Dancing with the Scars.

Posted: September 17, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized

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I find myself in an abandoned discotheque on the outskirts of downtown. The lights are dim, the music has faded. The aroma of fried food and perfume is thick in the air, in my weakened state this gives me a coughing fit. I find a warm can of Fresca on the bar counter, it helps my lungs to settle.
In my search for healing, this is where I’ve ended up.
I know I’m going to have to dance.
I walk out onto the rundown dance floor.
The mirrored ball is dusty and broken.
It doesn’t matter…
I know I’m going to have to dance.
I just have to find my song.
It’s a simple groove…three steps.
I move towards the miracle.
We are halfway through the scheduled treatment!!
Three treatments down, three more to go!!
We find ourselves dancing in the in-between, and we are learning the rhythm of this twisted little tango.
It’s like a three step groove on an old dance floor.
We are learning the steps, what once was foreign has become familiar.
Three steps…
Step One…
Treatment week is like a middle school ballroom dance. I have an assigned partner that I have to learn to move around with, a pump that is literally part of me. We dance to the soft syncopation of drugs being pushed into my body, this week is awkward.
Step Two…
The week after treatment is like a mosh pit. I slam dance with a long line of side effects. This part of the dance is painful and vulnerable and everything tastes like unleaded gasoline.
Step Three (FINALLY)…
This is the week that I currently find myself dancing in.
It’s a wonky waltz.
This is the recovery week.
This week…
My blood counts are good, the strangeness has settled down a bit, I’m getting a little rest at night.
I still can’t feel things with my fingers, that doesn’t keep me from pointing toward Heaven while I move.
This is the week when I’m built up before we start all over and I’m broke down again.
It’s a messed up rinse and repeat.
But, it’s all a part of moving towards the miracle.
I’ve learned the rhythm just in time for the back half of the dance.
In my head I rehearse the unforced rhythm of grace, it gives me a backbeat.
I’ve gotta listen to the right music and find the groove.
As I dance, things that were engineered for my captivity and demise are broken.
Three steps.
I know that I’m going to have to dance.
In the suddenly shiny and whole mirrored ball, I see the reflection of the miracle.

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