6
41
2
For anyone reading this now, these numbers look meaningless. To me, they represent my life now. The first number represents the number of kilograms I have lost since I was hospitalized. The second is the number of days since I was hospitalized, and the third is the number of chemo treatments I have been through. Each number represents a whole world unto itself.
Yesterday I returned to my room. My childhood room, if you prefer. I slept in my bed, opposite my TV. I returned to my home, realizing a dream I dreamt for the past 41 days. To return home. I dreamt of days without a 5 am wakeup to take my temperature and blood pressure. Without trays and food from the hospital and without needles in my veins and blood counts every two days. And yesterday I came home. I have
to admit that in the first moments, everything seemed the same. On the surface, it is still my home, which I love. Until I understood that it is *almost* the same home. And not by anyone's fault. You see, the moment I laid down in my bed I understood that I can't simply get up and go to the kitchen to open the fridge. I can't go to the bathroom or take a shower. I can't set a time to go out with friends, go down to the car and drive. Every
action, every move from my bed, every movement requires putting on a
kind of corset (which supports my back, since it cannot support itself),
and a wheelchair.
This is the same house it was when I left for the hospital, but not the same Shiri.
Now I am a different Shiri; I returned home a different Shiri. I
returned a person who is struggling with a disease that isn't simple, a
person who knows with all her heart that she will keep the upper hand,
and cancer will not win. Not in my case. I have returned a person who lost 6 kilo in 41 days, and not because of a diet. I returned as Shiri who knows and understands that uncertainty is a situation in which one can live. This is the state in which I live now, this is my reality. I returned
home Shiri without hair, essentially bald. I returned
home Shiri who knows that victory is coming closer; just a little
longer, and this marathon will reach its end, and I will cross the
finish line.
When
I woke up this morning and looked around I forgot for a moment that I
am sick, and all I wanted was to get out of my bed like any other normal
day, and drive to work. To the office. To a place I love with such a meaningful mission, to work, something which is lacking in my day-to-day. With people who are dear to me. And then I remembered. I am a different Shiri now.
They say that cancer changes your life, but no one says how. I think this is because each person needs to discover and understand alone. How, in what way, we let this disease change our lives. I decided that I will dictate how this disease changes me, according to what I think is right. It
will teach me to live with the same uncertainty that was always
difficult for me to struggle with, and it will enable me to focus my
strengths and energies in removing it from my body. It will teach me how determination and faith can sustain us, and how
there is no limit to what I can accomplish, because if I succeed here, the sky is the limit. It will teach me how the kindness of others can help me heal, and how human compassion provides strength and power. It
will teach me even more about the importance of family (even though I
already knew this…) and how much inner strength my family has, more than
I ever could have imagined, and how the love of parents and siblings is
limitless.
This
important learning will come to an end with the perseverance of my soul
and my spirit; it will come to an end when my body purges this disease
and my hair slowly starts to grow back…I will gain back the
kilograms…and I won't need to be in the hospital anymore. Until then…until then, the struggle is still great. My body and soul are fighting for their lives. And
this different Shiri, me, lies in her childhood bed and knows that
there isn't any other option – in this battled there will only be one
victor: Me.
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