Half Time Remarks: Part 2 of 3

The Difficult Parts

I haven't written too much about the tough spots of this experience because
a) my parents are reading this and the whole thing is hard enough for them already and
b) complaining doesn't make for good art.

But I'm writing a bit about them now because
a) they are part of the experience and I don't want to lose them and
b) you've all been assuming that this has been hard, so why not fill in the details?


1. Chemotherapy

Dr. Science told me, on that first day of chemotherapy, "It's not that bad."

I've seen for myself and can now judge: This is like the OBGYN who tells women that labor doesn't hurt "that much."

I'm going to suggest a different statement for his use. "The physical toll of chemotherapy is not that bad." It's not. I had a drug to manage all the physical side effects with the exception of the hair loss and the styes. (One of which I still have.)

But the hair loss is not a big deal to me, and the styes are not too much to bear.

The difficult part of chemotherapy is the emotional toll. It sent me into menopause, which wrecked havoc with my hormones and my sleep cycle, so already I wasn't going to be managing the emotional content with a whole lot of sanity.

Given all this, undergoing chemotherapy itself was just a sad, sad thing. I have a feeling it's a feminine response to feel this way. The men under 50 in the chemo barn had a completely different countenance about them. They'd sit with their laptops, working away, checking their pagers and cell phones and watches, coming off their drips with a chipper step, on their way back to work as though a stop through the chemo barn was nothing more than an extra-long stop at the Barber shop.

Was it just a brave front for them? Or is this just how men meet the physical challenge?

Because, to me, it mostly felt like a physical assault. And I'd just try to distract myself from what was happening in the chemo barn, and how it left me in the days afterwards.

2. Physical Deformity

I've written a lot about this thus far. On the one hand, it's not a big deal. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't impair any function. If I dress a certain way, no one need even know about it.

But Bryan and I know about it. And there's no escaping that intrusion.

3. A Husband's Helplessness

I've said nearly nothing about Bryan's handling of his wife's cancer. This is partly because he decided to handle it by being stalwart throughout. I would ask him now and again how he was doing and he'd say, with great sincerity, something very reasonable and calm and supportive.

And on those many, many moments when I'd cry at the end of a day, he'd hug me and say, "It won't always be like this." That was always a great comfort to me.

The struggle, for him, leaked out in little ways, harmless ones: He's been doing many projects around the house ever since the diagnosis, and in the last 4 months, he has purchased 3 firearms. . .

This past week, that season for being stalwart ended. Something about the chemo being over with has signaled to us both that the worst parts are finished. And he finally let loose with all he's held onto. We both just cried and cried and cried together. He hates that he wasn't able to "do" anything to save me from these worst parts.

I told him, of course, that his love and support for me and help with the kids was all I needed. That I did not need to be saved from, just helped through. He can believe me with his head, but the man in him can't really believe that in his heart. And that's just his own grief to bear.

Here's the part where a lot of people would say that their marriage is stronger because of the struggle, or somesuch. How the chief Good Thing to come out of the cancer walk is new-found love or commitment or realization of love. I completely believe how that is true of many people's experiences.

But Bryan and I are kind of like, "Eh, we could have done without this."

The chief Good Thing to come out of this cancer walk, I do believe, will be in a different department.

4. The End of Chemotherapy

In all the little booklets about How to do Chemo, no one ever mentioned the deep sadness that comes when it's all over.

But there's grief here, all right.

Something about. . . the excitement waning. Since early June, I have been She Who Has Cancer, and now I'm not. You might think I'm jumping the gun, after all, there's radiation ahead and we wouldn't do that if I didn't have cancer.

But, I really sense somehow that I'm not sick anymore. And we're doing the radiation, in my mind, because it's standard course and I'm a good patient.

So it's time to get back to our life. I cancelled our account with the Merry Maids and we all cleaned our house together yesterday. I had to ask Bryan the other day, "What did I used to do with my time before I was diagnosed?"--because since then, my time has been spent at medical appointments or in recovery or in a state of fatigue.

What does normal feel like?

It's an adjustment. And there were several days there when I felt like I didn't want to go back to being Amy Ponce!, superhero of the Every Day.

God has been showing me what our new old life should look like. It's exciting to have new plans. By the time my hair grows back in, I'm sure I'll be just fine with the Every Day.