Editor’s note: In the months since I last wrote to you at Joyous Paradox, I have begun a novel. Four women meet and bond in a healing garden, a cancer support center modeled after the Virginia Thurston Healing Garden in the town of Harvard, MA. GrubStreet Creative Writing Center has given me a scholarship to the Novel Generator, a nine-month program for writers working on their first draft. In the following excerpt, Clemency Weems, a Boston widow in her mid-sixties, has begun chemotherapy for metastatic breast cancer. In this scene, she is imagining what she will talk about in a support group at the garden. — MAB
First you enter the cave, then the poisons are pumped into your body, and then you go home to await the symptoms, which could be fatigue, nausea, vomiting, chills, fever, diarrhea, itching, weakness, mouth sores, dizziness, tingling and numbness in your feet, or a profoundly convincing sense that you’re better off dead. Or that you’re dying. Or that you’ve abandoned your Life, like abandoning a small child in the middle of a crowded street fair.
You float above the crowd at the fair, watching your Life scan the strangers’ legs and call out for her mom.
“Mommy, where are you?” she screams. She cries, her face pinched tight around her eyes/nose/open-and-astonished mouth.
Someone comforts her, arm around her shoulders, and rubs her back, the flowered cotton dress soaked with sweat between her young shoulder-blades. She buries her face in the Comforter’s broad shoulder.
Then, Kleenex administered, trip to Porta-Potty completed, your Life stands hand in hand with the Comforter at the fried-dough stand. Powdered sugar or maple syrup? Both? Both.
Where is your Life when your body reaches the nadir? More precisely, the nadir is the point at which the chemo drugs have killed their maximum number of white blood cells for this cycle, as well as their maximum number of cancer cells and red blood cells, and swift-dividing cells in your mouth, digestive tract, and hair follicles. Fewer white blood cells mean that your immune system is at its weakest.
For these few days of nadir, you stay home, avoiding crowds, imploring your family and friends not to come if they have colds or other infections.
Do you have to worry that your daughter-in-law Rhonda, who makes no secret of her frequent yeast infections, will use your toilet and leave little yeast organisms behind to attack you from within?
Is your use of disinfectant wipes compulsive yet? Or do you pray before grasping the glass knob on your bathroom door that everyone has washed their hands thoroughly before leaving the facilities? Is your Life in isolation, that young creature in flowered cotton, cared for by masked and gowned attendants?
Finally, the hoped-for recovery. Symptoms recede. One morning you wake from restful sleep. You and your Life, joined in one shaky body. Unutterably weary. Unutterably relieved. Yet the ground is no longer the ground, the stone no longer the stone. You float in the knowledge that true North is no longer true.
– Mary Ann Barton, 9/24/2016