Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series
October 11th, 2018
Last week, in Hudson, most of the deciduous trees were still green, and with all of the towering old pines thriving in the sandy soil, autumn still seemed more anticipated than real. But with the arrival of colder, greyer days, there’s been change.
In the wake of chemo last Wednesday, I missed it, spending almost all of my time inside a strange and artificial world of side effects and rest. But yesterday, Christian and I drove to the Village grocery store, and that’s when I noticed how quickly the colours of fall have taken over the landscape.
It’s pouring rain as I write this, and the forecast says that’s about the size of today. In an hour, a man will be here to change the carpet on the main staircase and upstairs hallway of our house. First, he’ll remove the one that’s been here since 1975 (with a zillion staples and small nails holding it solidly in place), and then he’ll put down the new and hopefully resistant replacement. I wonder if this will still be Simon’s house in 45 years? He will be 80 years old then. And probably still changing the world.
Earlier this morning, around 5:30, some of the rain sounds entered my bedroom through the inch or so of window I had opened the night before. No matter how well or unwell I feel (or how cold), I like to keep an aural connection with the world outside.
I’ve never had my own bedroom, and before my separation from my husband and my move to Hudson, I had not slept alone for any length of time for 37 years. Now, I have a room that’s mine, at the end of the upstairs hall, tucked away to the right. This bedroom of my own is a strange place for me. I’ve spoken a little about this. I suppose that in my mind, it was going to be the bedroom in which I lived to be an old woman. I remember, when we were house hunting, Simon talking about houses with too many stairs that would be a problem for me as I got older; and I also remember rolling my eyes, thinking of my 83-year-old mum, who climbs 14 steps multiple times each day, going about her business (though she now rations her trips to the basement). And besides, I’ve only just turned 60!
It’s no longer possible for me to look at my room this way. It isn’t a good idea to look so far ahead. Like everything else in my life since my cancer diagnosis, what was once excitement and anticipation regarding our new home in Hudson has been tempered. I’m still not completely settled in yet. A lot of my things—those objects whose value was never decorative, but were mementos of a timeline that rooted me—are still in boxes or drawers, or shoved on a shelf, jumbled with stuff I don’t care about.
I suppose the fact is that I don’t know what—though I emphatically know who— I care about now. Do any of these things matter to me? I was happy when my husband came to the house and put plain white curtains up in front of my window. It was kind and helpful and I now have valuable privacy, as my window looks out onto the street. I value each and every piece of jewelry, each book, and jar of skin cream, and tube of hand cream, and box of tea, and cookies, and tray of squares or muffins that I’ve received since July, all of which were meant to proffer love and care and healing. They are—and more likely were, if they were among the delicious things—my talismans and elixirs.
And now I find that I’m coming to love my room. The past few chemo cycles have been harder to get through. Their after-effects have lasted longer and longer and been more debilitating. Today is Thursday, which means that in 6 days, I’ll be back in chemo again. The skin on my hands still hasn’t stopped peeling away. My nose still bleeds easily. My legs are still wobbly at times. My eyes still leak sticky fluid that’s irritating. I’ve started getting discomfiting stomach cramps, out of the blue.
But there’s my room with a view, and in that room, there’s my bed. And during the past few chemo cycles, they have become a haven.
At the worst of this past cycle, on day 3, when the burning in my hands and eventually in my feet had reached a point where they were utterly useless to me but so painful that all I could do was shiver and whimper, evening came, and with it, the comfort and safety of my bed. With only Extra Strength Tylenol in my chemo management arsenal, I really didn’t know if it would be possible to sleep.
It must have been exhaustion that cleared the path (and the two Tylenols), but I slept ten hours that night and woke at 8:21 the next morning, still in pain, but less so. I took all of this in without even pushing back the covers. My comforter and blankets felt light, and warm, and I can honestly say that I considered staying there for hours longer. Being under those soft covers was heaven, and I didn’t want to leave. What made this so strange and delicious is the fact that I haven’t slept well—haven’t fallen into deep, restorative sleep—for years.
There’s no shame in escaping the effects of chemo and the exhaustion of the heart, soul and body. I often want to lay down mid-afternoon and just nap…Let the hours fall away…Escape a situation that has become in large part a struggle to manage my reduced life. But I resist, as much as I can, because there are better reasons to stay awake, to take in the sun and sky, to write like this, and to write to everyone I care for, to have friends over, to try to be helpful to my sons who carry more than their fair share, to be with my grandchildren, to read and read, to go for blessed walks in the winding streets of Hudson and gawk at how lovely it is, and to reconnect with life, and the joy of living.
But there are days when I could sleep for a thousand years.