My body is a haunted house.

One of our parishioners, as she goes through chemo to deal with a lung tumor, told me recently “I am more and more tired. That worries me.”

I smiled. “This is normal. The effects of chemo tend to accumulate from one cycle to the next. I was literally dragging myself during my last three rounds.”

I discovered this in April – everything was getting harder to do, as if I was moving on a different planet on which gravity would have been more powerful than it is on earth. 

The assistant of my oncologist confirmed it. “Yes, fatigue accumulates. You get more anemic." She thought for a moment. "Maybe four chemos would be enough ?" My reply came fast. “No, I want to go through the six ones. I don’t want to cut corners. I visit dying patients everyday at the hospice house, I want to put everything on my side not to become one of them.” She did not insist.

The rhythm of chemo became predictable. On the day I would receive it, I would enjoy relaxing in the comfortable armchair in the big room where nurses were providing help with the IV. I would look for the ottoman on little wheels where I could put my laptop on, near a plug. I would stroll on facebook and the internet in between naps.

That night, my body would become a haunted house, with strange cold drafts coming and going along my limbs. On the next day, I would receive a shot to boost my white cells. This would make for a bad day, two days later, with flu-like symptoms and sore bones. I would feel better the next morning. Then there would be a few days of almost normal life until fatigue would catch up with me on the last days of the round.

By mid-June, when the last cycle ended, I was hoping for a sharp contrast, an immediate relief, since I was done. It came very gradually. I kept checking on my reflection in mirrors at home. 

Two weeks later, I finally saw it, a shadow on my skull. My hair was starting to grow back. Spring was back on my personal schedule.