Safe harbors

I realized yesterday, I am completely surrounded by safe harbors. I have a safe home. Incredibly loving, generous friends. People who are more than willing to drop their own lives for a week to walk into hell with me. (Ranging from my housemate and friends who feel like family, to one who offered to go with me to chemotherapy after meeting me at the Ranch once.) A church I love, and others that are also homes. A refuge I can go to whenever I want. Good work I can come back to, where I am a safe harbor for others. My God, myself, my community.

I’m still struck by a line from last Sunday’s sermon. She said that the idea of the reign of God was for all of us to be together, "everybody safe and playful.” A and I looked at each other and smiled. The idea was so Carol. And so right.

We are so loved.

I have a killer growing inside my body. I have a PET scan tomorrow that will tell us whether it’s responding to the biochemotherapy that leaves me still feeling sick weeks after it’s done. Results of this scan will tell my doctor whether to keep me on the same treatment regimen, or give me high-dose IL-2. The side effects are different. I’d be in the ICU. PET scans take some time to interpret. It’s possible, though not their ideal or mine, that I might not understand what I’m in for until we’re back down there. And I won’t really know, until I’ve experienced it.

I am surrounded by compassionate, competent caregivers in the hospital, and friends who love me. It is the one place I don’t feel safe. We fight this disease in my body. The chemicals course through my veins, and do what they do. I can’t control how the drugs affect me, how I feel, or how my body responds. All I can do is allow it to happen, and let my people love me through it.

I’m not sure of the point I’m making. There’s some connection between coming from as much safety and love as I live in, and going to the place that keeps me awake nights. My next trip is almost two weeks away. I’m going with someone who has been a gift since the day I met her. She loves me, and she’s up for this. I trust her, I trust my Riverside friends, and I trust my care team. I know that I’ve done this twice, already faced the completely unknown once, and can do it again. I know I can do what I already know, if that’s where they keep me. I already know to expect some things as IL-2 reactions, because I’ve had them on the low dose. Still, I’m already afraid.

I can’t find the point I’m reaching for. Maybe I’ll have to be on the other side of fear to articulate it. What I can do, is be grateful for all who hold me in love. For all who keep me as safe, everywhere I go, as I am.

You know who you are. I love you.