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Good times.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Skiing alone last February an instructor asked me to take three of her charges up the lift for her. Michael, 5 and a half, Colette, 6, and Daniel, also 6.
As we rose towards the first tower Michael said matter-of-factly, "I'm scared of heights."
Colette corrected him quickly. "No you're not. Don't say that."
"Yes, I am. I've always been afraid of heights. My whole life."
For a few minutes we talked about school in Cranston. Then Michael turned to me and asked, "Will you hold my hand?"
Sure. Holding hands with a five year-old over-dressed for a day of skiing is tricky. They almost don't have hands distinct from their arms. I ended up just grabbing his wrist.
"No. My hand."
So I readjusted and we held hands for the rest of the ride. At the last tower he asked, "Will you help me get off."
Of course. Ready? I'm lifting the bar now. Ok, here we go...
And Michael pushed off with both hands ignoring my help. He shot off like a luger and sang out over his shoulder, "That was easy!"
How does it apply? After the first 6 cycles of chemo I started to really dread going back for #7. And #7 was worse. #8 was harder still. #9 was so bad I thought it dangerous. I had read on the web about cytotoxic deaths and study-mortality-rates and was just freaking out in general. Doctors and nurses assured me they weren't killing me. Justin called before #10 and asked this week's forbidden question: how are you?
"I'm scared, Dog."
This was a difficult admission. One I had been avoiding for almost a year. Maybe I thought if I spoke my fear the situation would spiral out of control. Instead the opposite occurred. Verbalizing it got it out of my system. I still hated the chemo but was no longer carrying the added burden of silence. From then on I understood chemo as a suffer-fest. Not something to glean knowledge from. Not heuristic. Nothing Nietzschean; nothing from the back of a wrestling camp t-shirt. Only something to be endured. Now though I was free from my lying by omission. Speaking my fear erased it.
That was easy!
As we rose towards the first tower Michael said matter-of-factly, "I'm scared of heights."
Colette corrected him quickly. "No you're not. Don't say that."
"Yes, I am. I've always been afraid of heights. My whole life."
For a few minutes we talked about school in Cranston. Then Michael turned to me and asked, "Will you hold my hand?"
Sure. Holding hands with a five year-old over-dressed for a day of skiing is tricky. They almost don't have hands distinct from their arms. I ended up just grabbing his wrist.
"No. My hand."
So I readjusted and we held hands for the rest of the ride. At the last tower he asked, "Will you help me get off."
Of course. Ready? I'm lifting the bar now. Ok, here we go...
And Michael pushed off with both hands ignoring my help. He shot off like a luger and sang out over his shoulder, "That was easy!"
How does it apply? After the first 6 cycles of chemo I started to really dread going back for #7. And #7 was worse. #8 was harder still. #9 was so bad I thought it dangerous. I had read on the web about cytotoxic deaths and study-mortality-rates and was just freaking out in general. Doctors and nurses assured me they weren't killing me. Justin called before #10 and asked this week's forbidden question: how are you?
"I'm scared, Dog."
This was a difficult admission. One I had been avoiding for almost a year. Maybe I thought if I spoke my fear the situation would spiral out of control. Instead the opposite occurred. Verbalizing it got it out of my system. I still hated the chemo but was no longer carrying the added burden of silence. From then on I understood chemo as a suffer-fest. Not something to glean knowledge from. Not heuristic. Nothing Nietzschean; nothing from the back of a wrestling camp t-shirt. Only something to be endured. Now though I was free from my lying by omission. Speaking my fear erased it.
That was easy!
