The Perfect Time of Day

The Cancer Center rarely has parking so I don't even try. I need the exercise anyway, so I park at the Breast Center next door and walk over. Today, I got out of my clean Honda. (I washed and vacuumed it last night in an attempt to have control over something in my life and because I spilled my fruit smoothie all over the passenger side yesterday.) I put my iPod earbuds in and turned it on to "shuffle songs" and heard, "It's the perfect time of day." It was sunny and yet not hot, blue sky with puffy white clouds and I felt something shift inside and I said, "Yeah, it is the perfect time of day."

Now the flashback, to tell you how I got to that point. Yesterday, the technicians were alarmed at the edema (swelling), pinkness and heat around my scar so they called in a nurse who promptly called in a doctor, who picked up the phone and called my surgeon. So I had to go back to the surgeon's office this morning. It could be a local reaction to the aloe vera moisturizer I put on after radiation. I was trying to save money since the prescription is $30 for a small tube; the nurse recommended aloe vera. The techs say they've never heard of someone having a reaction to pure aloe vera but I'm hoping I'm the first.

Because the alternative is that the radiation has inflamed a latent infection. Than means--wait for it--I'm back on the mood-altering, garstro-intestinal-tract-upsetting anti-biotics. No, it's not likely I'll be a nicer person this time around. And, no, they can't switch me to another drug I would tolerate better. You can bet I asked that! But if I can get improvement by next Monday when I see the surgeon again, I can stop the antibiotics. That's my plan; I hope my body cooperates.

This followed a weekend when I seriously considered stopping radiation. Not just because my massage therapist can't believe I'm subjecting my body to this kind of assault since I have a good chance of recurrence either way. I kept asking myself why I should go to all this trouble since the rays permanently alter my cells; it seems a particularily drastic step. Plus, using radiation now means I won't be able to use it next time (if there is a next time). And with the way it's going, my body just may be trying to send me a message.

So then maybe you can imagine my surprise when Howie Day sang,

It's the perfect time of day
It's the last day of your life
Don't let it drift away
While your heart is still racing
It's the perfect time of day.

And you won't feel a thing
And you won't recall anything at all.

It's weird that as obnoxious as the effects of radiation are, you really "don't feel a thing" when your body is being nuked by those waves.

We used this song in confirmation class a couple of months ago. Discussed its meanings. Thought it could be telling us to not take things for granted, to honor the time we have, to savor every moment. Don't you just hate it when your own lessons come back to haunt you and you receive theology lessons from rock stars?

Whatever the reason, I walked into the nuclear accelerator with a feeling that this too is a gift.
This grateful disposition may not last but I'm savoring it while it does.