The Drugs

It was spring in Minnesota and the time where everyone would emerge from their homes, socially starved. I was getting out of the car when I noticed a neighbor friend walking my way. The first few days after a chemo treatment I couldn’t stand for very long before I’d get a wave of nausea and would black out. I obliged to her social invitation and we politely interacted in the driveway as I answered all her questions: “How are you feeling? Anything we can do? How many treatments do you have left?” I craved to be understood on a deep level but there was never enough time to deep dive into the raw and real feelings I would experience alone. My typical response was “Only X number of treatments left. I’m doing great.” But the real and raw me would have said “I’m concerned this might not work. I’m afraid to die. I’m worried about my kids.” The concern and pity was clearly on her face and even though I tried to be truly authentic about my experience, there was comfort in pretending to me strong, tricking my subconscious I was safe. And anyway, there wasn’t enough time in a quick driveway chat to share my true self.

As I expected, mid conversation the rush of nausea hit and everything started to sparkle black and I bent my knees to brace the fall. I caught myself before I fully blacked out, apologizing for not being able to listen better. In that moment my will to stand wasn’t strong enough to overcome my weakened body. My strength in my words couldn’t force my body to stay upright. I was exposed. The chemo was taking a toll and it was obvious how truly frail I was.