Going on six years

(Just a little grizzled)

It is April 14th 2021. Day n+365 ogp (our global pandemic).  I am pretty sure that I spent yesterday the same way six years ago —  that is, lying in bed. Six years ago I either had a fever or felt feverish, I can’t recall. It was early spring and while my bed was located in a different state, and faced east, not west, the same blue blanket was on it. I was exhausted then, and I’m exhausted now.

The difference in the exhaustion is significant. Six years ago, I didn’t know that days later, I’d wake up with language problems, courtesy of a nine-star constellation of tumors in my brain. This freaked almost everyone out, including me, although I did enjoy typing up a blog post full of language errors I have never corrected, while in the hospital for the night.

Yesterday, I was feverish and exhausted and everyone was falling over themselves to commiserate, because it has probably befallen them too — it was nothing more than the Second Vaccine Blues. My day in bed was in the service of health, not illness. I temporarily got sick in order to stay well.

I didn’t do a thing all day yesterday. And I had plenty to do — paid work, unpaid work, and worrying about a loved one’s outcome from surgery (all going well). This is not to mention, of course, the significant amount of parenting I still insist on doing, in spite of my children now being old enough to empathize, to inquire how I am feeling, and to fetch me a pop tart and some apple juice at 5 p.m. without a hint of judgment, simply because it was the only food that sounded good to me.

Also reminding me how things were six years ago this week: J. He still has the broadest shoulders in the universe, which yesterday balanced an array of tech support tasks for his work, keeping after Young J to catch up on missing school assignments as the marking period slams shut, and then he went out grocery shopping and, when he got home, also made Taco Tuesday happen, without missing a beat. I could scarcely think of emerging from my blanket fort to eat dinner, but I’m so glad I did, because the tacos he prepared came the closest to tasting like those I ate at a taqueria in Guadalajara, on my very first trip to Mexico.

My Proustian recollection-through-taste then became a full-body experience of remembering the sudden chaos of my brain, the blooming trees on our block, and the appearance, just when we needed her most, of Mom. We walked down the street as quickly as I dared (which I seem to recall was very slowly) and took a selfie with a blooming tree.

Six springs ago in Brooklyn.

I remember the excitement of that time, when I was probably the closest to death I’d ever been. But the steroids turned that gravity to gregariousness, and I remember a two block walk taking 45 minutes, simply because of all the people I needed to stop and talk to at great length. Perhaps the urgency my conversations had then, at its core, was a near-certainty that I wouldn’t make it?

I’ve written here about the incomparable drama of a sudden onset of metastatic disease. I can so easily imagine becoming addicted to that sort of heightened sense of life. Yesterday was not that. Yesterday was me in the same twelve-hour trench that millions of people have already experienced. We were laid low by the vaccine, but we resurfaced, just as others told us we might. We had the temporary experience of our immune systems flaring up, as I did in a much less benign way when I was on immunotherapy in 2014, but this time the effects were not long-lasting or remotely life-threatening. I am learning to be grateful for something unremarkable. Something relatable.

It’s a good time to celebrate life, and I will, later on this week, on April 16, anniversary of the Worst Possible Day — days, actually, since my initial melanoma diagnosis also got handed down that day. I am grateful for the science that made it possible for me to still be here, and to the scientists who went into overdrive to make our world safe once again. I will never stop marveling at their efforts.

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