Hello, everyone!
Just thought I’d check in with you. Thank you for your continued loving thoughts and white light. You all are a blessing and I am truly grateful. Again, thank you.
First off, for the really great news: On Friday, Stella-Grace, Rufus and I (Chris was in DC) went hiking. Hiking! Yes, me (alone, without any help) with a 33 pound baby strapped in the front-pack, hiking through the Catalina State Park. Okay, so I took the easiest route (the Romero Ruin trail), but, still, there were steps. Up (and down) 80 steps — me and baby. It was wonderful. Plus, we saw three roadrunners. If you would have told me during the dark days of summer when I was writhing in pain and couldn’t lift my legs off the hospital bed, let alone stand, or when several medical ‘experts’ informed me that I might never be able to walk "the same way" again, if you would have told me that I would be hiking come December, I probably would have thrown my walker at you. Life is good. And living is amazing. I had been hiking with Chris — in fact, we went hiking the day after my first chemotherapy treatment (it was a very slow hike) — but this was the first time that I had carried Stella-Grace on my own. The first time since July, right before the spinal fusion. It’s just so cool.
So, the chemo has begun (dum, dum, dumdum). I am not a cueball-head yet, but the molting appears to have started. (Stella-Grace, when she finds an errant hair — on her clothes, on her stuffed animals, in her food — keeps saying, "Dog hair, dog hair!" I shake my head, while pulling the long, brunette strand away, and say, "No, baby, it’s mommy’s hair." To which she inevitably responds, "Mommy’s hair, baby’s hair." Such support, and only 20 months old!) I’m experimenting with the idea of shaving my head entirely and getting someone (probably a tattoo artist) to do some funky henna design on it. (Medusa comes to mind.) It’s an idea. 
But before I get into the chemo nitty-gritty, and I know you’re all just so excited for that, I want to put out a request. For housing. So, here goes: If any of you know of a cozy, aesthetically pleasing hacienda in Tucson that is for sale, or thinking of going on the market, please let me know. Yes, it’s a buyers market now (thankfully) and Chris and I are doing the usual househunting, but with limited success. Anyway, our wish list includes: a house in the North/Northwest of Tucson, by the mountains, with mature vegetation, some land (1-3 acres or so), good school district, cozy, warm, older, ceramic tile, with a casita, and local wildlife (inside and outside the house). So, if you know of anything, please let me know.
I’m sure you’re all wondering about my new friend (dum, dum, dumdum) ’The Chemo.’ Well, before you read the following, remember that this is from someone who did NOT want chemo, someone who, when they told me about the B-52 killer chemo I was "supposed" to have heard a very distinct, very loud, "GET OUT!" directive. And this is from someone who followed that directive. Just so you’re with me here …
Okay, so I’m pulling into the Safeway parking lot a week prior to my first go at chemo and, I kid you not, I hear this voice say, "This is exciting. It’s going to be an adventure." This voice was not talking about shopping. So I put the car into park and sit back. "What?" I say, knowing full well what the reference was to. "Chemotherapy." is the answer. Right. I’m sitting there, trying to take this in. I wasn’t really angry, it just wasn’t exactly what I had expected. "What," I finally ask, "what do you mean an adventure?" "You’ve never experienced it before. It’s a first." Now, if this would have been a year ago, even a couple of months ago, I would have shut that voice up so fast, it wouldn’t have even registered. But, you know what? I let it breathe. In fact, it kind of intrigued me. And, in the subsequent days, that voice provided me with a great source of comfort. I’d been agonizing about the treatment and if it was the best option, and then, all of a sudden, there was the answer. It was the right thing, for right now. Yes, this way of thinking is trippy. Yes, it’s unconventional. But, hey, it’s a comfort. I take that where I can get it. I am not suggesting that chemotherapy is some grand "adventure" we cancer patients are just chomping at the bit for. The human side of me would have certainly passed on this one. Still, it’s my adventure, for now.
The voice is a great source of comfort as is the bear. Yes, the bear. Okay, just to get a little more trippy on you … A few times in my meditation, prior to the first go at chemo, I started seeing a bear. A big, brown bear. Alright, I’ll back up a bit … When I went into the hospital for spinal fusion, particualrly right before my surgery, I saw a white tiger lying on my torso. Okay, I didn’t ’see’ it in the "I see that the doctor is standing there in front of me" way. But, I did see it. More importantly, I felt it. Don’t ask me how. It was just there, all sprawled out, this big ole black and white striped tiger. (Sometimes it was a cub frolicking on my lower abdomen.) Yeah, it’s weird, and, yes, I was on a lot of meds, but I wasn’t delusional. And, more importantly, the tiger was a comfort. For some reason, I knew that if the tiger was there, I was safe. So, there appears this bear, right? Well, I go along with it and start investigating the meaning of bears. And, apparently, bear medicine is very potent. So, I decide that this chemo is just that: honey for my bear. So, the bear has helped. The honey’s helped.
