When I was diagnosed
in March 2006 I was 34 years old and 36 weeks pregnant. My son arrived
10 days after diagnosis and I started chemo when he was two weeks old.
Through 8 rounds of dose dense chemotherapy and 33 days of radiation, my
husband and I learned to take one day at a time and to be patient with
one another’s exhaustion. Having a baby in the house during treatment
made dealing with treatment harder because I rarely got a chance to rest
properly. On the other hand, having a baby in the house during
treatment made treatment easier because I had a reason to smile every
day no matter how awful my body felt. I am a one year survivor and so
far I’m doing great. I am not grateful at all to have had breast
cancer, and yet I gained a new love for humankind because people all
around me showed how wonderful and kind people can be. I wrote poetry
and essays to cope with my experiences. I suppose I’m still coping
because I still have essay topics I want to write about and poetry I
want to compose. In the meantime, my baby is now a vivacious toddler
and my husband is an even closer best friend (and awesome father).
I write poetry and found that writing about cancer during treatment, helped me to cope. Now that I'm months
out of teatment and my hair has grown back, writing about cancer still helps. I also find myself, as I heal,
and learn better how to help others heal, wanting to write more essays and poetry to
spell it out for the ones who wonder what to say or do when a loved one or an
acquaintance is diagnosed
or in treatment.
You can read about my "adventures in breast cancer" at
angelathepinktiger.blogspot.com.
Radiation on a Rainy
Day
Lazy summer rain kisses pavement
as I walk from car to gantry.
I know where shade on any other day
will have wandered by the time I leave.
Enslaved in the ritual, I brave the rain
to enter a room bathed in shadows.
Soft lights, gentle music, and hard science await
with a table on rails and monstrous equipment.
Today's technicians position my body carefully,
referencing doctor's orders.
They retreat behind thick walls, watching and
listening.
Exposed, I cannot hide. I
must lie very, very still.
The gantry responds with alien grace to computer programmes
tailored to my body, my shape, my former privacy.
A buzzer warns of piercing rays and I lie very, very still,
imagining the day when I can leave and stay away.
Free at last - until tomorrow - I chuckle at people
hurrying through cold rain to my exit.
Last year I'd have sported an umbrella, knowing
hair would wilt despite ample gel and spray.
A smile shines behind my eyes because velvet fuzz
has grown into baby fine softness, half an inch long.
Too short to style, this is a different kind of freedom.
No need to hurry or worry about umbrellas today.
Instead, I slip through the falling sky towards my car, naked face upturned,
defiance and acceptance dancing through my thoughts.
A moment of optimism catches me and with moisture in my eyes
I finally sense a glimpse of sunshine to come.
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