I’ve been having trouble with the cold, my Floridian blood is too thin to bear this unrelenting freeze. A friend of mine who is all too aware of my plight, a fragrant and fetching Mississippi magnolia who was transplanted many years ago to an icy Nordic climate, offered me a piece of advice.
Relax into the cold, Christine.
My strategy up until this point has been to tighten and clench, brace myself for the shock. Clutch the collar of my coat with a furious fist and try to fight the invasion of air. Close my eyes and clamp my jaw shut. Squeeze every muscle in my body to ward off the attack. It never works and yet I repeat it still.
Over this past summer I received the news of my second recurrence. Both tumors are growing again, even the long dead little one I affectionately refer to as the golf ball. I am one of the lucky ones with this odd, rare disease. The location of my tumors, on my left hip and thigh, makes it relatively easy to observe their growth without need for constant imaging.
So I was sent home to wait and watch. Watch to see how quickly they grow. Wait for the day I have to begin chemo again. My return appointment was set for the coming summer. The more I watch, the more I know I won’t be waiting as long as we’d planned for. Every day I see the contours of my leg slowly change. Every day the pain increases.
Like the cold, my disease is unrelenting. This being my second recurrence, I imagined I’d be better at relaxing into it, but I find myself repeating patterns that never worked before. I clench my jaw to fight the invasion of fear. I set arbitrary deadlines thinking my tumors will abide. I’ll go back when I’ve made 6 months of homeschool plans. After we’ve settled into the new house. When more people are vaccinated. And like the cold, reality seeps in no matter how tight I clutch my coat to my chest.
I don’t tell my tumors when. They tell me. So I may as well relax into it.
We recently bought a house and, like me, her body is a bit broken. We’ve had a lot of work done so far, but our to-do list is at least a few years long. We’re waiting on a backordered dryer and a few more minor projects to be completed before we move in, so most days she sits empty and alone.
This home will be the one we grow out of rather than into. This will likely be the last home our youngest lives in with us. This will be the one we leave when we’re ready to downsize, when our knees are too old to handle all those stairs. But in the meantime, this home will be the one that nurtures me during another course of chemo. A mother for a long motherless child.
I decided to take a break from this year of constant togetherness by escaping to our new empty home for a night. I brought books, music, and little else. With no wifi to distract my busy mind, I introduced myself to my home and allowed myself to relax into it. All of it.
My home now knows I still have my 90’s CD collection and some of it is embarrassing, but I’ll play it too loud anyway. My home knows I sometimes eat Starburst for dinner and no matter how wild my night gets I’m rarely awake past 9:30. And my home now knows that I’m sad and I’m scared. She told me it’s okay. So finally I let go and cried. I wept in her arms and felt safe. I faced all those fears I’ve tried to shut out. I felt the frigid air and let it into my bones.
I saw the hair I will lose with chemo, the words that will be so excruciatingly out of reach. I remembered the pain and the hopeless days. I saw everything including the other side, the day when it’s over and the hair grows back, the day the words return. I saw it all and I survived. Then, I relaxed into it.
This season will change, as they always do. Winter will give way to spring. Chemo will not last forever. Even my dear mother home will eventually love another family after we have packed our boxes again and gone away.
I don’t know if I will ever stop repeating the pattern of bracing for the shock instead of embracing it. I do know the cold will get in regardless of my degree of acceptance. I also know I’ll be able to weather it, no matter the season. This body, this structure, this motherless child got through it before. And this time, at least for now, I’ve faced the cold and finally relaxed into it.
Huge Hugs, Christine 🤗🤗🤗
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
Bracing for the cold is such a great metaphor. And the arbitrary deadlines … sigh. I wonder if we don’t all do some sort of bargaining with our uncooperative bodies. I think writing is a kind of embrace and I love hearing how attentive your new house has been as you navigate these new realities. So sorry you have to go through this again. May your pen be your sword. And may the house be your refuge.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much!
LikeLike
What an insightful and beautiful post. I’m so glad you gave yourself the gift of bonding with your new house, all by yourself.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. I’m glad I did too.
LikeLike
I don’t know a lot about your tumours but can’t you get them removed right away if they’re growing again? Also, I’ve lived in a frigid climate all my life and you never really get used to it–I just huddle by the fire from October to May!
LikeLiked by 1 person
The tricky thing about these tumors is that they are essentially made of scar tissue, so unless you are able to get clean margins they almost always grow back. When you cut them it’s like adding gasoline to a fire. It prompts a healing response, you grow scar tissue, and for us that causes the tumor to grow. One cell left behind is easily missed by pathology and that’s all that’s needed. I had the original tumor removed before I knew this and now I have two tumors because the surgeon was unable to get clear margins. Surgery is now being seen as the last ditch effort. Since I respond to chemo and my tumors are not located in more danger place, such as the abdomen or chest, chemo is the best option when they start to grow again.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow. So so sorry you have to deal with all that crap!!! This is a truly beautiful piece of writing, Christine! I suggest you submit it to Huffpost Personal. They pay. As the ol’ Jewish grandma says, it “vouldn’t hoit”! Yours in hopes of warmer weather etc…. ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’ll check it out. Thanks. ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
BTW… stairs? Why did you guys buy a house with stairs, since you have major hip/leg problems? Not my beeswax mind you… just curious. xox
LikeLike
I can still move like I used to, so it’s really not an issue now. And it’s actually really hard to find a single story house in this state.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Huh. Here (Montreal, Quebec) they’re plentiful; we call them bungalows.
LikeLike
Oh goodness girl, I’m crying with you and your lady house! What a beautiful piece. Well, because I can’t come over with a gigantic bag of Starburst for you, I’ll just gab: So, for part of the time my mom was sick, I was dating a med student (who was a total tool, but aside from that) who was confounded by my mom’s attitude. He called it defeatist. She was a “don’t question it, just accept it” / “this too will pass” sort of person. Not by nature, but by self-training. The dalai lama, Deepak Chopra–nobody was off limits for my very Catholic mom. It’s a very masculine thing, I think, to want to “beat” everything–disease included. Of course, we should do everything we can to eradicate disease, but I think that language is exhausting. I’m reading Brian Doyle essays at the moment, and he has one that fits into this discussion: “On Not Beating Cancer.” Don’t get me wrong, I pray you beat yours! But in whatever way that feels good to you, that gets you through your days, you know, unclenched. Hugs!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Exhausting is such a great word for it. I’ve never identified with the whole ‘warrior’ side of being sick for a multitude of reasons, but the reality for me with this disease is that I will never beat it. There’s no cure and there’s so much unknown about it. My tumors could spontaneously regress or I could spend the rest of my life being on and off chemo. It’s a crapshoot. I will always have to come to a level of acceptance and it’s a process trying to be lamaesque. By the way, your mom sounds great.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lama-esque–ha, that took me a minute. Love that! And thank you. She was great.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow, this was a truly incredible read. You write so beautifully and I was hanging on to every word. My body also can’t take the cold weather. My muscles become tense and rigid and it becomes very hard to move. I think the most valuable lesson I’ve learned through having a rare disease is to “relax into it.” I can’t change what’s happening, and while it does make me sad, learning to except change is what helps the most. Thank you for sharing. I can’t wait to read more of your writing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for your kind words. ❤️
LikeLike