Time may not heal all wounds, but in my case, it definitely blurs them. Let’s talk chemo, that horrible thing from which most of my breast cancer wounds developed.
For each of my four dose-dense infusions of adriamycin and cytoxan, my sister delivered lunch to the pink pretend-leather recliner I called home for hours at a time. There was a yummy gyro, a delish tuna sandwich, a great turkey sub, and I can’t remember the fourth one — which is exactly my point: I can’t remember. Time has erased my memory of the food that so repulsed me I couldn’t eat it for years. Years!
It’s been five years since my chemotherapy ended. And just now have I realized that the thought of these foods does not make me want to vomit. They actually sound pretty appetizing.
All it took was time. The same time that has allowed my hair to grow back, my surgery and port scars to fade, and my fear of recurrence to morph into something almost unrecognizable.
Yes, my wounds have healed — not completely and entirely, but mostly.
I love that.