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Breakthrough or just struggling the the chute from the chemo drop

April 10, 2012

It’s like I’ve dropped from the sky. My legs hit the ground, curl and feel tired. The parachute is tugging at me and I’m back safely behind enemy lines of reality. A taste. How many times have I asked chemo to let me go–and slowly, little signs of its release come: a lack of stomach indigestion, which feels like someone put burp inside my stomach then folded it over several times to seal it. The folding has unwrapped and there’s no gas. My head feels like it has more air bubbles in it. Last night I had some sushi and wasabi and tasted the entire meal. It fel like the first real meal I’ve had in months. And slowly, the overflowing power of life is returning with each clearance, ten times more powerful than the enjoyment of not feeling ill. Chemo’s grip is slowly loosening.

“Let Fred come back,”I said to myself, sitting down and curled up. And slowly I felt another presence. I felt my Mom. She had returned to me and her spirit was just hugging me to give me strength and I started tearing up and enjoying the binding wrap. And later talking to myself and saying,”Hey Dad, I didn’t do anything wrong. I have a lot of friends. But I lost my job while the people who stole and lied kept theirs. And I get cancer again. And when I finally get out of this I’ll be broke, in debt for things I didn’t buy, and without a job. I always did the best I could in everything in radio, comedy, newspapers. Maybe, I could have done better. I’m sorry Dad, I thought I’d do better.” And his presence came to me too. He stood behind me to show he was proud of me. A double feature. It’s a weird feeeling. I get disoriented, slightly list, and my brain floats and the air around me feels like liquid and everything around me feels soaked and saturated and loose and I break apart and they come in between the pieces and I try not to reassemble anything, and qwhen thye leave everything goes soft, then separates and hardens and I’m back, humming.

I thought back to when I was a kid and I had the mumps, my Mom and I would leave the doctor’s and walk past the drug store, which had a display that included two plastic troy ships, and black one with a white upper body and red and black stacks, and the USS Hope, a white ship. I’d always stare at them. When I was in bed and had a fever my Dad came home and brought me a present, but it was the other ship. I remember crying, “I wanted the USS Hope.” My Dad left and came back with the USS Hope, which turned out not too float too well in the bathtub. Dad forgave my selfishness, and got me my ship. It’s a memory that came to me, probably because the mumps was the worst I ever felt as a kid, and I’d have to say, cancer is probably the worst I have felt as an adult.

So I have to pack my chute without a USS Hope, but I still have Mom and Dad with me.

I’m lucky.

One Comment leave one →
  1. Linda Walton permalink
    April 11, 2012 2:59 am

    That was beautiful, Fred. I’m so glad you are beginning to feel like yourself again.
    Re: Your Dr…..I know how you feel. I had a very complicated and somewhat
    scary oral surgery several years ago. I was knocked out for two hours and
    sent home with pain meds. Around 8:00 the Doctor called to ask me how I was
    doing. I was so touched that I cried and cried. It made all the difference.
    Hope to see you soon.
    All my best

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