Drawn by a Star

After a sleepless night, I found the courage to ask busy Reyes (the head nurse) for advice on changing my oncologist. He and I don’t click I told her. That’s putting it mildly. I must not harbour any negative thoughts or judgements in this healing journey. I know that.  In the middle of the night, I'd realised I really did not like this man. Reyes said she’d talk to Rocio, the senior nurse for admin. I told them  how he had given me no hope, how his words and raised eyebrows  had huanted me for 4 months. Are you telling me I'm not going to get better I had asked him during our first meeting.  His eyebrows had  moved towards his hiarline, and his mouth  had remained closed.  What I need is  support I told Reyes, like the lady oncologist seems to give in bucketful’s. I told Rocio about my work with disadvantaged  children in Bolivia and Peru. I said I'm not finsihed with that yet.  I thought she was going to cry. An hour...

There's no such thing as a usual chemo day. Today, in the hospital, it was a  kind of a bland, lacklustre experience!  But it started with a great laugh. The head nurse Reyes first job was to insert a tiny little tube into my chest, where deep down lives a small metal implant, a 'resevorio,' into which the chemo enters a large vein. Mine is  exceptionally hard to  find. Two student nurses gather around Reyes to watch, and Rocio, the senior admin nurse, arrives I think to witness or to help if things go wrong. This all happens in a little curtained off cubicle.  Everybody in the ward of course can hear, if they want to.  Most do. 'Push the chair (a blue reclining chair) back,' orders Reyes . Wham. Suddenly I’m flat on my back. My head seems to bounce at least twice! 'MADREEEE MIAAAAA,' I exclaim. I wasn’t expecting that! Everybody laughs. Reyes says, 'shut your eyes.'  Rocio says, 'pretend to sleep!'  The two trainee nurses g...

    Yesterday I witnessed a beautiful little exchange in our local, back street, book and stationary shop. Not so long ago this shop changed hands. The new owners are a friendly young couple.     A pretty nine year old girl with long blond wispy hair wearing denim dungarees whose straps were falling off both shoulders, clutched her tiny tapestry purse, and asked for 18 pencils. The 20 something year old owner of the shop smiled at the child ,disappeared, and returned with a box of HB lead pencils. She carefully counted 18, and handed them over the glass counter.     The little foreigner wriggled her whole body, grinned, and said, ‘coloured ! ’     I wondered what you were going to do with 18 lead pencils said the petite shopkeeper with a huge smile.     Disappearing again she returned with a box of 18 coloured pencils, and handed them over the counter. Under the glass was what I was waiting...

Tomorrow and Wednesday more chemo. Tomorrow the third meeting with the serious oncologist. I will not be driving myself to hospital this week (!), nor going by Mongolian school bus, great pic eh ? Somebody asked me, in order to be so positive about cancer, does that mean you have to deny your feelings? The answer is definitely no. I can spook myself quickly and easily. It doesn’t happen often now, but it can happen. It happened on Saturday morning. I wrote about it in the blog, but was then shy to share it with you. I did not like my oncologist when I first met him. He gave me no hope. I am working on meeting him with respect tomorrow. He is a scientist. I am an artist. Our minds and lives run on different tracks. He is doing his job, and I am finding wonderful ways to show him there can be more than one prognosis. I am tired. I am happy. I’m home after 5 hours of chemo, a conversation with the extremely serious oncologist, and a blessing from the extremely...

Feliz sábado amig@s .  It's Día de Andalucía ! It’s been another amazing day. It's been a  cake, chat, and choto day.  What's a c hoto?   A choto is a baby goat in Spanish.  At the end of each day, well almost every day,  I like to remember one outstanding thing that has touched my heart, and use it as a  spring board, a mantra for the next day.  A few days ago the trigger was  hearing the Jesuit intention to 'be alive to the present.' To be fully alive to the present moment takes me from auto pilot, to following the inner compass, to being drawn by my star.  Challenging, 'cos it's so easy to forget good intentions, especially when  bad news  get stuck to every cell in your being. So, today it’s been a day about delicious cakes, very sad news, baby goats, and more. All of these have rocked the inner GPS.  Which one  will make tomorrows...

  I’m learning a lot about Grace, and Kindness.   This morning at 6.30am, we left my house and arrived an hour later at San Cecilio hospital in Granada. I thought I was going for an X-ray for a throat condition, but it turned out to be a bit of an endurance test, with some  moments of pure pantomime, and unexpected  joy.   First was the blood test in the hospital basement at 8am, well, 8.30 actually. We  waited an hour. The Spanish have a strong sense of right and  wrong when it comes to queueing, and if somebody jumps the  queue, as a woman did, they don’t actually challenge them, but they don’t like it.  This little bit of questionable  behaviour  brought  about an instant unity, black humour, and the most  wonderful range of facial gestures amongst those of  us waiting.  People showed their true colours. Eyebrows shot up and down.  Javier and I are about number 10 in the queue....

  Hoy, por primera vez, iré yo sola a Motril para la quimioterapia. Merche no puede acompañarme porque tiene compromisos familiares. ¿Puedo hacer esto yo sola? ¡Sí puedo! 6.30h. Suena la alarma.   A las 7h conduzco hacia Motril envuelta en una completa oscuridad, ráfagas de lluvia, truenos y relámpagos espectaculares. Tengo el corazón en la boca cuando el coche de atrás decide prácticamente engancharse al parachoques. Imagínate una carretera con muchas curvas, esculpida en la ladera de una montaña, normalmente vacía durante kilómetros.  Hay un precipicio enorme a mi derecha, por el lado en el que estoy conduciendo, y un coche pegado a un metro detrás de mí durante todo el camino.   8.05h. Soy la primera en llegar al hospital de Día. Vuelven a hacerme el análisis de sangre para ver si mi sangre es capaz de aguantar la quimioterapia, la semana pasada no lo era. Me dicen que el análisis de sangre de ayer en Órgiva fue un desastre.   A las 9.30h ...