No Words

I got up early--too early--Saturday to participate in the Humane Society pet Walk-a-Thon. I suspect it once started out solely as "Dog Walk-a-Thon," but many people bring other sorts of pets--lizards, cats (many of whom were being pushed in pet strollers or closely cuddled in kitty versions of human baby "Snuglis"), ferrets, even a rat in a tiny plastic cage with shavings in it, strapped to a Radio Flyer wagon as part of an ad-hoc circus train coterie of creatures, all of them apparently owned by one single family.



It's always a good-natured, whacked-out event; as I've mentioned in other posts, animal lovers can be quite eccentric. I count myself among that lot, though as I get older, my eccentricities and my mad love for my fat tabby are the least of my concerns.

I attended the walk with a friend, her mom and her Border Terrier (the "Benjie" dog), and had a fine time, even though we turned around about a quarter of the way through and left. All told, we spent about 3 hours there and patted the heads, sides and hindquarters of quite a canine assortment.

Lots of pugs. That's always good.

When I came back, my neighbors were chatting with a friend, and as their front door was wide open (and they are directly across the hall from me), they saw me approach and started chatting with me. She told me she'd had her first chemo treatment Thursday.
I wasn't sure how someone undergoing chemo should or would look. She looked....normal.
She was chatty and fairly animated and didn't look too tired. She showed me what others had done for her; there was a lovely hand-made quilt on her bed, a stack of carefully-knitted prayer shawls on her chest of drawers. A cluster of mylar balloons bobbed in the air.
And she had all her hair. For now.
"I get another round next week," she said. It would be a different, more potent combination of drugs. That, she said, is what would make her hair fall out.
"All of it?" I asked.
"Yep," she said. "Even my eyelashes."
Then she showed me the wig she'd picked out for herself. Close to her natural color and shorter, sort of wavy, but obviously a wig; there's a certain unnatural sort of doll-baby sheen specific to nylon hair.



She talked a little more, the cats alternately hissing and running back and forth between the open doors.
I asked her about her thoughts on buying a home, something she had mentioned only a few months earlier, prior to her diagnosis. I admit, it was my way of getting a sense of her future.
"It's not a plan any more," she said. "I have to let that go."
I stared at her. I wasn't sure what this meant, exactly, and I didn't really want to read too hard between the lines.

I am in recovery; I go to a weekly 12-step meeting for those of us that have issues with enmeshment and codependency. At those meetings, when I am listening and present, I often find I have something meaningful to share; it's kind of a goal, sharing something in a group setting from which others might benefit.
In this situation, watching my young neighbor begin her battle with a rare cancer, I felt utterly verbally inadequate.
I smiled weakly, and then said, "I really wish there was some combination of words, something pithy I could say to make you feel better......."
"What can you say," she replied. What can anyone say, is what she meant.

This morning, she knocked on my door to borrow my heavy-duty Acme juicer.
"There's a juice combination from my cancer cookbook," she said. "Kale & Pineapple."
I brought it over and set it up.



So no, maybe there aren't any words.
There are only hand-made quilts and prayer shawls and mylar balloons bearing simple sentiments. And there is juice.
Juice is good enough.
Juice will have to do.