Hamunaptra

Even though historical experts claim that Hamunaptra, City of the Dead, is probably a fictitious place and the fantasy tellings of some talented screen writers (The Mummy), it has become my go-to catch-all metaphor for returning to Places of Serious Dread. 

I don’t like to think of my oncologist office as a place of dread, serious or otherwise, I truly don’t.  I always arrive bearing gifts of thanks because I never forget how lucky I am nor how kindly the entire expert staff treated me throughout my battle. 

I always force myself to peek into the chill-blasting chemo room.  If anyone is in there, and usually there is, I march myself right in, awkwardly introduce myself and then try and lend some words of encouragement and hope.  I think I’m far from riveting or super engaging in person but still, it’s my honor to do this, however much I can.  I certainly need to continue to pay it forward.  It is almost as if what I went through has to continue to matter; some good has to continue to come out of my battle. 

Aside from surviving I mean.

It’s a funny thing about this need of mine to pay it forward because I am just about the least New Age-y person around.  I’m not some airy-fairy child of the light or an old soul reborn time and again; I am as logical and pragmatic as it gets.  Even when I meditate, I tell myself and my yoga students that any ‘energy’ they feel swirling around them is likely some faint after effect, a fall out if you will, from earth’s magnetic fields and thus all very provable from the standpoint of science. 

I take very little on faith.  

So, it’s rather odd that I would feel the urge, nay, the calling, to pay it forward by deliberately spreading my own brand of Recovery Karma.  I’m like the Good Fairy of Cancer Recovery, spreading cheer and hope, la, la, la but I cannot help it.  But I would feel horribly guilty if I didn’t at least try. 

When my daughter was in the hospital for a few days after giving birth to Baby Claudia, I realized straight away that the chemo room actually was on the same floor (different wing) as Obstetrics.  It was located right next to the elevator which was thoughtful, given how much energy it takes the average chemo patient just to get from the car to the chemo room.   

I must have walked by that Room of Doom a dozen times before pausing in front of the elevator early one evening and hanging my head in shame.  I was in recovery, cancer free and reveling in the joys of my first grand baby and I had not stopped by yet?  What was wrong with me??? 

“Oh crap,” I said out loud and turned heel and went into the room.  I proceeded to make my way around the room, shaking hands, holding hands, telling anyone that lifted their weary head that I too was a cancer survivor and that there was hope.  I even showed the interested patients pictures of newly born Baby Claudia. 

The oncology nurses were, needless to say, astonished. 

“Nobody comes back here unless they have to,” one observed. 

“I do,” I said sounding braver than I felt.  “I have to. I don’t ever want to forget how far I’ve come and people need to know there is hope.” 

The nursing staff at my oncologist office is clearly used to me playing post-chemo cheerleader.  They must think me intrusive by nature but I am truly the least judgmental person I know and I cut a wide swath away from any drama, family, friends, colleagues, you name it, I’m allergic to the drama.  I even hire talented people based in part, on a total lack of drama in their personalities so inserting myself into life-threatening situations is seriously, entirely out of character.  

But I suck it up and I do it anyway because I want people to know that there is life after chemo and there is always hope.  I got to chat up one nice lady yesterday who was thrilled with the idea of extensions.  Three men stood around complaining about the Sharks, my home town hockey team, and baby, I had that one so I inexpertly inserted myself into that conversation as well.   

I used to think that I wanted to touch perfect strangers lives, wanted to impart to those who are despairing genuine hope but in reality, I now realize I go back into the chemo room for me as much as for them. 

This way, no matter how long I stay cancer-free, I will never, ever forget.