Eclosion: Medicine (Offering 11.2)
Treatment, provision, and the first glimpse of hope.
As treatment intensifies, so does everything elseâfear, exhaustion, reliance on community, and a quiet determination to keep building something that might carry us through.
(If youâre new to Eclosion: An Artistâs Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Medicine
When we met with Shonâs oncologist, Hootie, after learning that the first treatment didnât work, he recommended a much more intense regimenâsix months of chemotherapy and immunotherapy administered over two days, every four weeks at the hospital.
The immunotherapy was already proving to be hard on Shonâs body, and the trips to Seattle were grueling. On treatment days, we had to be there early in the morning, often leaving Olympia by 4 a.m., and staying at the hospital in Seattle late into the night, with Shon completely out of it due to the high doses of antihistamine he needed for his body to accept the immunotherapy. That meant having someone stay with Seren that entire time. Without family nearby, we had to rely on our chosen familyâour Fam-Olyâto support us. Asking for and receiving that support was hardâand resulted in much tighter bonds within our community.
I was grateful for the support, but there was another layer to my fear of losing Shonâone that felt selfish to name. Iâd been almost feverishly investing in my art business for months, knowing I might become the sole provider for our family. Each workshop I gave, each project I completed was building the foundation that might have to hold all three of us.
If I failed, Iâd have to get a âreal jobâ and give up my art careerâgive up all Iâd worked for.
Before Shon began his first round of treatments, we had asked if Hootie could remain Shonâs primary oncologist, but that Shon could receive the treatment in Olympia. Hootie rejected this. We knew Shon was getting the best care possible by working with the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, so we didnât argue. But after experiencing the grueling, multi-hour commute himself, Hootie reconsidered and agreed that Shon should do the new treatment in Olympia. We would get an Olympia oncologist to administer the treatment and Hootie would continue to oversee Shonâs treatment.
It wasnât good news, but we were relieved to be done with the commute and committed to seeing his treatment through.
Back in the car, Shon driving home, I needed to check out. Just for a minute. I opened my email, scrolling without really seeing, then stopped. A few months earlier Iâd offered a Climate Action through Art workshop online. When I shared it on a climate website, the response was overwhelmingâway more people tried to sign up than I had space for. Iâd written to the organization, asking if they would send me the contact information for everyone whoâd tried to sign up, certain that they would say no.
Opening their reply, I blinked in shock. Not only did they say yes, they sent me a document with the contact info for over 2,000 people interested in my work.
I looked over at Shonâs profile as he drove. He looked calm, steady. I looked down at the email again, my heart beating faster. It felt like a sign, like the Universe was holding us, reminding me that even in the midst of this cancer battle, there was abundance to be had.
That night, Seren fell asleep in my arms as we cuddled in her bed. I carefully disentangled myself from her, then smoothed back her hair. I thought about the emailâ2,000 contacts for people whoâd signed up for my workshop. They lived all around the world. Most were strangers. I thought about the web Iâd been building since The Plastic Whale Project, of the extra work Iâd put into my business this year. I kissed Serenâs forehead, just like every other night.
We had a long road in front of us, and I didnât know where it would lead. But in that moment, I let myself believe it might be okay.
Running Towards
âLoosen, loosen baby
You donât have to carry
The weight of the world in your muscles and bones.
Let go, let go, let go.â
~Loosen by Aly Halpert
One day in early June, while out for a jog, something shifted. For so many months, I ran to escapeâI ran for pure survival, desperately trying to move through the fear of losing Shon, and what that might mean for our family. I would imagine the congealed emotions flowing out of my brainstem, my brain processing each thought so that I could release them as I ran.
But on this dayâŠOn this day, it was different. I left my house and hit the trail, deciding to cross over the bridge and jog around the nearby school. As I jogged, I felt a new opening inside of meâan opening in the center that called me forwards. I felt liberated. Excited. And ready for whatever was next in my life. For the first time since Shonâs diagnosis, I felt a glimmer of hopeâsomething to reach for beyond the daily weight of worry. I had a vision of something inspiring to work towards, something that pulled me out of that constant fear and planted me deep inside of hope and action.
What I was moving towards was a piece of my growth as an artist and change maker. It was a deeper understanding of my role in the wider world. It was a remembering of my part in the tapestry of life and a growing understanding that by fulfilling this role, I would also be of service to my family.
I felt clarity, a knowing of what I am here to do: Create art, and cultivate space for others to engage with art, to co-create experiences that open people to new possibilities, inspiring them into action.
When I got home and had lunch with my family, I told Shon that for the first time in months, I felt like I was running towards something instead of away. He gave me an odd look, and I wondered what was going on for him, but I let it drop since Seren was there.
That evening, I asked him what came up for him when I shared about running towards something instead of away. He said that he had no idea that Iâd been jogging to run away and to process. He just saw it as running: âYou know, for cardio and stuff.â I couldnât help but laugh, because for me, it wasnât just cardio; it was processing, healing, and survival.
When life tightens its grip, what pulls you forward instead of back?