Today I am 3 weeks out of chemotherapy. And I’m pleased to report that all is quite well. It feels good to be able to write that I have no complaints that are worth putting into words. My last round of chemo was a walk in the park compared with the one before, and mentally and physically I was quickly ready to move on. To celebrate this final-chemo milestone, Dianne and Mike Foye gave me a bottle of wine decorated with yellow ribbons, yellow being the color I chose early on for my healing energy. The wine was appropriately named “next:”. I love the optimism of that word.
My immediate “next” was a road trip to Colorado to visit the kids. Along with Shannon, Chris, four or five of his college pals, and another set of parents, Pete and I stayed in a charming little house, built in 1898, in the heart of Breckenridge with incredible views of the mountains. Naively, given the setting I kind of anticipated a relaxing, mind–body healing, healthy-glow, fuzzy-warm, John-Denver-Rocky-Mountain-High sort of week, buoyed periodically by a nice, calming glass of cabernet. What I got instead included high-charged beer pong tournaments, cutthroat gambling card games, skiing with—or, better put, trying to keep up with—risk-taking, mogul-chasing, ramp-jumping speed demons on the powdery trails at Keystone (along with my sister Kathy and her family, no slope slouches themselves), aprés-ski happy-hour margaritas at a lively downtown pub with same demons, who at the end of the day still had enough energy (perhaps beer-fueled) to build an enormous igloo in the yard for sleeping out that night. I forgot how much energy college kids have, and it was easy—and freeing—to get caught up in it (though I did draw the line at the Hotel Igloo experience). Much more effective therapy than whatever I had planned on. All that vitality—not to mention the breath-taking surroundings—was invigorating, and for the first time in a long time I felt really good. I began to remember what “normal” felt like. Not surprisingly, though, by the end of the week, my body—running on the fumes of adrenaline—crashed. But it was a good kind of crash; for all the fun and laughter and energy, it was well worth it.
My next “next” involved the goal of propelling myself (and Pete) back to the gym with some regularity, which I committed to as of last week. While the exercise is certainly healing me physiologically and clearing my cobwebs physically and mentally, what is even better is seeing all my Y pals again. The hugs, well wishes, and “welcome backs” were amazing and tremendously heart-warming. I am truly grateful to be back among them.
Beyond this, I have no clue what the next “next” will be. But after what felt like endless weeks, months, and seasons spent in recuperation lying on the couch—the cushions having by now given way to the shape of my body, much like Thanksgiving mashed potatoes do for a puddle of gravy—and with no ambition other than to get through the day, it sure feels good to be able to think in terms of “next.”
I’m really excited to see the physical parts of me that were lost now returning, albeit slowly. My hair is starting to grow back. It’s about 1/4 inch long maybe, pretty thin but sprouting nevertheless. It’s not coming in blonde like I had wished for. Not wavy either. But what nature won’t take care of, L’Oreal will. My eyebrows…well, they’re another story: I was always artistically challenged—Sister Mary Reparata prophesied this to me in second grade and reaffirmed it in sixth, when I had the incredible misfortune of being assigned to her homeroom again—so it comes as no surprise to me that I never quite mastered the art of eyebrow penciling. Invariably, one brow always turns out thicker or longer or more crooked than the other. And then there’s the pesky problem of accidentally, and unknowingly, rubbing off an eyebrow, or part of it, which, it goes without saying, looks pretty weird. I’m hoping that my eyebrows will grow back fully so that I won’t have to rely on my drawing skills every day for the rest of my life. I started using Latisse® on my eyelashes. Brooke Shields used to be the spokesperson for this product. According to the product instructions, properly applied, it’s supposed to make eyelashes grow longer and thicker. But “proper application” eludes me a bit also, since I can’t keep one eye open to see how or where I’m applying the solution to the other. Regardless, I’ll try anything if it’ll give me Brooke Shields’s eyelashes. In fact, I’ll take her eyebrows too. (And while I’m at it, if there’s a product out there that’ll give me even just a little of her height, I’ll sign up for that as well.)
I can report also that food no longer tastes like dusty metal, which frankly has its pros and cons. With my 5’ 2” frame (at my age, probably by now a generous estimate), any extra pounds don’t have much body length with which to distribute themselves equally and unnoticeably. Having food taste like dusty metal for brief periods now and then would be a great diet tool. And, notably, the vineyards of California should start seeing an upswing in their market, but I’ll be careful to not make too much of an impact on that economic trend.
As always, thanks so much for your love, prayers, and support, not to mention the amazingly positive feedback to my blogs. I am blessed.
Onward and upward. Live and learn. Moving on. No looking back. Full steam ahead. Next.
