Today is full of firsts.
It the first time in 17 months since my skin has reveled in the sun.
That's all I can think as I sit on a chair on a deck
outside a breakfast shack
in South Bay in February, blinking like a mole emerged from underground.
I am reading a book for leisure,
"The Orphan Master's Son."
Something about the misery and desperation or an orphan underground tunnel solider in North Korea ordered to kidnap Japanese victims for the pleasure of his emperor,
the internal conflict captured in the black symbols on these pages resonates with me--
the dull acceptance of Pak Jun Do, who knows his life has been
pre-determined by circumstance out of his control.
Yes, it applies to socioeconomics--the struggles that chained me to unending wheel of chasing minimum wage while studying nursing,
but it applies to something more ancient than that--our genotypes.
In every cell in my body
there is a silent code that predisposes me to death--
something I have no control over--
that brought me, every day of my life, closer to the chaotic explosion of lymph cells that nearly took my life,
and may still take it.
Jim Do knows, as do I, that one must do what one must to survive.
Don't examine your actions too closely.
Ignore the fact that what you do
harms you as much as it helps you.
Better to charge ahead with impaired vision,
rely on instinct and proprioception.
Detached.
And attack your opponent with fury--
even if your opponent is yourself, your body, your mind, your soul.
Chase it down mercilessly, your body already quivering with chronic suffering.
You fight yourself because you're the only enemy you can identify.
The waiter interrupts my thoughts with my breakfast order
and I put down my book, and spoon raw salsa--
fresh, off the vine raw tomatoes and onions and cilantro and garlic--
all things I hadn't eaten in 17 months--
since the summer before last--
onto my burrito, prepared at a restaurant by persons unknown.
I am reveling in that unknown.
Perhaps the cook had a cold,
or wiped sweat from his brow,
or hadn't washed his hands properly.
I took a bite of burrito with confidence that whatever the case, my immune system would handle it--
confidence I hadn't had the luxury of having for 7 months as the chemo burned away all my defenses.
I peeled a grapefruit, yellow skin flaking off in a mine mist of citrus and bit into a wedge
red, raw juice exploding in my mouth and streaming down my chin.
First grapefruit in 12 months.
It is sweet, and bitter, and has a mild soap smell.
Or maybe it's the soaps fashioned to smell like grapefruit that makes that association in my mind.
These are just a few things chemotherapy takes from you.
Sun, fruit, vegetables, enjoyment, living.
All the other customers had taken the seats under the shade of the awning,
I can see their eyes following me and hear them thinking "that poor girl, sitting under the hot sun..."
but I don't mind.
My skin is threatening to turn pink by the time I finish my food,
and perspiration has gathered on my scalp
underneath the fuzzy hair I've grown these last three months.
Hair. Another first in 6 months.
I throw away my wrapper,
and pause to drink water from the public fountain--
and revel in that little act of freedom.
