing seems like too much of an effort.

The good news is that means old ladies, butterflies and kittens are probably safe. At this point, a blue-haired granny with a cane and a limp could probably outrun me.

The other good news is my nurse assures me this is all temporary. If I can hold it together for five more months, it will be done and if the Goddess is generous, I will never have to do it again. So onward we go, one foot in front of the other.

But five months? That sounds like an awfully long time. If the Chemomonster manages to bust loose and starts ripping flowers out of your garden or puncturing your tires or otherwise being a nuisance, please have the courtesy to look the other way. Thank you.

Power

Halfway through my treatment, at least according to the number of IVs I will have to endure, it became apparent that while I have the cast iron constitution of a German potato farmer, I have the veins of an anemic chicken. My internal organs are functioning perfectly and my blood cells are behaving nicely, but my veins have stopped dead in their tracks and refuse to take a single step forward; needles go in but nothing comes out. My wonderful nurse was close to tears; she knows how to do her job and certainly doesn’t want to hurt me, but the veins were obstinate.

So now I’ve got this creepy thing living in my chest.

power port

This is a port, to be specific, a PowerPort® MRI® isp Device from Bard Access Systems. (Perhaps the good folks at Bard might offer me a fee for mentioning them?) It was implanted under my skin below my right shoulder. The tail goes directly into a large vein, making for easy delivery and distribution of cytotoxins (cell poisons). It can be reused as often as necessary until no longer needed. I have mixed feelings about that. But it also means I will have no further needle jabs in my arm. This is a good thing.

Ah, my old friend irony. I project the image of a powerful warrior princess charging into battle on my magnificent steed, but in fact, I lie down on the table and let the medical people do their stuff, silent tears my only protest. I was hoping the little purple monster might give me mystical powers of some sort, but it just sits there and I remain powerless.

If you count the Colonoscopy from Hell, that makes a total of four surgeries this year. At least this time they were putting something in instead of taking stuff out.  This is also a good thing. I’m running out of spare parts.

I look at my increasingly disfigured torso and almost wish the marks were battle scars. “She fought bravely to the end of the siege, her blood-stained blade glinting in the twilight” sounds so much better than “She sat idly by while the invaders took what they wanted and then ate a lot of cookies.” (Thank you, Maya!) It’s not a very heroic picture, but to be honest, heroism has little to do with it. Bravery? Certainly, but not heroics.

Maya cat cookies

What’s happening to me sucks but it’s not a tragedy. Dominating this weekend’s news was the story of a woman who just died of breast cancer at age 34, leaving behind two small children and a grieving husband. That’s a tragedy. It was in the news because she was a TV personality and he’s a kabuki actor, but that doesn’t make their story any more or less tragic, just more public.

Oh, and she published a blog about the whole process. Now there’s a thought.

Farewell, Sweet Mousse

So much about cancer treatment is counter-intuitive. Granted, I found a lump in a place where there shouldn’t be one, but it didn’t hurt. Still, that led to an army of doctors and nurses and technicians and unemployed seamstresses sticking needles in me and lopping off parts I would have preferred to keep. And now they’re pumping me full of poison which is gradually and consistently making me feel worse rather than better. And they tell me that there’s no proof I even have more cancer nor that the medicine is helping if I do. The literature says chemo can reduce the risk of recurrence and aims to eradicate cancer cells that could grow and might result in tumors. ‘Can’, ‘risk’, ‘could’, ‘might’. Those are pretty wimpy words. What it boils down to is that all of this horrid treatment is done just in case, might merely be nothing more than a band-aid, and makes no promises. And don’t get me started on the word ‘treatment’. I used to think of it as a nice word. “I received surprisingly gentle treatment at the hands of the Hell’s Angels.” “Dali’s treatment of watches is a delightful blend of liquid and squishy.” For me, the word ‘treatment’ now means, among other things, pain, fear and fatigue. It’s very hard to cope with that reality.

So I keep looking for things to be grateful for. Here’s one: my support system. I have people, lots of warm, caring people who honestly wish the best for me. I’ve been offered prayers, Buddhist chants, the spinning of a prayer wheel, some Indian talisman stones and more good wishes than I can count. I gladly accept all with gratitude in my heart.

Rachel talisman stones

Here’s another: In time and with luck, the treatment will end and I can start working my way back toward some sort of normality, or at least accepting my new normality. At this point, each day is still more surreal than the last. It feels like I’m creeping up a slippery slope on my hands and knees, but at least I’m making progress. Somewhere on the distant horizon there is a unicorn sitting under a rainbow waiting patiently for me. When I finally get there, together we will sip honeysuckle nectar and nibble on fairy dust cookies.

Here’s a third: Hair care. I give the scalp a quick rub down with coconut oil after my shower and I’m good to go. I had not realized what I was being released from there. Google “hair care products” and you’ll get a whopping 47,200,000 hits. Yowza!

So at least for a time, I am freed from brushes, combs, shampoo, conditioner, treatment, rinses, dyes, tints, curlers, curling irons, straightening irons, perms, gels, mousses, waxes, pomades, barrettes, bobby pins, hair clips, elastics, scrunchies, hairnets and shower caps. I need no longer concern myself with ponytails, braids, bouffants, buns, cowlicks, bobs, waves, cornrows or dreadlocks. Oh, and let us not forget razors and tweezers. So long, my friends. Don’t slam the door on your way out.

OK, to be honest, there are only about six things on that list that were ever a part of my life anyway, but still, it’s a silver lining. Or silver plated, at least. Copper? Tin, maybe? You have to at least give me aluminum.