A dish best not served

"When the waitress asked if I wanted my pizza cut into four or eight slices, I said, 'Four. I don’t think I can eat eight.'" - Yogi Berra (questionably attributed, but funny nonetheless)

Thoughtful gifts from several of my "dinner companions."
Clockwise from top left: serotonin necklace from Erica,
EcoFlowers from Hannah, "Love Your Melon" hat from
Dawn and Geoff, cowbell from the Pickards,
turtle bracelet from Susan.

On the eve of my second chemo, I snapped at Sean and realized I was frustrated. Not with him exactly, but with this situation. Choosing happiness, gratitude, and positivity is easier - healthier for me - than being angry at the world. Yet, after a week of feeling "normal" and like myself again, I resent having to go back to being the immediate post-treatment Marybeth. Fatigued. Nauseated. Less focused, more scattered. Needy. Unproductive. With a soon-to-be-perennially-chilly noggin. Less complete.

Lying in bed in the dark with Lizzie curled up on my legs, I feel the lump again. Is it smaller? I think maybe a little bit. But, it's there still - and I know the cycle is necessary. I have to keep at this, the process is temporary. Four months of the chemo coaster stretches ahead of me. An eternity and a flash.

Elephant mug from - of course - Lindsey!

My friend Lindsey reminded me this week of a proverb she frequently quotes in the face of great challenges, and it feels relevant in this moment. She asks me, "how do you eat an elephant?" And, I know the response (theoretically, not as an animal-loving vegetarian meal option!) is "one spoonful at a time." It dawns on me that the metaphor of the elephant goes beyond just a big overwhelming task being broken down into smaller bites. The elephant is tough; it's hide won't yield easily to simple utensils. An elephant is unwelcome at my table, something I never hoped to have on my plate. My elephant is this cancer, and chemo is one tool to help dismantle my unwanted and unwieldy prey. Although the task is unsavory and seemingly unpalatable, I have to put the spoon to my mouth. There's not another viable option, and if I want a spotless bill of health I must clear the elephant from my plate.

I've invited a lot of people to this table to encourage me, to lift the spoon as I gag this meal down. I'm the only one eating - but the seats are filled, and my company will not leave until I'm a member of the clean plate club.

Damn. But, okay. It's dinner time again.