Waves lap softly over the shale beach. My shoulders soften back down to where they should be, lower than my ears, which can hear the voices of the fishermen in the small boat, softened by the distance. Birdsong is a soft murmur from the huge trees on shore.
Nothing restores me like staring at water, and I gaze across it, confirming my refusal to let the chemo schedule cancel our journey to this house perched on Lake Champlain, booked before therapy began. Basking here in the reflected shimmer of the water is a powerful form of therapy.
My respect for the chemicals pumped into me is endless, as well as for the brilliance of the scientists who created this regime which allows so many women to survive, when years ago, they wouldn't. When I feel outright dreadful, and even when that subsides and I simply feel off, strangely riddled, I still cheer the toxins doing their work that is saving me.
But I deeply respect other cures, too, and this vista, the glory of this sleek lake, framed in the distance by hazy mountains, helps me breathe and let go, remember that I'm more than a damaged body. Everything in nature has its own cycle of damage and renewal, including me.
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