Many many years ago on this day, on the feast day of Saint Francis, I had my first session of Chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. (To this day when I walk into a hospital I can taste chemo in my mouth, it takes me by surprise. Do our cells ever forget?) French husband went with me. The room in the hospital wasn’t very large for the amount of people gathered. Looking into their eyes I felt the common bond; Fear and hope, hope and fear a mixture too bitter to drink yet gulped it we did.
The nurse took my name, looked on her chart, and checked my veins. Then she went over to the counter to whip up my chemo cocktail. At that point the inner child in me decided I needed help to survive this incredible fear that was welling up inside of me. In my mind’s eye I imagined the nurse was working at Baskin Robbins and that the chemo cocktails were the "Thirty-One Flavors," mine was going to be sweet and chocolate, damn it! It was going to go down and soothe me, it wasn’t going to make me throw up, no it was not going to make me sick.
People say you have to fight cancer. I never liked that expression. The word fighting conjures up images that are harsh and negative. Certainly that wasn’t for me. I decided to change the word fighting into loving. A friend of mine, Chelsea’s Godmother, told me to imagine the chemotherapy as the blood of Christ. When the nurse came to insert the drug, French husband put his hands around the bottle. He closed his eyes and I knew he was praying over it. Baskin Robbins melted. I let go of fear and my silent prayers went forth.
Never let go of the wings that give you promise to be faithful to who you are.
Photo: A pair of wings for a doll. When I saw them at the fle market I knew they were coming home with me. Symbolism is powerful.
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