regrowth. resistance. resurgence.

 There has to be regrowth. Resistance. Resurgence.

My body has resisted. Each time I was pumped full of poison meant to kill the cancer cells, poison that also killed my intestinal cells, the cells that become my hair, my red and white blood cells, and the cells on the inside of my mouth, my body resisted. That poison made me feel like I was dying, and each time, my body built itself back up. My body scrambled to make sense of what was happening, and I got better. Every time. It got harder and harder, as evidenced in my blood cell counts, where each week, my white blood cells count dropped lower and lower, and each week, it couldn’t quite get back up to where it had been the previous week. That said, it never dropped below the very low end of normal, hovering at .4 above the lowest “normal” at last count. Bodies are amazing. I am amazed that my body recovered each time, time after time, especially because as soon as my body was just starting to get a hold of things again, boom, I was pumped again full of poison. No time to recover on the dose-dense cycle. As the weeks wore on, my nails really started turning colors. They yellowed, and they grew extraordinarily brittle, and they flaked and they grew too tender for manicures. I hated it.

Now, it’s been just about three weeks since my last chemo. A week ago, my friend Ariana and I got manicures. The manicurist tried to buff off the yellow, but of course failed, for this is a yellow deep inside my nails, the physical manifestation of weeks in and weeks out of chemotherapy, the way the cancer treatment wreaked havoc on my body. In the last few days, I felt like the top half of my nail was not attached to my nail bed. It was odd. Today, I removed the remaining pale pink nail polish, and look what gross-ness I found underneath.

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But also. Underneath the yellow and the white and the dead and the ridges of nail utterly exhausted from trying to cling on, there is normal, pink nail bed. Time is marked on each nail, and I can see that after the ugliness grows out there is something sweet and pink and healthy. I can tell that the poison will drain from my body (and hopefully it will take the last of the cancer cells with it) and that soon, there will be evidence of health growing on my fingertips. They might still fall off. I do not know. Where they are discolored, they are not attached to my nail bed, and each time they bump against something, or get caught on the sponge when I’m washing dishes they hurt and I have to look down, wondering if I’ve torn the entire nail off.

I could get a manicure. I did once already, to cover up the ugliness. I won’t this time. I’ll watch, as they grow out and the gross-ness fades away and new nail is born, and my body stays strong enough to keep growing new nail until all of my nails are pink and healthy, and none of them are dead, yellow, painful. It is the passing of time, marked visibly on my body. It is the passing of cancer, marked visibly on my body.

There are so many ways that my nail growth mirrors the emotional havoc that cancer has wrecked on my life, and on the lives of people close to me. It will pass. I will still snag my nails, they will still ache, just as cancer will continue to f*ck sh*t up and meddle in both my day to day decisions and my longer life plans. But soon, it will be less visible. I will cut my nails and the cancer will move to a place of lesser prominence. It will no longer be front and center.

There will be regrowth, even in place my body has resisted. There will be resurgence of things I love, and already, that is happening, resurgence of things I love that were pushed to the side and forgotten about while cancer took center stage. There will also be splinters of resistance, the cancer not wanting to be entirely forgotten, and I see the small white marks still marring the bottoms of my nails, and I wonder how long it will be until my skin returns to normal, and the dry, dry chemo-wrinkles that make my hands look over sixty fade. Or will they fade? Certainly, there will be permanent scars, on my breasts and in my armpit, and on my collarbone. With time, those will fade, too. But my body will be forever changed, and because my body will be changed so to, will my experience of the world. For now, I will watch as time marks my fingernails, and the days go on and on and pile up high enough that my fingernail clippers can remove all traces of discoloration, all the brittle and yellow and brown cut off, forgotten. For now, my fingernails will remind me that time marches on, and that cancer has an end, and that there will be resistance, resurgence, and regrowth.

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