Yesterday I accompanied my husband Rob to his infusion appointment. While attempts have been made to create a private space for each patient, one can often hear the conversation in the next cubicle. Yesterday our beautiful friend from St Mark’s was, unexpectedly, beside us. She’s someone I don’t see much anymore but whose voice I recognized in a second. Her presence made this odd and often sad medical process of chemotherapy seem ordinary, normal even. Something many people experience. It can even be interesting. Dare I say fun? Nope, definitely not. There is a limit.
Speaking of limits, Rob’s situation has definitely clipped my globe-trotting wings. I notice my travel lust sparking frequently and I grieve the slower pace.
Then I remember Travels by Michael Crichton, the book I give to graduates complete with an old-fashioned check or euro bill tucked in as a bookmark. In the first half of his memoir Crichton tells of exciting adventures on every continent—scaling mountains, scuba-diving famous reefs. Sometimes just barely getting out alive and returning to tell the story. In the second half, his tales become introspective, different kinds of travel. Spiritual wonderings. Am I remembering psychodelics?
Truly, my days of staying with host families and improving my Spanish are limited for now. I miss the delightful surprises that leaving home can offer, when time for spontaneity is built-in and a priority. But it could be that this cancer journey turns out to be one of my more remarkable tales. Not a voyage I will ever recommend, I know, but if I pay attention it will be equally as liminal and sparkly as other travel, guaranteed.
Always Bridging 