re-entry

if a space capsule isn't turned just the right way when it re-enters the atmosphere, it is incinerated. i must not be turned the right way because i am having some trouble with my re-entry.

people tell me i look good. (thanks to my good friend and personal shopper, i believe.) i am not wearing a scarf any more, just going with maybe a half an inch of hair. i have spurts of energy (followed by hidden exhaustion). so people, with the best intentions, assume i am back. even people who know me the best. but don't they know where i've been for the last eight months? i feel like i have been held hostage for eight months and now i have suddenly been thrust back in society. everything has changed and nothing has changed. i am not sure i can do this.

since i stubbornly insisted i did not need a support group during treatment, the social worker suggested that i might want to consider a support group after treatment. she pointed out that during treatment you are surrounded by staff who are sensitive to what you are going through and other women going through the same thing. (you are basically inside the pink tent.) and then--all of a sudden--nothing. kicked out of the pink tent. 

now i see what she meant: everyone is happy for you, but no one really understands.

i might consider it. i don't want to be incinerated.

put it behind you

this must be another phrase they teach you in med school because i have been hearing it a lot from doctors and nurses since i approached the end of radiation: now you can put it behind you.

but when i ventured once again into walmart, this time without a hat or a scarf, with only a quarter inch of hair between my scalp and the world, a woman passed by and said, "i had a haircut like that--twenty-eight years ago. good luck!" and patted my hand. 

if after twenty-eight years she still felt compelled to reach out to me, i'm not sure you ever really put it behind you. unless maybe it is like your own shadow--behind you and mostly unnoticed, but attached to you... forever.

still a girl

i was invited to easter dinner with my friend's family. i have known her parents for years but i wasn't sure her dad, who is ninety-two and sometimes a little confused, would remember me. he looked right at me and said, "what's with the boy haircut?" i laughed and told him i had cancer. it was my first day out in public without a scarf. my friend was worried my feelings were hurt by his question but i was thrilled--he could tell i was a girl!

recovery dog

i went to see my good friend in kentucky and retrieve murphy. murphy is recovering from neglect, and worse. he's also deaf. but he is a sweetheart. and possibly the coolest dog ever. 

murphy spent his first day here with me at school. at one point i looked over and saw that he was being hugged by five sixteen-year-old boys. he was in heaven and they were too. i think his prison inmate trainers will be pleased. 

the woman who runs the prison program told me she thought murphy could be a therapy dog. i think he already is.

an award

the universe sent me a trophy, presumably for completing radiation. it is about four inches high: a gold plastic cup, with the words "congratulations, katherine keith" on its itty-bitty marble base. it came in a small, used corrogated-cardboard box, reinforced with tons of tape, with my name and address hand-written in sharpie. apparently the universe has a contract with a mom & pop trophy store in fairfax, virginia. excellent choice.

i am proud to accept this award.

good-bye room

good-bye room.
good-bye lockers that fill the little room.
good-bye locker # 14, which i chose as mine because it is out of sequence.
good-bye little donated hand-knit caps.
good-bye big scary machines that might magically kill cancer cells.
and good-bye to the kind people who run those machines.
good-bye to the nurse i never liked who never liked me, whom i lied to religiously. and by the way, i never used the stupid cream.
good-bye friend, whose name i don't know, but whose brave and slightly cynical attitude i admire.
good-bye friend, please keep breathing, even though your prognosis sucks. i am attempting frequent contact with the representative of the universal force on your behalf.
good-bye room.
good-bye.

it's ok

i went to another funeral yesterday. i only knew her professionally, but she was the kind of person for whom there really was no such thing as purely professional. she spent her career making people in the school system do the right thing for the kids in their charge; all of the kids were in her charge. she died of cancer.

it was a jewish service. thank god. i didn't have to hear about how we'll all meet up in heaven. the rabbi was eloquent, compassionate, and real: he brushed away tears after consoling her family. 

at some point in the service an elderly member of the congregation collapsed and had to be carried from the sanctuary to await ems. the rabbi stopped to explain to us what was happening. and then he said, "it's ok." we waited a few minutes in silence and then again he said, "it's ok."

i had been waiting a long time to hear that. that's when i cried.

lost

the husband of a woman i have known since my children were young died. i received an email that said "he passed away peacefully while they were watching american idol, which they loved."

