A friend told me early on that having cancer is like being on an island, where the only inhabitants are others who’ve fought the same fight. She’s also the same person that told me she got through her last rounds of cancer through ice cream therapy. I get it now. I’m definitely on the island. And there is ice cream here.
With the final round of chemo come and gone, my poor bewildered bone marrow is desperately trying to hold its own against the final flood of cancer-fighting drugs. My blood counts are so low!
I went over to Debbie and Rick’s on Saturday night and didn’t tell even a single story in two hours of dinner conversation with good friends. I love listening, but I spend alot of time staring into space, watching the wind swaying tree leaves, watching the light shift, watching bad TV. I spend time imagining what can lighten my hours: buying a new sanseveria to plant in the contemplative patio pots, recording So You Think You Can Dance when it starts on Thursday, laying in the sun on my old wicker chaise lounge.
Best for me, unlike others who are on the chemo island, is that I still can enjoy the pleasure of eating. While I cursed with tin mouth, the medical marijuana controls most of the nausea and I get to pretty much eat whatever I want most of the time.
I’ve given in to my deepest darkest cravings: daily green tea smoothies from The Human Bean, store-bought blueberry coffeecake, sea salt and vinegar kettle chips, snickerdoodles, dark chocolate ice cream with caramel sauce, Marie Callendar chicken pot pies. Last Friday I ate an entire box of Kraft macaroni and cheese, by myself. I’ll have to lose 20 pounds once my counts come back up.
But for now, on the island, getting through the last treatment with short-timer’s attitude, I eat for pleasure without guilt. Anything to get me through my days. Anything to bring a smile to my face. Anything. Anything at all.