I was just watching an episode of "House" when I looked up and caught a glimpse of a certain kind of chair and I said to Newlin, "That's an infusion unit". Then they panned back and there it was, the infusion unit. And I felt sick and I couldn't stand to look at it and I wondered why. And suddenly I knew: It's bloody February. The beginning of the whole bloody year. 2007. I had never given it a thought. I even go to the infusion unit twice a year for my Zometa IV. And yesterday I got the reminder for which I've been waiting to return to Norwalk Radiology for my annual post-cancer mammogram. Nothing. In fact I was glad to get the reminder.
But now, here in February, my body remembers the hell of that year. And I just want to curl up in a ball and go away for awhile.
Tomorrow I preach on "turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, give to everyone who asks, love your enemy". One of these days I'm going to do a reflection on this reading from Matthew, chapter 5:38-48, from the point of view of the enemy, cancer.
4 comments:
Lois, I offer my sympathy and prayers. I've been where you are, but it was 25 years ago. That makes a difference. It gets better.
Blessings.
haven't been there. haven't done that. can't feel your pain. I can just continue to care and love.
Thanks, June. I'm surprised at how much alike it is with the death of someone. Every year, for a long time, I would become sort out of control - snarky, angry, depressed, whatever - and it would be afterward that I realized it was the week of the anniversary of my mother's death.
My mother's death, however, was not an assault on my body, hence, I think, the sudden drawing in, the shakes, etc, when I saw the camera panning around an infusion center. Yuck.
Again, thanks, Grandmere.
Oh Barbara, you made me laugh! Thanks.
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