Grace

I’m ensconced in the hospital. I’m going to try not to type too much tonight, because my wrist hurts where my IV line is. (They couldn’t fit me in for a central line tonight; I’ll get that first thing tomorrow.)

The nurse came in, started my IV, and we got talking. We probably talked for twenty minutes. She is an oncology nurse (not all of them on my floor are), has been for seven years. She’s young, and startlingly competent. Right now, she’s looking up my paper chart and printing information about the neuropathy drug they’re discharging me with. (I have the beginnings of peripheral neuropathy, in both hands and feet. It’s scaring hell out of me.)

We talked about my care team here, in Sac, in Oakland. We talked about my support system. I told her some of the things I wrestle with—see how healthy I am, how can I be sick? She told me she thought I’d do well.

I asked her why. She said, “Because you’re so positive. When the mind gives up, the body follows.” I didn’t tell her how much I hate this.

I told her about the wind talking to me at the Ranch. I also told her I want to be alive. We talked on the level of, how does cancer change you? If you live, who are you? How does this make you be?

She got it. And I think now I get it more, too.

They upped my Ativan, another grace. It’s starting to take effect. I’m going to go to sleep now. Goodnight.