My lovely neighbour came for a visit recently, bearing a thoughtful gift and a card. She is a lively, active, cheerful mom of a 6-year old, as well as a teacher, spouse, daughter, dog owner, and much more. I feel lucky to have great neighbours, like her. And I figure her students are pretty lucky too—except she hasn't been able to work for most of the last year, as she recovers from a concussion.
As she was leaving, she spoke of being at Stage 15 of letting go. I figure I'm maybe at Stage 3. Maybe. Letting go of what I think I can get done in a day. Letting go of self-imposed expectations. Letting go of my ideas about how things "should" be.
This week, I learned to let go of a few more things, including my hair. When I first learned that the chemotherapy would almost certainly cause hair loss, I thought I would just let it fall out. But as I spoke to others about what that is like, I realized that it's not like regular hair loss. It comes out in clumps, leaving patches behind. Sometimes it is painful and uncomfortable. One person recounted how some of her mom's hair fell out in a clump while eating lunch. It sounds like it can add to one's sense of having lost control over life (or at least the illusion of control).
So I decided to "take the bull by the horn." My wonderful stylist, Lisa, the only person who has cut my hair since I lived in Kingston, agreed to shave it off on Friday afternoon, after her normal work hours. She did it as a friend. I'm pretty sure it was difficult for her; she lost her best friend to breast cancer. We hugged each other tightly at the end.
I thought it would be hard to let go of my hair. I thought I would be sad and distressed. But I like my new look! (Maybe I had other lifetimes as a monk?) Probably it helps that my head is round and smooth. I don't think I can take any credit for that! It's pretty comfy, though it can be cool. Eventually, my eyebrows and eye lashes will also fall out (and other body hair), so the look will change. For now, I will have fun starting a hat & head covering wardrobe. I've never done that before because my head is inordinately large, and women's hats seldom fit.
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Yesterday was Day 5 of my first chemo cycle, and it was definitely the yuckiest day so far. I was tired, nauseated, and woozy, so I slept or rested much of the day. My sister pointed out that it was also the first day I didn't have any dexamethasone in my system, which can make you want to GET THINGS DONE! Maybe it was the dexamethasone that enabled me to walk almost 10,000 steps on Day 2 of the chemo cycle.
Yes. Ten thousand steps. What was I thinking? How did I do that? See what I mean about needing to learn to let go? Let's just say that I'm still sorting out how to balance things, slow down, and let go.
Two dear friends brought dinner over last night, and one friend put dinner together while I stayed in the big, comfy, black reclining chair. I think I get one "letting go" point for not trying to play the usual host role. Also, one "letting go" point for not racing around to clean up before they came (though, there is no way I could have "raced" anywhere yesterday). We had a lovely evening, with food, conversation, and relaxation.
After they left, I felt chilled and decided to have a bath before bed. Muscle and joint aches did not ease after the bath, so I took my temperature. The Cancer Clinic recommends that patients check their temperature twice a day. My temperature was higher than it had been all week. I stared at the numbers and decided to ignore them. I crawled into bed. And was feeling worse. I remembered the words on the "fever card" I was given: "this may be a medical emergency." I took my temperature again, and it was higher still.
Reluctantly, I called Kelly, and whimpered into the phone, "I have a fever." Kelly had already graciously agreed that she would take me to ER, even if in the middle of the night. This was about 10:40, on a Saturday night. Saturday night. Kingston. Queen's students. I dreaded how busy I expected the ER would be.
To my surprise, the ER looked closed. I double checked that I was in the right place. Yes: there was a nurse, a COVID-checker, one patient, and a security guard inside. I hardly sat down before the nurse called me up. He took my fever card and my health card, and then measured my blood pressure (123/56), oxygen saturation, and temperature. After the thermometer beeped, he said, "Your temperature is 37.3. Perfectly normal."
What?! Was I that confused? Apparently. I had been measuring my temperature in Fahrenheit, but looking at the Celsius cut-off points, and was oblivious to the first number. So, as best as I can figure it, in my confused state, I decided that 98.7F was over the 38.3C cutoff for fever. How embarrassing.
The nurse was sympathetic as I tried to explain myself. He asked if there was anything else he could help me with that evening. I wanted to ask if he could find a magic wand to cure my cancer instantaneously, but I just shook my head, and thanked him for his kindness.
Kelly hadn't even made it home, so she returned to KGH, and drove me home.
We have agreed that before we make any more trips to the ER, she will double check the thermometer with me. We also agreed that it wasn't so bad to have a "test run."
I'm learning to let go of embarrassment. And I remain grateful for all the loving support that so many continue to offer.
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