Today
is the first day of many days to come where tubes will be connected to my
arm, and a delicate poison sweet something will pass through my body to kill
the possibility of fast growing cells. A fast growing cell has many faces:
it is a cancer cell. It is also the hair on your head and the lining within
the stomach and digestive track. That is why, hopefully, any cancer traversing
through a person’s blood system will be killed by the application of
chemo and along with it the hair on your head and the lining of your stomach.
Sweet something is what I call it. That sweet something will be something
in no time, letting itself be known better than any lover’s arm wrapped
tightly around one’s waist. I cannot lie and tell you that I hold no
fear. I am afraid of the unknown, the side effects, the place of limbo in
which I will live for the next four months of my life. How will I change because
of this? Who will I become during this time? Will I lie in my bed, face up,
counting the spots on the ceiling or will I see visions of my life for the
value of how it should be lived from this moment on? My physical therapist
is a Buddhist. He treats me twice a week. His hands rub cream on my back while
we discuss “fear.” He tells me fear should be acknowledged, to
not shove the thought away but rather look at fear directly and ask by choice
for a place of acceptance. It has taken me days to understand, conceptually,
how to ask, and I am still not sure if I understand. So today I ask My Fear
to walk with me, our hands clasped like soldiers in conflict. Please sit with
me in the light of a stark desert and blow your gentle winds in the direction
of the northern star so the twinkle of sweet something will only be a twinkle
and not the big bang of celestial beginnings, demanding, mystical and overbearing.