could there be anything more depressing? did anyone notice he had passed away before the commercial? what if it had been survivor? who has really been voted off the island? dear representative of the universal force, please do not let me die in the middle of american idol or any other television show.

and then, at this man's funeral, a co-worker spoke and extolled his ability to manipulate data. again, dear representative of the universal force, please do not allow anyone to speak at my service if they can't think of anything more interesting than that to say about me. really, silence will be fine.

what's going on here? when someone dies, it should be significant, shouldn't it? are we so afraid to think about what death really is that we like to just think it is all ok? oh wait--change the channel--i think lost is on now.

nothing to wear

my good friend came into town--at my request--to help me shop for clothes as nothing i owned fit, and i was not about to venture into a mall alone. my friend, though, is a fearless shopper. she also looks like lauren hutton. always has. i don't know what i was thinking: the comparison was beyond depressing.

this kind, caring, generous friend was on a mission though. she suggested another way of wearing my scarf, and then asked if i had thought about wearing some makeup. she offered some tips that had worked for her friend, a no-doubt gorgeous nordic beauty also going though breast cancer. i did not find this helpful. i have no eyelashes! i rarely wore makeup before, and to wear it now would feel like preparing for an open casket. horrifying. clearly i was not ready for this.

but we got past that and did actually shop. we started early on a Sunday morning while there was no one under the age fifty anywhere in the mall, then gradually went from the most comfortable store for me (j. jill) to the scariest (j. crew & bannana republic). (it's not that people mean to be unkind, but no one really wants a middle-aged cancer patient in their fashionable store. their customers do not think, "oh, i want to look like her!"). 

my friend was wonderful, bringing me carefully selected things while i hid in the dressing room, avoiding the mirror, and telling me i looked great in a size four, as if it were natural for me. i do have something to wear now, and i couldn't have done it without her. but screw the scarves; i'm done now.
  

almost over

i play a game every day in radiation: i try to perfectly align myself on the table so i don't have to be adjusted. day before yesterday, i won. i was actually happy about this.

really? really this makes me happy? this is a problem. and then yesterday, chris (my new best friend) told me while i was lying there that i only have seven more treatments and i started to cry. i am confused. 

i am almost finished. and people are happy for me, which i appreciate. and i hate to disappoint them by not being as excited as they are for me. it's just... ok, so now what? there is no real finish line, there is no prize, i didn't accomplish anything tangible. all i did was do everything i was told to do in the hopes of improving my odds slightly.

i'll never know if it worked--after all, there was a 4 out of 5 chance that i didn't actually have any more cancer cells traveling throughout my body anyway. now there is a 6 out of 7 chance that they are all gone. and a 1 out of 7 chance that they are just waiting to found their next settlement, in my bones or in my lungs.

the long winter is over, at least for now. i am starting to get a little stronger, i am not depressed, i don't feel sick. i am grateful to all the people who helped me, and all the people who came before me. but i am unsettled...

i think i must have expected to find a meaning to all of this. and, well...

recovery dog

i am excited! i am getting a dog. despite years of chad saying "when coal dies, no more dogs," in a weak moment, while witnessing my grief (and experiencing a little of his own), he said, "kath, if you really want to, we can get another dog." those were his exact words. he promised. i remember.

his name is murphy. he spent some time in the greenville county correctional facility, learning how to trust again (as did his inmate trainer). and now he is graduating and needs someone to love him. i will love him.

my friend found him for me and will keep him until i can come get him. after radiation. when i am recovering. and he is recovering. and we can recover together. he will be... Recovery Dog.

battling cancer

i am trying to understand the language we have built around cancer. first, when exactly do i become a survivor? and am i surviving cancer or cancer treatment?

and then there are the words "fight" and "battle," as in "she is fighting cancer."

i think we use words like this because it sounds noble to be "battling" or "fighting" cancer, and gives the impression that we have some control. when, really, we have none.  in fact, i have never been so passive in my life as i have throughout this experience. all i do is what i am told to do. other people, you could say, are "fighting" my cancer for me, but i am pretty much just lying there, often literally.

"in submissive acquiescense, she showed up for whatever horrible treatment was recommended" somehow just doesn't sound as good.