Indignities

Does it go without saying that a cancer patient’s life is scattered with unavoidable indignities? 

• The bucket tucked away under the bed, close at hand for post-chemo nausea;
• The array of hats floating around the bedroom, all warm, but none quite in style or what would normally be chosen;
• The baby shampoo, so gentle on the scalp;
• The scars on my arms from the weekly IVs and blood tests;
• The difficulty that a blood draw becomes after chemo collapses the veins;
• The awkward moments when an old friend approaches, each not quite sure what to say;
• The post-surgical drains, leaks, and the physical awkwardness that ensues;
• Hospital stays, middle-of-the-night blood pressure checks, input/output charts;
• The clothes.  Yoga pants, tank tops, and big white shirts to cover the drains from prying little eyes;
• The food.  With no sense of taste and little hunger, the balancing act of eating becomes ever more important as a source of nutrients but not fat;
• Trouble lifting my right arm or doing anything with it.  Widget has had to pick up CDs and books and move them across the room for me twice today; and
• Mirrors.  I walk around them like a vampire, fearful yet curious whether I will see myself in them or simply a body that I don’t recognize.

My sense of self is pockmarked with these little indignities today.  My mind is alert, my soul is strong, but these little indignities pop up anyway, when I least expect them.  When I try to get comfortable on the couch and bump my tubing or a drain.  When I feel a draft and go to cover my head — or my feet, requiring help to put on my own socks.  When I showered this morning, with WonderDaddy’s assistance and support.  When he had to help me dress afterwards.

But for each moment of awkwardness, there is a moment of strength — mine, WD’s, my father’s, my mother’s, Widget’s, or a friend calling out through email, blogs, or comments to support me.  Each voice, each strong arm lifting me up, each little hand in mine, and each word coming over the internet to me, saying, you can do it, Susan.  I believe in you. 

And those words soothe me and fill in the pockmarks, brushing away the indignities that cancer has brought.  One day soon, I will be strong and well again, and these indignities will be only a memory.

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