First Cycle

My first chemo cycle is coming to an end. Each cycle starts with a dose of drugs that halt quick-regenerating cells from regenerating. If all goes well, the cancer cells—mutant human cells—can’t figure out what to do and die off. Healthy cells get their act together and spring back.

Following the in-hospital bit of chemo, they gave me a bottle with more drugs inside. These drugs drip into my body for 48 hours. They put me on steroids to help as well. As a result, I feel kind of buzzed all the time. By day three, my body’s not doing so well. It’s starting to crash. Nausea and fatigue. My body’s healthy cells not doing what they usually do—not regenerating like normal. It’s exhausting, and I’m coming off the steroid buzz at the same time. I try to stay healthy. I wash often. I go on little walks. I eat protein-rich foods and try to stomach vegetables. Bread is digestible, so I eat that most. I remind myself that I’m safe and healing. I’m tired. I am so tired, but I try to get up every hour and sip some water.

Food is a struggle on these low days following chemotherapy. I stay away from soft yolks and soft cheese and raw nuts. I can’t eat and drink things at room temperature—a chemo side effect. It was just “weird” at first, but after every liquid spawns an explosion of soft-headed pins in my throat, I give up on anything below tepid. The warm drinks start to taste tiring, so I experiment with herbal teas. I long for a cool glass of water.

I begin understanding hope differently. In August, when I described hope to my journal, it was “a field of sunflower stretched to infinity” with sights set on images decades and years away. Slowly over the last month, hope has become much more active. Hope shows up in the acts of every moment. I think the best way to describe it is in the story of planting a seed (and I do mean this very literally, but it works metaphorically as well). Hope is planting a seed. I cannot control the seed’s reproduction, nor the sun and rain. But I can plant that seed in the best spot I know for it. I nourish it, and that act of nourishment is hope. I can’t protect it from every ravenous sparrow or insect or mouse, but I can give it protector plants nearby and build shelters. The seed may grow, or it may not. It may not make a stunning flower or a substantial fruit. That’s what gardening is. But hope is planting the seeds. And like this seed, I’ve been nourishing my own body as a practice of hope without expectation. My journal now reads, “hope is helping wounds to heal.” I’m finding so many actions that are hope. The actions are not reactionary nor transactionary; From eating my proteins and washing my feet to riding my bike for the planet and writing politicians for equity. I’m finding releasing hope from expectation makes it, well, much more hopeful to engage^*!

A week after chemotherapy starts, I feel myself bouncing back. I can go on long walks; I soak up the sun and smells of late summer. By day nine, I actually want to do things. I want to read, write, and dance again. It feels like there’s more sun coming through the windows. A couple days on, and I’m cleaning the house readying for the next cycle to start. Dusting, vacuuming, and washing. I trim my nails and take a bath. This cleaning will be a pre-chemo ritual. It feels good to clean, to prepare the nest for my body when it’s low. To put things in their place.

I enjoy a glass of cold water. Cold water has never tasted so good. I appreciate how much I have savoured the moments in my life like this. One day the memories will be broken apart into hundreds of trillions of atoms and dispersed across the cosmos; Right now, those moments fill my being.

---

• 

• 

* I must give credit to the sower of this understanding of hope: Frank Ostaseski in The Five Invitations. A number of years ago that book helped me to reframe forgiveness. My understanding of forgiveness moved away from forgetting and towards healing my own wounds. The book also speaks about not confusing love with attachment, which also resonates with me so much.