2001 | Chemotherapy: My Daughter’s Strength and a Missing Puzzle Piece Restore My Will to Live

Karen, until then a typical moody, mouthy, selfish and lazy teenager, matured overnight and quietly assumed my role in the household. She handled the laundry, cooked, cleaned the house, ordered our groceries online, and bundled her mother into the bath for a much-needed bath and hair wash when necessary. In addition to fulfilling all these responsibilities, she had to study for her annual exams.

Then, one day, Karen unpacked the puzzle I'd bought her for her birthday and began sorting the pieces. She invited me to sit with her, and soon my rather unwilling hand, as if of its own accord, moved across the table to help her. We started talking about this and that, and a few days later, she asked me straight off whether I would die. It was the shock that I needed to realise the damage I was causing my child by isolating myself in silence and anger. In her, I had an excellent incentive to live. I then and there promised her that I would do everything in my power to overcome this disease.

Copping out of my life and future was not an option. Karen hasn’t seen much of her father after the divorce and hardly knew him. For the past five years, she had only sporadic contact with him and her two siblings. Besides her ageing grandmother and me, she had no one else to rely on for care and sustenance. Moreover, Karen and I have grown very close over the years since she was raised like an only child.

After a few weeks, the puzzle was done, except for one block, which seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Right in the middle of the completed puzzle, there was an opening. We searched high and low, unpacked and repacked shelves and drawers, but that little piece was nowhere to be found. The tiny opening in the puzzle became an insurmountable obstacle, leaving me feeling sick and discouraged once more.

Three days later, our weekly cleaning lady found the missing puzzle piece in the vacuum cleaner bag. Great joy! I had the honour of fitting the last piece of the puzzle, and suddenly, inexplicably, my life felt whole again. We carefully slid a piece of cardboard under the puzzle and glued the pieces in place. The friendly guy at the art shop framed it for us, and the leopard took its place of honour on our wall.

While hanging the framed puzzle, I realised that, for me, it has become a symbol of a life that could be mended. Suddenly, I no longer felt daunted by the months of treatment looming ahead. If we could finish an intricate puzzle, we could build a new life. Again.

Seeing that all the tests were clear and there was nothing wrong with me, in a manner of speaking, the oncologist wanted to start with the chemo treatment within a month after the mastectomy. He explained that the full course of treatment would be scheduled over a few months. I would be required to report for intravenous chemotherapy every three weeks.

He warned me that each course of treatment would leave me feeling sick for a few days and suggested that I should get on with my normal activities between treatment dates, to keep my spirits up. He suggested I attend all chemo sessions on Thursdays, giving me a three-day rest period over the weekend before returning to work on Monday.

Then he introduced me to his competent medical assistant, who showed me the location where I was to report the following week.

Chemical agents were being administered to approximately ten patients seated in a ring of comfortable push-back chairs, the kind in which one could have a quiet nap, which was precisely what some of the patients were doing. To my utter amazement, some patients were carrying on conversations and enjoying homemade chocolate cake that one of the ladies had brought along. These people had cancer, and here they were eating and chatting as if cancer were the most natural thing in the world. What was wrong with their thought processes?

I was also offered a piece of cake, but my insides were churning, and I declined. I just slipped out of there as soon as I could.

I was told in advance that applying the chemicals would take about two hours per session, and that I should bring a book or a craft to keep myself occupied. Shortly thereafter, armed with a packet of nuts, a bottle of soda and a book, I arrived at the blood station where Sister Vampire, the phlebotomist, would draw blood before each treatment. After the blood count was declared satisfactory, I was seated in my comfortable recliner, and three IV bags were hung on a hook above my head.

During my first treatment, my book remained unread, and I kept my eyes closed, peeking at the other patients through my eyelashes. They were all well-versed in the procedures and sat quietly, reading newspapers, knitting or crocheting, and sometimes conversing with one another. Apparently, it was only I who literally had to bite my tongue to keep the contents of my stomach inside.

Later that night, nausea struck, and I spent a considerable amount of time hunched over the toilet bowl. This would turn out to be the norm after every single chemo session, and it got worse with every administration. Accompanied by Ollie, the fat cat, I crawled into bed early on a Thursday night, only to feel even sicker the next day.

By Saturday morning, I was able to drag myself from bed to smoke a cigarette. Amazing how much that first cigarette after a period of abstinence meant to a chain-smoker. I immediately felt better. Nowadays, I shudder at the thought of smoking while receiving chemotherapy. I quit smoking in my later years, and like all previous smokers, I hate the smell of cigarettes.

Ollie slept with me after every chemo session. She remained in my room on my bad days, and as soon as I felt well enough to get up, she moved back to Karen’s room. This became a pattern during the period that I had to undergo treatment.

On Monday mornings, I returned to work, but I was so tired and distracted that I was usually sent home just after lunch. Come Tuesday, I would start feeling better, even feeling quite well, until the next round of chemo.

This pattern repeated over four cycles, each spaced three weeks apart. At the end, the unspeakable fatigue and the nausea were part of my daily routine, and I just tried to live with it to the best of my ability.

Featured photo: Stylised photo of a framed puzzle against a wall, reflecting a leopard lying in a tree.