The Great Unpacking Of Love
Part 4

Still no words from Doctor Ice: “It’s an ice cube!” It’s an iceberg! It’s a glacier! What am I saying, a glacier? It’s a Polar Bear! » In a burst of revolt, I order him to stop the exam immediately, otherwise I will knock him off his pedestal. I see a glimmer of humanity in his eyes, my words seem to have echoed. I finally breathe. He schedules an appointment for me the following week for the results.

Friday the 13th, my Unit pushed me physically and morally to the consultation, the verdict of which I feared. We enter terrified into Doctor Ice’s igloo of truth. The latter explains the situation to us in detail using improbable technical terms: chemo-induced neuropathy, paresthesias, demyelinating or axonal damage, proprioception, b***d-brain barrier… my brain voluntarily carries out a sorting process. In any case, I am lucid and know very well that, whatever my pathology, it will be in the Dramatic Tragedy genre! Lately, I only know how to play in this genre.

Let’s cut to the chase, I have peripheral neuropathy in my arms and legs, my nerves are damaged by a component of my last chemo. A small glimmer of hope, nerves have the ability to regenerate by one millimeter per day. Great ! With my large stilts which earned me the nickname “big grasshopper” in my childhood, I am not ready to leave my PMR status. A question burns on my lips, but I won’t ask it for fear of hearing the answer. My Unit, with a face just as crestfallen as mine, asks the fateful question: “Do you think my wife will ever walk again?” » Very laconic answer without appeal: “No”.

Both of us swallowed our tears and left the consultation without a word. We both collapse. In my head, the disaster scenario was triggered, the dark thoughts followed one another at a maddening speed: “How am I going to take care of my children? I won’t be able to work anymore, I won’t be able to drive anymore. We’ll have to change houses. I will be dependent on others for everything. How will I get by financially? “. It’s awful, awful! The tiny hope that still lies dormant deep within me is to take the tangent. I sink into the mud of distress, of the darkest despair. I, usually so combative, give up my arms.

My caregiver partner is angry that I didn’t know he had.

— Joséphine, we are not going to stop there. I’m going to replace another neurologist to get a second opinion.

– You think ? What will Doctor Ice think?

— So there, my Joséphine, that’s the last of my worries. It’s your life, my darling! No law says you are subservient to the Ice Age.

The Middle Ages of the supremacy of people of knowledge has been abolished for a long time!

– Are you sure ?

— Listen to me carefully, Joséphine: “It’s a certainty! It is obvious ! It’s a conviction! What am I saying, a conviction? It is undeniably humanitarian. »

While waiting and in the crazy hope that another neurologist can open a less deadly window on my psychomotor underdevelopment, the chemotherapy continues. The treatments seem endless and unbearable. However, we must continue, I have no choice. If I manage to endure both physical and moral pain, it is thanks to Humanity with a capital H that I feel all around me. This humanity arrives with soft steps, very slowly, literally enveloping me to give me the courage to continue my “sideways” path. My family plays a crucial role, but not only them. At the heart of the hospital, whether they are nurses, nursing assistants, doctors with a human vocation, secretaries, cleaners, volunteers, psychologists, stretcher bearers… they all give me human warmth extraordinary, demonstrating a commitment well beyond their primary function. I remain convinced that their patience, their kindness, their attentiveness contributed to my remission.

Fortunately, there are small acts of attention that light you up. At night, the hospital takes on a completely different look, calmer, more relaxed, more subdued and often conducive to dialogue. I don’t think I can ever forget that very young nurse coming into my room asking me if everything is okay? “Yes, yes, but you know what, I have a huge craving for salt chips! » Ten minutes later, she brings me the coveted treasure! A gesture like this cannot disappear into oblivion. These will be my Proust chips! These are the actions that help you cope with illness.

Some evenings, in my bed, when anxiety invades me, unable to fall asleep, I take refuge in the voice of Christophe Willem. Much more effective than a sleeping pill! Headphones on, I send myself a loud “Apres Toi”.

This unique voice, so high-pitched, very high, transports my mind far, far, far from the medical universe, I finally escape. Basically, without knowing it, he is my full consciousness, my singing therapist, my companion in trouble. I think Willem is the only man who sends me to 7th Heaven with his voice alone.

If cancer affects my family, what about the couple? He’s really taking a beating. My companion turns into a caregiver-nurse-pharmacist-ambulance driver. I am totally dependent on him. Hard, hard for a pure feminist. A man of duty and love, he does not weaken and resists as much as he can so that I can keep my head above water. So, how can I still be a desirable woman in his eyes, especially since I look like I came straight out of Buchenwald? Not very glamorous though!