As has my support team in the hospital — particularly Chris and my dear friend, Shirley. They’ve been coming to the hospital (chemo is every two weeks, so far two treatments down) and have helped infuse the whole process (chemo bags included!) with love, support, and healing. We even have tea. In real tea cups. I kid you not — as the I.V. drip is going, we dine on hot tea and brownies or chocolate chip cookies. (My sister now refers to each chemo treatment as my "day at the spa.") The nurses are terrific as well. They even hooked me up with a nurse who is a Reiki master and practices healing touch. Due to hospital protocol she can’t physically touch me in that capacity, but she can infuse the bags with healing. The whole hospital process (it takes about 6-7 hours) is really interesting. That little voice was right. I’ve certainly never experienced this before. Ever.
Sure, there’s some nausea, sleeplessness (due to the steroids), bloating, hot flashes (now those are wild!), numbness in my feet, and fatigue. (Come Saturday, I’m wrecked. It feels like a really bad hangover.) Still, all in all, it’s been pretty easy. The week after chemotherapy is the hardest, but, in an odd way, also the most interesting. How will my body react? What will I have to do? (Last week, I gave myself daily injections — to increase my white blood cell count — for six days. A month ago, if you would have told me that I’d be jabbing away at myself with a great big needle, I would have laughed. But now it’s a piece of cake.) Plus, maybe this week (and this is my human side talking) I won’t feel the nausea or fatigue. Maybe …
The other day (while talking to Chris about our, thus far, fruitless house search), I said, "It’ll all work out. It will. It always does." And he said, "No. No, it doesn’t always work out." Maybe … Yet I KNOW it does. It may not be what we envision to be the best, or what fits into our perception of what is ‘for the best,’ but, in the end, it all does work out. It does. It has to. Because, in the end, there is only forward movement. And that forward movement is love. Plain and simple. It may take me three hundred lifetimes, but I’m moving forward in every one.
It’s weird. I had this realization a couple of weeks ago that God/the Universe/Buddha/whatever you want to call it, doesn’t hate or judge us, or even have an agenda for us to follow or ‘be damned.’ It’s really not like that at all. Really. The Universe just loves us. And I mean really loves us, like some big ole Aretha Franklin thick-armed hug love around us loves us, no matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. That means no matter what we do, or don’t do, we’re loved. It really freaked me out (I was raised a Southern Baptist after all.). "You mean there are no judgments?" I asked. "Nope." Actually, I’m still reeling from it. If there are no judgments, what do I do? How do I live? And who’s the one who keeps judging? Who is that incessant voice in my head pointing out when I do something ‘right’ and especially when I do something ‘wrong,’ if it isn’t God? It’s almost too much for me to fathom. I’m so wedded to this idea that there is some magical (and elusive) ‘right’ thing to do or ‘right’ to live that I just haven’t found yet and that when I do, boy oh boy, will everything sparkle. But what if I’m loved no matter what? What if there is no ‘right’ path and everything sparkles, if I’d just see it? How do I live then? 
I still haven’t figured it out. All I know is that there is love. And when, in those brief moments of clarity when I realized that there is no judgment, I try to ask myself, “What feels best?” And, you know what? I’ll be damned (there I go again with the judgments) if it’s not love (or some form of love dressed up as a smile, or a patient response, or some blunt advice, or time). Don’t get me wrong, lest you can’t recognize the Jennifer you knew mere months ago who made you do Magic Circle and Flow at the same time (and would do it again if I could – hahaha! That’s manicial laughing, in case you didn’t recognize it), I’m still flying off the handle and chewing on things I have no control over and worrying. I’ve, also, been known to use the Chemo-card (as in “What do you mean, ‘can I watch the baby for a minute’ while you go to the bathroom? Can’t you see I’m on my fifth consecutive hour of watching the first season of Project Runway! I just had chemo!”). Of course, the best one (as my friend, Shirley, reminded me) is the D-card (the Death card). I flip that one out, too, from time to time when I’m really feeling self-righteous or want to see someone (usually my husband) crawl. What can I say? With cancer you think comes complete enlightenment? (See, there’s the C-card and the E-card together. Very tricky.) Still, in the end, it’ll all work out. Because, after it’s all done, there’s love. I know it. I’m just trying to realize it. 
Take care.
I love you,
Jennifer
My friend, Jan, and I are embarking upon a creative cookie project and you are invited to participate. If you are unsure if you want to join in, you can email me for more information. Shirley: sdunnperry@earthlink.net
