Chap. 4 — The Turning
When I met with the radiologist, the terror came too—like an unwelcome guest seated beside me. My daughter was with me, her steady presence anchoring me. Deep down I knew: I could not go through this alone. Radiation. Chemotherapy. The weight of it all.
Desperate for any thread of relief, I found my way to a psychiatrist who specialized in cancer care. With great reluctance, I began taking a tiny dose of antidepressants. I hoped it might soften the terror enough to make treatment possible.
Even at low doses, medication made me sick—my body felt weakened and I knew of no way to stop this wave of sickness that came with the medication. After 3 or 4 weeks, my brain adjusted and took it in as part of my living experience.
Radiation, five days a week. A massive dose of chemotherapy, delivered in a continuous 72-hour cycle. In six weeks I was to be given this same cycle again.
At first, no side effects. Then they came.
I won’t go into detail, except to say this: I will never do it again. What others seemed to tolerate as routine, my body received as an assault. A full revolt.
I had returned to work after those previous six weeks off—only to find myself, a year later, once again on leave, this time for cancer treatment. I prayed constantly. I searched for something—anything—that could hold me when I could not hold myself.
Nearing the end of six weeks treatment, a second round of chemo was scheduled. But by then, my blood counts had plummeted. I’d already been hospitalized once, had received a transfusion and my mouth now plagued with thrush.
And then a knowing settled in, quiet but unshakable: If I go through another round of chemo, I will die. My body cannot endure it.
My children might have seen it differently, so I began the hard conversations. With the radiologist. With the universalist minister who sat with me during blood draws and infusions. With my children.
Grace appeared again.
My family understood. The minister stood beside me, unwavering.
Dr. Swift, the radiologist, explained that chemo wasn’t originally part of the treatment protocol for the type of cancer I had. It was added later—an enhancement. He said that even without a second round, the chance of recurrence was only about 10%. I knew inside me that another round meant death so I took the 10% chance so I could live.
My decision was made. I would not go through it again.
This may have been the darkest chapter of my life to that point. Yet even there, grace wove her thread.
Grace in a meditation group just three blocks from my home.
Grace in the yes I heard when I asked for help.
Grace in the open arms of a younger women’s circle, where my presence was honored. One evening, I laid on the floor and they surrounded me, singing in healing rounds:
🎶 We are opening, we are opening, We are opening up in sweet surrender To the luminous love-light of the One... 🎶
And grace, too, in the hands of my children.
My daughter helped set up a webpage to let people know what help I needed. She would check in with me regularly and make herself available in any way she could. And, I could see how strong she was trying to be and hiding her fear.
My son flew across the country to stay with me for three weeks—arriving during the worst of it. Neither of us knew just how perfectly timed his visit would be.
He held my hair back as I vomited. Cleaned up after me. Went to the hospital with me five days a week. He was with me when I had the conversation with Dr. Swift about the second round of chemo.
When he had to return home, my daughter stepped in. Working full-time, she still found ways to come with me when I couldn’t manage the trips. She brought me food. Her strength held me.
I know how terrifying it must have been for both of them. And yet, they never brought anything to me but care. Only later did I learn of there tears—when I wasn’t around—and they had only each other to lean on.
Friends showed up too—each one, a flicker of light. Sometimes just to sit with me. Some brought food. A co-worker, in the middle of the day, answered my call for help to go to the hospital. There were co-workers who donated some of their annual leave. I had previously used up all of mine.
Even my dentist became a quiet instrument of grace. When he heard the news, he gave me his personal cell number and told me I could call anytime. A week later, flowers arrived from him and his staff. No fanfare. Just kindness.
Grace came like that—not as lightning, but as a whisper. A song. A hand. A meal. A ride. A prayer.
Grace had taken root. I was not walking through the fire alone. And somehow, through that fire, a path was being revealed.
⬅️ Chap. 3
➡️ Chap. 5
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🕊 A Living Memoir
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