When my teenage daughter enrolled in an acting course at the National Theater of Great Britain during her recent school vacation, I asked my oncologist if I could go with her. “It’s just a week,” I said. “I promise I’ll return. I wouldn’t want to miss out on more chemo.”
“Go,” she said. “Have fun with your daughter.” While you still can, I heard her think.
I wondered how I would survive the trip from our home in southern France to London. My red blood cells had hit a record low, necessitating iron infusions and injections to force my body to create hemoglobin. I was always exhausted. But I forced myself to keep moving. This was important.
Theater is a passion that has bound our little family. I worked as an actor for years. My husband, Tim, skipped school as a child to attend the Royal Shakespeare Company’s performances. And my daughter, Theadora, insisted we see “Twelfth Night” for her eighth birthday. She’s determined to make a career on the stage.
This was a trip I might not be able to make again. Three years earlier, cancer blasted through my armor of broccoli and daily exercise and came for my ovaries. There is no cure for my type of ovarian cancer, just treatments — something Tim, Theadora and I have been slow to accept. Other people might die from it, but me? I hadn’t eaten a refined grain since 1984! I had run a marathon and learned how to stand on my hands. Was this all for nothing?
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