I’m in the strange place of feeling well but heading into treatment that will likely make me feel like shit. A new one for me — I’m still a baby cancer patient - but familiar ground for those with experience.
The last time I had chemotherapy it was on borrowed time, a bargaining by the doctors using carefully administered drugs to stall until all the necessary tests and pre-treatment protections were done. Time was borrowed until the last moment, finding myself in ED and admitted to hospital a few days before scheduled treatment.
The last tick box was a PET scan at the private hospital across the city. Mohamed and I got leave from the ward in the morning and happily jumped in the car, feeling the freedom of an open window, as we wound our way up the back streets to Ngaio. After the scan was done, like cheeky children, we stopped in a the local cafe and bought sweet treats to visit a dear friend on the way back. We had rich, dark coffee and luscious conversations as I eked out the remaining moments of normality in the generous heart space of precious friends.
On our way back, at the Countdown intersection one block from the hospital, I got a phone call from the nurse asking where I was: they were ready to start the chemotherapy. I bluffed about the scan running late - as only someone absolutely abysmal at lying can do - as we pulled into the car park and readied ourselves for stepping into the new phase. That clear acknowledgement of cancer that is a drip of chemotherapy in your arm.
But this time I am well, and I am bargaining in a different way. After surgery, the doctors wanted to consent me straight into chemotherapy which would, in theory, go straight into a stem cell transplant, and completely up-end my year of being back, and vibrant, in life. No preparation for the phase change offered here.
So we bargained well this time: first, enough to ensure Mohamed could go home without worry to Lebanon to be with his family over Ramadan, listen to the Adan calling out, eat the good heart food and spend slow time with his parents; and second, so we can go to my dad’s birthday celebration in Dunedin, long in the diary, quiet times with family to celebrate 70 years of a life well lived, and morning walks on the beach.
I have two weeks now until treatment, and I am enjoying them. I am thankful for them. Finding ways to create, and ways to settle.
This is all just a pre-amble, though, to the real reason of this message.
And that is to share the words of my gorgeous mother, from a forgotten-about corner of Youtube, and the recesses of time:
Good to hear you negotiated the time you need, Kate, and great you are enjoying it. What a beautiful talk from your mom - inspiring! And what a clear link in character between you both. Sending a hug xx
This is so amazing to be able to hear your mother talk about how she coped with living with cancer. Thanks for sharing, I found her words comforting and inspiring. And I love your perspective, good on you for doing things the way that suits you and your loved ones as much as possible.