Practicing being an old lady

I am surviving chemotherapy.   Some days just barely.  Ok, this week just barely.  I feel weak, shaky, hunched over and old.  The core strength I came into this with is hiding.  I am sure it is the drugs ransacking the cells and it will pass.  I have faith.  People tell me I look great; I think they are being supportive but I am sure they are lying.  I know better.  I can see the dark circles under my eyes.  I appreciate the support, their enthusiasm to help me make it through this event, pass through the time it takes for me to make it out the other side. 

I am cold, I am hot.  I can't sleep.  I am so exhausted that sitting in a chair for dinner last night was a monumental effort.  My husband cares for me moment to moment changing dinner plans with no notice to match my persnickety stomach and strange tastes and meet my demands for protein and fiber so my stomach will work. 

I am a little old lady.  I walk slowly, climb in and out of the car gingerly.  Wandering delicately through my apartment,  I pick a little task to do each time I am up.  Other people open doors, bend over to help me.  This has deepened my empathy for the elderly and the infirm.  There are days you just can't do anything. 

Mostly, I spend a lot of time in this chair; sleeping and watching movies.  I dream of when I will have the strength to do yoga, ride my bike or exercise again.  I dream of being healthy, of not having the shakes.  This is one of the faces of cancer. Perhaps one of the toughest. 

Right now, six weeks seems like a long time to be looking forward.