They refused me my second chemotherapy infusion, and it nearly undid me.

Last week (eight days after my first chemo infusion), I went back to my oncologist’s office with what turned out to be a one hundred and two degree fever, strep throat, and severe conjunctivitis. (The joys of a chemo-suppressed immune system.) Today, I went for my second infusion, and because I still showed signs of infection, they refused to administer the chemo drug. It’s been quite hard for me to roll with the change.

In general, I continue to feel this unexpected Zen-ness about my situation. I continue to feel steady and strong (emotionally), and proud of how steady and strong I feel, and not resistant to what is. But this, today, not getting chemo, this little disruption in life’s plans—so much more insignificant than the bigger disruption of having cancer in the first place—this is my undoing! This is what makes me want to rage and cry and shout, “But it isn’t fair!”

My dear friend David pointed out to me some years back that I am quick to get over things. (Thank you, David, for highlighting this strength of mine, a nice counterbalance to the emotional outbursts that precede the “getting over.”) Today’s fistful of rage lasted a bit longer than usual—for all three of the hours that I spent at the Cancer Center (amazing how much time it takes to NOT have chemo). But I have now gotten over this, as well. I am now welcoming a few more days of feeling the best I’ve felt since I started treatment, and I am trusting, once again, that everything happens for a reason.

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