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Blanketed in Bravery

Posted on September 19 2013

Blanketed in Bravery
All eyes are me. Some are searching my face for signs of discomfort. Others are staring intently as if I am a specimen the advanced biology teacher has just held up, something intriguing, but odd and slightly terrifying at the same time. A few have visible tears brimming their lashes and a couple, including my husband and best friend, are shrouded in weeks of worry, sleepless nights, new featherlined wrinkles and a dullness I'm not used to seeing in the eyes of two people I love so dearly.

It's my second round of weekly chemo, and my nineth day of radiation. A "two-for-one" day I chide, trying to lighten the mood and bring a spark of light back into the sets of eyes still peering directly at me. Last week I hadn't  been ready for the small crowd of family, friends and co-workers that had arrived shortly after my husband had carefully settled me into the reclining treatment chair and then tried to find a spot for himself. First shifting his weight from one small plastic chair to a padded bench, crossing and uncrossing his legs, obviously unsettled, and finally deciding to just stand beside me with his large comforting hand resting on my shoulder. As more and more friendly faces filed in, the attentive staff offered us a larger private room and we all shuffled in together this time, each taking a designated spot for the seven week duration

chemo was a blur, but I did recall just how many eyes had been watching me, watching the medical staff, the pharmacist, the equipment, needles, and IV drip rhythmically plunking droplets of life saving, cancer killing liquid through the lead and into my Rampage Long John pajama'ed and microfiber turquoise slippered body. It was more than my heart could bear....watching them watch me, hour after hour, and I knew that they needed a project.

So here we are, week two, and I am handing out 12x12 fabric squares, and a plethora, yes, I am not embelishing, a PLETHORA or fabric pens, thread and needles, buttons, patches, trinkets and notions. No one is exempt! Not even my girl friend that swears she can't mend a pair of socks. I shrug my shoulders, grin and tell her to knock herself out with the fabric pens. She does.

At the end of seven weeks I've accumulated a pile of 12x12 fabric squares each so special, unique and painstakingly made with love. Love for me. Love for family. Love for endurance, my courage, my strength, my ability to find a blessing in each day. I don't know these things about myself. These fabric squares tell me the truths about myself I haven't seen sitting there each week as they worked away, now only occasionally stopping to look at me, watch the nurses change the IV bottle or the pharmacist hand me another pill and a glass of juice

 

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