One of the most difficult things about being homebound with a serious illness (or two) is remembering that (most likely) things will get better. That you will have enough energy to go up and down the stairs again. That you will be able to play with your children again, and not just from your pillow or your chair. That you will soon put away the oxygen, and plan days that include leaving the house. That you will be able to do, and see, and go … and be YOU again.
The past two weeks have been terribly hard for me. I don’t do sitting well. I tried to fill my days with learning about my new tablet computer (love it!), with reading classics (like Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy book – did you know that the real story of Sleeping Beauty has hardly begun when she is woken with a kiss? In fact the whole castle awakes, and they don’t live happily after – there are ogres!), and with keeping up with the latest on Slate, Salon, HuffPo, and the Daily Beast. But those diversions were not nearly as fun as they could have been had snuggling into the soft recliner and reading been a choice.
I just wanted to get up and do things again. Encourage my kids with games and playtime more of the afternoon instead of just homework and learning in the half hour after school. Eat dinner with my family (I collapsed in bed at 4 or 5 p.m. most evenings, exhausted from the day, and nauseated by warm food after the chemo). Work on my computer again, catching up on what I’ve missed, and plotting new work for the spring. Make and address all those Christmas cards (Will they make it there by Christmas now? Who knows?). But my body didn’t cooperate. It wanted to sit. Or sleep. And the cough just wouldn’t go away. Every time I went upstairs – or over to the fridge, even – I had to rest, lie down, and use oxygen to get my breath back.
And then, Sunday night, Marty came to visit. The novena my church family is saying neared its close. We continued our family time for Advent. I finished the pill bottle of antibiotics, and I began to recover from Thursday’s chemotherapy and bone strengthening infusion.
That night we talked and talked and talked, well into the wee hours, and when I tired we went upstairs or put my oxygen on. But Monday — I can’t explain what happened Monday, but after talking in the recliners downstairs for a while, I got up and began to fuss with my fish tank. It had suffered during my illness too – you can barely see the little guys through all the muck on the walls! We talked and laughed and scrubbed the walls. We scrubbed algae off the glass, walking back and forth to the utility sink, and we laughed when Marty almost dropped the tank hood onto the Science magazines below. We made that sucker shine, and we talked about her getting a fish tank too (before she left, I sent a dozen beautiful guppies with her, sharing new life in my house with hers). We watched a movie together, The Help, that we’d planned to watch the day of its release in the theater. We played with the boys, and I comforted Widget after school, when his earache flared, and Marty tried to engage them in a craft. We addressed Christmas cards, as we do now, the week or two before Christmas, no matter how I’m feeling. And then we went downstairs and I ate dinner with my family – and I mean ate. After three weeks of illness, where I lost 25 pounds because I couldn’t even stand the smell of warm foods, I ate a whole dinner, including seconds. We were up and doing things the whole. entire. day.
And today I feel like a new person. Wait, that’s not quite right. I feel like myself again. I woke up this morning ready to go, showering, eating, and helping the boys get ready, starting a blog post when they went to school. I’m smiling again, and hopeful, and ready to get back on track and start again. I went to prayer group, alive and alight with the happiness that comes of being reminded that today is a new day, full of possibilities. Including possibilities of me getting things done again, of games to play and talks to have and maybe even taking Widget to church tonight for practice – for he is going to be in the Christmas Eve nativity with his class! Today I feel alive again.
I’m bemused by the thought, juxtoposed with the past few weeks, and I laughed out loud as I related it to my friends this morning. How could such a difference happen so fast? And yet, it wasn’t fast at all, was it? It took days of sitting and waiting and resting, weeks of praying, and treatment after treatment at the hospital. I believe in prayer. I believe that medicine works and that my treatments will be successful in extending my life and improving the time that I have left here. Why, then, was I so surprised yesterday that I finally felt like myself again?
On Sunday morning, I sat quietly with my husband before they left for church. We were grateful for the day, another day granted to us after such a scare at the hospital, and he whispered softly to me with amazement that I was still here, saying, “This Christmas is God’s gift to us.” Yes, it is, I agreed, and sent him off with a kiss. We will celebrate this Christmas together with joy, just as we celebrate God’s gift to the world over 2000 years ago.