Salt Water

“The cure for anything is salt water: Sweat. Tears. Or the sea.”
--Isak Dinesen

I thought my slate had been wiped clean back in May when, halfway through chemo and just after my last scheduled freelance job wrapped up, the second of two rejections for summer writers’ conferences came in the mail. “That’s it,” I whined to Dr. Lisa. “2008 is officially a bust. Every plan or hope I had on my calendar for the year is now either finished or scuttled.” But there was one more shoe to drop.


A few weeks ago, perusing in a bookshop with Captain Celia, we stumbled across a new memoir by a middle-aged woman who quit her job, bought a boat, and went to sea. The title of the book was the same as the working title of my book, the one I was a hundred pages into when I got diagnosed with cancer, the one about the woman who quit her job, moved to the islands, discovered boats and, well, you get the idea. Saying I feel like I’ve lost a year of my life has become a constant complaint, but in that ghostlike moment, holding that book in my hand, the belief crystallized. While I was getting chemotherapy and radiation, some other bitch was writing my book—and getting it published.

Six weeks after finishing radiation, I am, I suppose, beginning to settle into what the cancer books call “the new normal."  My life was in such transition before all this, I’m not even sure there was an old normal.

This is the first month all year that I don’t have a single doctor’s appointment or hospital visit. Most of my treatment symptoms are abating, although new ones still crop up: Itchy, dry patches where my skin was radiated. Weird joint pain in my fingers. Pressure on my lungs that makes it painful to take a deep breath. In the great scheme of things, they are minor issues, to be sure, but lingering reminders nonetheless.

My day planner—one of those September-to-September ones, corresponding with last season’s orchestra concert schedule—runs out on Tuesday. I vaguely remember thinking I should buy a new one, but so far haven’t bothered. It’s not like I’m scheduling much these days. I am slowly picking up a couple writing assignments, but doing them mostly on my own time, still concentrating primarily on building up strength and energy.

I am fortunate to be doing this at the Jersey Shore, resettling into my condo in Ocean City as the town itself slowly retreats into its off-season pace. We have had glorious fall weather, perfect for beach walks and boardwalk bike rides. The ocean temperature is just right for swimming. I had a great day of sailing on Barnegat Bay last Saturday with old co-workers I haven’t seen in 14 years. We sailed for seven hours in bright sunshine and 20 knot winds; I spent Sunday on the couch. I started taking a Tai Chi class with the old ladies at the community center, and just this week felt strong enough to start lifting weights again (same community center, but with the old men). I can barely keep up with them. After class, I have to go home and rest. I think about that writer who wrote my book and get restless, get up, do a few things, but after an hour, I’m back on the couch, wiped out again. I think about writing, but flip on the TV instead.

Doctor R said expect fatigue. Fatigue is normal. Fatigue will take a long time to go away. If a walk to the beach (one and a half blocks, not to be confused with a long walk on the beach) or a yoga class zaps the last of my energy, well, at least I got a walk to the beach or a yoga class into my day. I sleep like a baby, nine hours most nights, and often wake up, like a cranky child, on the wrong side of the bed. Frustration is fatigue’s constant companion. I am mindful of Dr. R’s warning to be on the lookout for signs of depression, but I don’t think this is depression, it’s more… decompression.

A few months ago, I was having brunch with my high school girlfriends, who are all married. We were talking about long-term future plans. Where do you see yourself in ten years? The one without kids was about to move to a new city, with all kinds of unknowns and exciting opportunities in front of her. But the ones with kids—all school-age now—pretty much know where they’re going to be for the next 10-to-15 years, with raising their children and putting them through college a priority.

It struck me, acutely in that moment, that I have this same period of time, completely free of liens. Through the haze of cancer-induced anger, and envy and longing for the babies I don’t—and now can’t—have, there was a glimmer. I caught a glimpse of tabula rasa as gift.

While it’s still too foggy to see it all clearly, I think I can capitalize on this alleged silver lining as justification for further inertia. If this has all been one giant transition, leaving me with a blank slate and, as a favorite co-worker once said, “nothing but open doors,” then it’s probably best not to rush into any of them. I don’t think I’ll bother seeking out a calendar for the rest of 2008, the year that wasn’t. I have worked hard. I have cried. It must be time—again—for the sea. From my spot where I am treading water, I can see the shore. I see all the people who have helped me through this, cheering me on. I know I can swim, just as soon as I’m ready. But my head’s above water, and I like the view from out here. And the water is so warm.