It's a gorgeous, mostly sunny day in New England this last day of August. It's not hot, high 60s to low 70s is expected today. I sit here on our screen porch in quiet solitude; sounds of nature the only music--the green leaves rustling in the wind gusts and every once in a while a chickadee sounds off, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee." My chemo-sensitive olfactory glands pick up the sweet scent of last night's cooler temperature's lingering effects. Somehow everything smells like bed sheets fresh from the clothesline.
This porch, this lovely country home setting we are so blessed to live in, it's salve for my soul. Even as a little girl growing up in the hills of Unity, New Hampshire, I've needed my quiet time amidst the living vegetation out of doors. Life that grows from small seeds, dirt, sun and water. There's something about it, perhaps just the reminder it is of our Creator. No human being can create a tree or a rock or a flower. Human beings can manipulate all those things, genetically alter them, etc., but we can't create them.
Day after tomorrow I will spend another day at the Dana Farber surrounded by white coats, stainless steel, needles, alcohol wipes, hand sanitizer and other hairless women wearing little caps or scarves. As I nestle into the infusion chair around 10:00, I will close my eyes and imagine this morning's scene, take a deep breath and know it's one day. It's one day closer to my final treatment.
Learning to read
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