Holding My Breath

The migraine raged on all afternoon, all night and was there to greet me first thing this morning. I didn't cook dinner last night. I stuck it out at work until it was time to go home. When I got there, I actually went to bed and put a cloth over my eyes. Even in the midst of chemo, I rarely hung around in bed.

Hubby made dinner: turkey burgers. He did a great job, but I may never be able to stand the smell of turkey burgers again. I wonder if, because of chemo, I developed an overly acute sense of smell. There are so many things I can't stand to smell anymore. Raw beef. Turkey. Chicken (unless it's heavily disguised by spices). I'm still good with fish. I hate the smell of coffee cake and barbecue (these are definitely related to chemo). Enough of that.

I lived 19 years on the Gulf Coast of Texas. I'm accustomed to hurricanes, the anxiety of whether the path is true and it will eventually find its way to your home. I've lived through the endless rain, the high winds, tornadoes, the endless endless rain in an area not too far above sea level.

Today, I'm worried about all of the people who took (and continue to take) such great care of me at M.D. Anderson. I hope they're safe and that their homes are spared. I know Dr. Ross will be at the hospital, sleeping on a cot, taking care of the people who are so sick they can't go home. It's probably one of the safest places to be in Houston.

I remember every last one of them, from the people who park my car to the nurses who helped me get out of bed or stop bleeding, the medical techs who x-rayed me or ct scanned me to the doctors who saved my life. I can't know how they'll fare.

I'm holding my breath a little bit and saying prayers for all beings living on the Coast. But especially all of those people to whom I'll always be grateful.