Last
Tuesday Mr. T and I met with Dr. DV for my check-up before my chemo. She looked over my blood work and saw that
all of the various elements (white cells, red cells, allergens, etc.) were all
excellent. She started taking notes in
my file and remarked that this would be my 7th treatment, and then
she added that no patient so far had had seven consecutive treatments at the
rate of every two weeks without a reprieve.
I felt as if I had received an A+ on a final exam. I’ve always been a sucker for good
results. We scheduled the next series of
treatments with an MRI in a few weeks to keep an eye on the interaction between
the chemo cocktail and the cancer.
Concerning
the side effects I told her that I felt that there was some cumulative effect
to the treatment since initially it took me about 3 days to feel “normal”
whereas now it takes me almost a week.
Apart from the curious sensitivity to cold which means that I’m more
comfortable eating warm food for the first few days after the treatment and
must sleep in a warm room, my main discomfort comes from digestive
problems. She explained that this is
almost exclusively due to the anti-nausea medication that I receive after the
chemo. Overall the discomfort and the
occasional fatigue are so minor compared to what I’ve went through my first
year that I can easily accept these minor drawbacks in light of the overall
benefit of the treatment.
Following
my previous treatment towards the end of September, we organized a really nice
family celebration for my 60th birthday. I’ve been looking forward to celebrating this
one because it was very symbolic for me:
no one in my nuclear family had ever lived to 60. My dad died of lung cancer at 52; my mom had
declared that she didn’t ever want to reach 60 and died of breast cancer at 59;
and my brother, refusing to grow old gracefully, committed suicide at 59. I felt that I had something to prove, that I
was not like them, that I had every reason to live and that I love being
alive.
What
better way to celebrate my birthday than to be surrounded by folks that I love? (Of course, there are the presents.) The
highlight of my day was the picture that we took with me and my granddaughters,
Émilie, Charlotte, Lola and the newest arrival, Alma. Émilie held Élodie’s picture as her
placeholder since she had returned to Austin. (We’ve had several Skype sessions
with her since her return and she immediately recognizes us. She’s
tried to hug the computer and gives us kisses on the screen.)
One
of my favorite gifts was a one week trip of “camping à la ferme” in
Brittany. I returned with Alec and
Virginie to Bovenant to lend a hand on their farmhouse renovation. Virginie is now “great with child” as the
old expression goes and is therefore limited physically. Fortunately, the weather was still warm
enough, except for one night when the temperature dropped to about 3 degrees
C. That night I woke up having trouble
breathing since my throat was constricted because of the cold, so the warnings
from my oncologist about the sensitivity to cold is not something to be taken
lightly. We were able to get quite a bit
done that week. Alec proposed that he
reserve any handling of carcinogenic materials to me. “Well, she’s already got cancer, so why not?”
he quips. In fact, they are being very
careful about using only eco-friendly building materials, so I was not forced
to put up any asbestos siding.
I
thoroughly enjoyed spending time with them, and I get such satisfaction out of
helping out, but it is a real exercise for me to let them work out their own
problems without me interfering. I’m
sure that I don’t always succeed but I do try, and that’s really all I can do
is try, try again. It’s all about
perception. I see myself as staying out
of it while Alec teases me about micro managing. Probably the “truth”, if such a thing exists,
is somewhere in between.
That’s
the interesting thing about us humans.
We’re such social creatures. One
of the advantages, or is it a function, of living with others is that we can act
as mirrors for each other, letting us know when we’ve gone too far in words or
actions, or if we haven’t gone far enough.
The key to that mirroring is honest communication that seems so
difficult for adults to achieve. It is
so natural for kids to say what they mean.
Charlotte can easily come out with a heart felt “Mamie Lee, je t’aime
jusqu’aux étoiles!” or Lola “Tu es méchante !” on those rare occasions when I
don’t go along with her. (Don’t worry,
Lola loves her Mamie Lee, too.)
We
teach them the magic words of “Bonjour”, “Merci”, “S’il te plait”, “Au revoir”,
“Désolé”. The basics. If we teach them
the basics, then why is it so hard for us to say “I’m sorry”? And there are so
many other magic words: “I accept your apology”, “No, I can’t”, “I’m so happy
to have you in my life”, “I miss you”, or the more difficult, “I’m so scared of
what your cancer implies for me.”
I
thought about this again when I attended Mr T’s mother’s funeral the following
week; Bonne Maman to most of the family.
There were so many moving eulogies during the ceremony that captured the
essence of what Bonne Maman meant to her sons, her colleagues, her
grandchildren. I wondered why we wait
until people are no longer there to tell them what we really feel about them,
how much they’ve influenced us, how much we love them. The paradox of funerals: the person who would
benefit most from what’s being said is no longer there.
