It feels a little strange writing this. Sean and I are back at CHOP after a three-week hiatus. It was actually a setback. His white cell count didn’t recover as quickly as after his first two chemo treatments, and so we couldn’t begin the fourth and final session until they did.
Before we traveled to the clinic this morning to have his blood drawn, we set the intention to be flexible with whatever happened today. We both were eager to get the good news that he could return to CHOP and continue treatment, but we also knew we couldn’t control this. With bags packed for a three-night stay, we have been turned away three times in a row for as many weeks. So we were prepared to be told once again that his body wasn’t ready.
But we were both more relaxed this time. We greeted the day with a sense of ease. We were even joyful about the weather. The cold, rainy November day felt refreshing. Even though we weren’t near a fireplace, the air was lightly perfumed with the fragrance of wood-burning fires, probably lingering from the weekend cold snap that inspired many to light them.
When we received the good news that his counts were high enough to proceed into town, we did so with relief and ease. We didn’t rush. We weren’t anxious about getting here at any particular time. We just made our way down, and the Universe provided us with light traffic, a parking spot close to the elevators, and astonishingly, a room that was ready and waiting. That never happens.
While we were walking to the oncology floor from the clinic across the street, Sean said that he hoped he had a different room this time (we’ve had the same room every visit). I answered that we both liked that room, but let’s intend on having either that one, or maybe an even better room. Maybe one with a window to the outside.
Source provided again. Our nurse walked us into a large single room with a huge window looking out onto the lively street bedecked with colorful lights and shiny buildings.
The evening has continued like this. Easy. No stress. Kind, helpful nurses.
Sean is resting now, and I took the opportunity to walk down to the cafe to get him some dessert for when he wakes up and feels like snacking. I don’t quite know how to express this, but I feel strangely and thankfully calm. Making my way around the hospital is so familiar to me now, but it is not a place of dread and weariness. I feel so deeply that my Sean is already healthy, that he is already whole and thriving, that as I continue to walk beside him and hold space for him on this journey, I know he is well. I trust that he is surrounded by God’s light and the Divine energy that generates life and continual rebirth.
Some days are more challenging than others, but I know this for sure. This challenge, which has periodically visited suffering and fear on us, also continues to invite us to evolution. It keeps calling us, sometimes in whispers and other times in shouts, to participate in greater expansion and a deeper sense of being.
Tonight, I am grateful. Even amidst the florescent lights of the oncology floor and the constant background chatter of nurses and doctors, I know Sean and I can retreat. We can find privacy, quiet, and even joy in his dimly-lit room, as the glittering lights and traffic outside our window remind us that life goes on and all is well.