Monday, December 13, 2010

Grey

Remember those Sunday afternoons when you were a teenager, when there was what seemed an enormous expanse of time with nothing really to do, except wait for Sunday supper, then go to bed? Sort of like a grey zone between Saturday, with its activities, and Monday with its school. But maybe some knowledge lurking of a hideous test, or a confrontation in the offing with one of the "popular" set. I was plagued by those. Or like the day after Christmas - somewhat of a blank zone.

This time  week three, almost chemo time - is the grey/blank zone for me - the between time. Feeling ok. But waiting for the next hammer to drop. Not quite Christmas. Some snow, not a lot. Not feeling awful, but not quite recalibrated to normal. I mean the "before" normal. Not the cancer normal. [I sometimes marvel at what I did before. I managed a life that was full of stuff - people - things - dates - notations - engagements. Managing external stuff in a fine balance.] Right now I seem to manage myself much more in reaction to internal, rather than external stimuli. The balance works from the inside out. What is my body indicating needs attention today? What ache, hum or ping needs attention? Like a car's check oil or check engine signal.

I feel grey. I feel there is a pale grey tinge to my skin, an my hair sees to be returning, steely. yes it is returning. Lacklustre though. The wig seems so shiny and bright. Fake. But better than a cold head. More real for the kids to see mummy with hair.

And yet, I feel there is something missing. A hole, hard to define, but where my life used to be.

I found a small clump of hair on the bathroom floor the other day- clearly missed, tucked under a rug, in the sweep post shave.  I did not recognize it as my own. I thought, I wonder where that came from. When it dawned on me, it was mine, I thought, well the new normal has holes - no hair, for example, and definitely, holes in my memory, my ability to recall words, names, sentences. I hope it comes back.

xo KO

1 comment:

Paddy C said...

Sandra calls it Sunday Night Syndrome (SNS). For me, it was always marked by 60 Minutes. The infernal ticking of the watch marking the ever diminishing number of minutes between NOW and the Monday morning school bell.

Isn't it so like adulthood to take a childhood bit of melancholy and convert it into something so much more dreadful?

The wonderful news is that it's another week. And it will be a really bad day when we run out of those.