cancer is a reminder

there's nothing like CANCER to remind you that your own life ain't so bad.

i've been having a really rough time these last few weeks. the relationship that i have put my whole heart into for two years is dissolving before my eyes. my future looks different. bleak. sad. and lonely. and although i don't know what's going to happen in the long run ("there is no crystal ball," my partner says to me), i feel scared and devastated.

but then, there's work. life must go on, right? so, i force myself out of bed in the morning. and i show up, faking bright eyed and bushy tailed as best as i can at 7AM with swollen eyes and a broken heart. i do my best hollywood impression of a cheerful, kind nurse and take care of a woman my age. a mother of two. she had a transplant almost one year ago and is now facing the effects of skin graft versus host disease and long term steroid use. her once healthy body now looks old. haggard. her skin is beat red, like that of a burn victim. she is peeling everywhere. her hands are shedding what looks like gloves of skin.

mostly she lies in bed all day. sometimes crying. sometimes angry. but when she asked to take a shower (one of my least favorite things to help someone with), i decided to give it my all. we carefully readied her for a shower. i placed a towel on the bench seat. we warmed up the bathroom with steamy water and the heat lamp. and i left her alone, hoping she could wash away some of the hurt.

but a few minutes later, as i was just a few feet away from her, making her bed, i heard a sob. nervous that she had fallen or hurt herself, i busted into the bathroom to find a woman, curled in a ball, crying because she is so weak that she cannot even hold the shower nozzle. "it's okay, we'll do this together," i said. as if it is no bid deal. as if lots of 30 something year olds can't shower on their own. what proceeded was a very intricate ritual. scrubs with cetaphil. then shampoo. coconut oil. and burts bees lotion. baby powder in creases. and lace panties. all the intimate details we carried out together, because she is vulnerable. because likely, she is dying.

by the end of the 45 minute ordeal, i was sweatier than if i had run a marathon. in my plastic gown, glove, and masks, rivulets of sweat dripped down my healthy body. my broken heart ached, but instead of aching for myself, it ached for her. for pain. for illness. for families torn apart by tragedy.

CANCER is a good, horrible reminder.