A C-word Journey: Ringing the Bell on Chemo

On August 9^th I had my fourth infusion. After completing the procedure, I got to ring the bell. When I first heard from a friend that her friend “rang a bell” after finishing treatment, I thought it was just a figure of speech, an expression. Then I saw a real bell in the infusion room of the Cancer Center and for a while wondered–why was it there? I finally connected the dots, just in time to do it myself. Grateful that I made it to all four and on time. But the drugs accumulated in my body and the first four days of this cycle were brutal. The flu-like symptoms and fatigue started pretty much right away. Slowly I’ve been feeling better and within about ten days started driving again. I’m happy to be able to walk almost my regular route and get my speed below 20 minutes per mile.

This whole journey feels like a personal cosmic explosion. A real Big Bang. As if all of me, and I mean all of me—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual– was thrown up in the air, then smashed to the ground, to fall into a million pieces. In order to build anew. Full transformation. I had hard times before. But through those patches, I was still in touch with my essence. I was able to be present while teaching; I was present as a mother; I was able to ask a person inquiring about my wellbeing how they were doing. Not this time. During many weeks of this ordeal, quoting my phenomenal therapist, these things became “temporarily inaccessible.” I’m astonished just how vulnerable I am. Everything seems to be a trigger. A random comment on Facebook, a news headline, a secondary storyline in a series—it doesn’t take much these days to throw me off balance. The women I talked to who have gone through a similar journey (although, as I’m learning, no two stories are alike) share that it’s always like that while you are in “active treatment.” I still am, as I’ll hopefully start radiation soon: four weeks, five times a week.

A friend asked what I am doing with my hands. Most people who know me wouldn’t be surprised by my answer–that I can write and type, and that’s about it. She shared that during a challenging period in her life, she took up knitting and it’s been very helpful for her. She listed a few things in the crafts department, but some terms were unfamiliar to me. Before leaving my house, she reassured me that she’ll find something I would like. Two weeks later she came by bringing a beginner cross-stitch kit with a picture of a girl riding an elephant. Again, if you know me or have ever seen my hundred-plus piece elephant collection from all over the world, you’d realize that pretty much no other pattern could possibly be more inspiring. I was laughing, as were many people I told the story to, because of course I knew what cross-stitch meant, just not in English. Pretty much any 19^th century novel would have a character (even if it’s not the main female protagonist) who does embroidery and in Russian novels it often was cross-stitch. We did it in Soviet elementary school (only girls, obviously). And my mother reminded me that my grandmother used to cross-stitch. I remember my grandmother knitting: scarves, sweaters, hats and mittens for me and even doll clothes for my daycare (personally, I didn’t like dolls, much preferred stuffed animals). But I didn’t quite remember her cross-stitching. All of it made sense now as the tool kit felt familiar. It still took me at least half an hour to figure it out. The instructions said I needed to pull floss from the kit, and I did but it didn’t fit the needle. Turns out what I was pulling wasn’t one thread but six (to be fair, the instructions did say the floss is six flosses but I’m notoriously bad in understanding written instructions). Then I was excited to start and picked the color matching the pattern on the canvas. Only to find out after stitching several rows that the instructions explicitly said not to pick the thread of the color on the fabric but instead, to match the color and its number with the number on the floss kit which, obviously, was a different color. In any event, once all was figured out (I think?), I began my cross-stitching journey and must admit, it does help with clearing the mind, anchoring it in the present moment. It’s not one day at a time or even one hour at a time; it is one stitch at a time, just like my friend promised.

******

Picture #1: what it should look like at the end

Picture #2: work in progress