Recovery Begins

Hi Friends,
Julie returned from Italy on Monday night with a very lovely gift: a bottle of Inferno red wine in honor of my last radiation treatment. How appropriate is that?

I'm stupid tired today, but that's to be expected.

We had a nice weekend with my mother. She arrived on Friday night, and on Saturday we got a call from a florist saying that a bouquet was on its way over for her. The flowers were beautiful, and the card read that they were from Ann Clarke. "Momma" Clarke (Barb's mom) has been like a second mother to me during these last eight months, and during that time she has sent her poetry and prose, cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving meals, loaves, wine, to just name a few items. When my mother realized who had sent them, she started to cry and talked about how much she has wanted to be here for me (I asked her not to come but to take care of my ailing father until I was better) and how appreciative she is for all of the support I have received. She really appreciated that gesture, from one mother to another. Thank you, Momma Clarke.

On Sunday, my mother, Catherine and I had brunch with my cousin Ellen and her husband Gary, who were in Toronto. Ellen is recovering well from chemo, but has entered into a post-treatment fear of recurrence. It was really good to see her and once I feel stronger I look forward to being an emotional support to her in this new reality.

Then on Monday we went down for the last treatment. When Mom walked into the radiation waiting area she lost it again. Setting foot in there made my experience of the last few months more real for her, and it brought back the 25 visits to radiation she made with my father 14 years ago. So it was an important catharsis. (I should also point out the music for the day: on the drive down, U2's "Beautiful Day" was playing on the radio. Then the last song on the radiation table was Madonna's "Like a Prayer." On the last beam I heard the lyrics: "Life is a mystery/everyone must stand alone...I close my eyes/I think I'm falling/Out of the sky I close my eyes/Heaven help me..." How fitting.) When I was finished the technicians asked her to come back to meet them, which was really lovely. Then we went for tour of the hospital so she could see the various clinics (we skipped the chemo ward) and be able to visualize where I return for my follow-up appointments. I had imagined that walking out of there the last day of treatment I would be pretty emotional, but I found myself watching her to make sure she was alright. Perhaps that was for the best, although the fact that I have finished hasn't really sunk in yet. Maybe it will feel more real once I get my energy back and my skin starts to heal up.

In Ruth Rakoff's book *When My World Was Very Small,* a memoir of her cancer treatment, she talks about the "cancer gift" - the item you get to buy yourself for getting through this ordeal.
So perhaps the finality of all this will all sink in when I set foot in the new leather boots I've been visualizing...
Love,
Kip