Friday I got a call from the GI doc – the one who got this ball rolling by ordering that CT scan – informing me the labs indicate resuming Metformin is in order. Now we know what’s causing my stomach problems they become the province of the oncologist, meaning it’s likely the last time we’re going to talk. That saddens me because the GI doc is personable, very sharp and flexible-minded and overall someone I’d really want on my team.
But with treatment moving rapidly as mine is now she’s part of what gets left behind. All of a sudden it’s the day before the biopsy, not that I much feel ready for it; need to get to a drugstore today and pick up a specialized body wash, then send necessary logistical info to the person taking me home after the procedure, then arrange for a cab to get me to Alta Bates at 5-freaking-30 AM. Thursday morning I’m slated to meet the oncologist, at which point he’ll give me the biopsy’s results, and I feel even less ready for that. Right now when I still know nothing is the easy time. Once we know what I’m facing, and consequently how to go about facing it: that’s when things actually start to get difficult.
Presuming they will, which I suspect is by and large a safe presumption if for no other reason than I have little to no experience accommodating serious illness. In anyone’s life, let alone mine: at 54 I’ve led a generally charmed existence, or isolated, or both. Either way that existence is about to change in a way not experienced since my divorce over 20 years ago, maybe not even then.
Knowing this helps me appreciate the little things more than I might. A new water heater in the cottage and the property owner’s quick action procuring it that meant I only went 48 hours without hot water; visiting with my sister and brother-in-law when I went to their house for a shower; the thick and somehow lovely pottery vase scavenged from a free pile someone left on the street; a biscuit with homemade marionberry jam from Aunt Mary’s, my first such in months and months; walking with a friend and noticing how different and often prettier the houses down my block look in the dark. This is good for me; most of my life I haven’t been too quick to perceive many of the little gifts life hands out, let alone appreciate them. Once this is past and things come back to normal – which despite my lack of experience I also presume they will – I want to retain the awareness of these gifts I feel now. That, I suppose, is another meaning of grace.
(Republished from my personal Facebook account)