10
Emma
“Awww, Emma, you didn’t have to dress up just to come see me.”
My cheeks crinkled behind the mask. “Actually, I did. And this lovely outfit is the exact same thing all of your visitors will be wearing for as long as you are neutropenic. But it’s super good news, because all of that nasty chemo that we’ve been throwing at you for the last week has done its job, and you’re ready to receive the donor stem cells.”
Angela leaned back against her pillows. The chemotherapy regimen had taken its toll on her. Medically speaking, I knew why we did this. I understood that this was the best way to prepare the body for receiving the new, healthy cells, but when every instinct in me was to heal and promote wholeness, it was so hard to comprehend that pumping in poison was part of that process.
“Everyone’s so excited about it.” Her fingers moved restlessly over the sheet. “I know I should be, too.”
“There are no shoulds in feelings, sweetie.” I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “Is there something particular that’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s probably just that I feel so lousy . . . and I’ve had way too much time to sit and think.” Her lower lip trembled just a little, and she caught it between her teeth. “I wonder . . . is this all worth it? I feel like shit. I’ve been in and out of the hospital for months, with no chance for a real life. My career is pretty much dormant, because I’ve disappeared from social media. And this whole transplant deal is most likely destroying any chance of having children.”
“You had eggs harvested before you started chemo, didn’t you?” I’d seen that notation in her chart.
“Yes. But that was back when I was feeling hopeful and unbreakable. I thought I was going to beat this thing, and I could actually picture my life after I was well again. Now . . .” She shook her head, and her thin hair crackled against the pillow. “It feels like I’m on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and being well is a distant land. There are too many huge waves between that land and me. Thinking about the trip makes me feel tired and nauseated.”
I studied her thoughtfully. “There are things we can do to help you feel better, Angela. We could give you meds to help, some herbal supplements . . .but I’m hesitant to put anything else into your system at this crucial point in the transplant process. You could talk to a therapist if you want.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve talked to the therapists and the doctors who come down from psych for the standard pre-transplant evals. They’re fine, but I’d rather talk to you than to them.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because here I am. And I have a few suggestions for what we can do to make the land of being healthy and strong again feel closer. If you’re interested, that is.”
“Hey, you have a captive audience, and I have nothing but time to kill until they bring up my new cells. Hit me.”
“Well, thanks for that glowing endorsement.” I pretended to be offended. “You know, girlfriend, there are other patients on this floor who actually appreciate what I do for them. I don’t need to sit here and let you abuse me.”
For the first time since I’d come in the door, I saw the ghost of a smile cross her face. “Aw, Emma, tell the truth. No one loves you like I do. I’m totally your favorite.”
I winked at her. “But don’t tell the others that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. Now what are those ideas you had? Time’s a ticking.”
“Okay.” I settled myself back in the chair. “Let’s stick with your ship on the sea analogy. If you were a sailor, you’d use a telescope to check out your destination, right? That’s what we’re going to do—only you’re going to use visualization to make the next steps feel more attainable.”
“Oh, I get it. So I picture my life after cancer, and that helps me to think of it as a real possibility.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “Now close your eyes, and let’s start. Once you get the hang of this, you can work on it yourself for all the different areas of your life.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m ready.” Angela’s eyes drifted shut. “Go ahead.”
I took her through some breathing exercises first, to center and calm her mind, and then I began speaking in a low, gentle voice. “It’s been one month since you got the all-clear news from Dr. Girard. You open your eyes in the morning. What the first thing you see?”
The tips of her mouth turned up. “Noah, lying in bed next to me. Our cat Bella sleeping on his back. That’s her favorite spot.”
I smirked. “I just bet. Okay, so you get out of bed . . . what’s on your agenda for this day?”
She breathed in and out in silence for a moment before she spoke. “Noah’s got a game—a home game. I’m going to watch him play. So I cook him breakfast—always the same breakfast on game days—my homemade granola, pineapple yogurt, two eggs over hard, and half of a French toast bagel with pecan cream cheese.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Wow. That’s a very specific menu.”
“Yeah. Every home game, no matter which team he’s played for, college and pro, that’s what he eats. I’ve been making him that granola since we were in high school.”
“Oh, wait! I remember seeing that on your website. Didn’t you post the recipe?”
“I did.” Angela slitted one eye open. “Is this part of the visualization?”
