Part Thirty-Three: Reprieve

            Late morning sunshine, blue skies, and cool breeze welcomed me to walk down the block.  After months of humidity-laden heat and sickly-feeling body, those few minutes following the sidewalk felt like freedom. 

            Later in the day, I found myself on the floor playing with fourteen-month-old Josiah.  He stood before me, tottering just a bit as he clapped his hands.  When I clapped my hands, saying “clap, clap, clap,” he burst out in laughter.  Grandma really is a funny playmate.

            I love feeling normal.  I never used to think about it much, the unconscious ease of doing daily stuff. 

            The first few months of chemotherapy took away the sense of feeling like myself.  It’s hard to explain when nothing feels right.  It’s more than the bitter, metallic taste that lingers in your mouth or the weird, sick feeling that defines your body.  It’s the indefinable but very real sense that somehow you are not the same, almost as if an alien has abducted your very self and replaced it with a counterfeit.

            But now, a reprieve.  I’d call it a combination of getting used to the impact of cancer, having a little break from some of the side effects from chemotherapy, and appreciating things that never occurred to me before.  As always—even before the cancer, during periods of wellness midst the fibromyalgia—I begin to take the reprieve for granted almost immediately instead of regarding it as a gift to be cherished.

            But, right away, reality returns.  Yesterday’s ache in my left knee and weakness in my legs, this morning’s stabbing pain in my left index finger and worrisome scratchy throat.  Back pain, fumble fingers, shoulder stabbing.  They are either side effects of Taxol or reminders of fibromyalgia.  Nothing too bad yet except the fear of everything getting worse.

            I, however, do not want to live my life in fear.  I’d rather live my life in gratitude.  Instead of dwelling in the uncertainty of what may yet happen, I’d rather dwell in the reality of the present, where Jesus helps me choose joy.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will rest in the shadow of the almighty.

I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,

my God, in whom I trust.”  (Psalm 91:1)