Cancer is a Four-Letter Word.

For nearly eighty years, I knew my story, reasonably stable, far from ordinary, considering the

vagaries of fate. The approach of my eightieth year triggered an avalanche of change. The first

small boulder was sudden double-vision, appearing inconveniently and terrifyingly on the 405

freeway at dusk. By blind luck, leaning on my guardian angel, and periodically closing one eye, I

made it safely home. Only in hindsight did I recognize that the wiser course would have been to

pull off the freeway and call for help. Underlying the reluctance was my stubborn determination

to retain control. Do guardian angels stoop to whispering “I tried to tell you?”

I phoned my Ophthalmologist the next morning, grateful to have survived a restless night of

worry. Ultimately, I was diagnosed with an orbital lymphoma, my third cancer. A malignant

mass under my right eyeball was lifting it, until the muscles could no longer adjust to provide a

single image. Diagnosis was confirmed by biopsies and surgery to remove part of the growth.

Removing more of it risked permanently damaging my sight.

Coming up with a treatment plan was tortuous. Five opinions later, my oncologist announced I

had a type B lymphoma, with peculiar characteristics that mandated chemotherapy and radiation.

I still suspect a coin toss may have been involved. Prognosis for a cure was excellent. Yes, I

would lose my hair. I left with a daunting sheaf of information about potential side effects and

prescriptions to address them.

My chemo required infusion with Chinese hamster cells. I thought my doctor was joking, but it

was indeed the case. It’s the only part of the process I found enchanting. My body wanted

nothing to do with alien rodent cells. They probably weren’t Kosher, either.

Sessions were interminable, with repeated large infusions of Benadryl to reduce my body’s

furious allergic reactions to the poisons that dripped into my veins. I tried to meditate, to clear

my mind of the realization that I, who spent interminable time examining product labels in the

supermarket, was willingly permitting my body to be poisoned in hopes that it would kill the

cancer cells. I was warned the powerful agents caused considerable collateral damage.

Predictably, the side effects were devastating. I had my long hair clipped off to forestall the

indignity of finding more clumps on my pillow every morning. Donovan came with me, and

videotaped the shearing. Miko, the hairdresser, admired what he described as the beautiful shape

of my head. I hadn’t seen it before.

Exposed, the hair follicles were susceptible to infection, so tender they made a wig infeasible.

One became so large and severely infected that I named it Krakatoa, a small mountain on my scalp,

slow to respond to antibiotics, unbearably painful until it erupted.

Eating was a chore, dehydration a constant threat. I dreaded the nausea, trying to guess which

foods would trigger it. Migraines descended, weakness I’d never felt before. I understood the

humility of fragility. I passed out during our group meditation, terrifying my four meditation

buddies. Three had experienced their husbands’ deaths from cancer, exacerbating their fear. I had

my first trip in an ambulance, to Hoag ER. My first trip to an ER for myself. My friends stayed

in the tiny, curtained room for hours, until the doctor announced dehydration was the culprit, that

my white cell count was zero, my platelets well below the normal range, and I was severely

anemic. The good news was I did not have a fever. Doc acknowledged the hospital would have

been a terrible place for me to be with my severely compromised immune system. I was

discharged to home and isolation. Enforced isolation may have been one of the most difficult

consequences to bear, worse than Krakatoa. I was told that this would pass, that my prognosis

was excellent. I couldn’t keep from wondering if I would survive the chemotherapy.

Lying on my recliner, my legs grossly inflated by prednisone, life grew very simple. In

hindsight, meditation, poetry, and, unlikely as it seems Facebook were my saving grace.

I began to post about my journey, complete with photos and a video of my hair being

shaved—well, clipped. I was bald, gaunt, relegated to wearing a mask; not my best look. I

received an outpouring of support —Facebook at its finest. My friends kindly loved my smile,

commented on the beautiful shape of my head. I learned how many had preceded me on this

journey, and I found they were wise and generous with their advice and insights. Looking back,

my ever-present smile surprises me. One dear friend, having endured ovarian cancer with

bravery, did not survive. Thank you for the love, Cheryl Flores. Cancer is a four-letter word.