"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age;"
The poem goes on, but I will stay with those words like a caterpillar on the edge of a leaf reaching out with front feet into the air. I feel myself rising, just rising, like sap. I had not realized how slumped I had become, how protected. I reach out now with my eyes, and see texture, depth, dimension. My feet receive the floor, and are received. My spine begins to stretch, my head to rise, my disks to rise out of their sponge.
I had not really understood what they meant about chemo, about the dying and coming back, but I think today I do, and I can trust it this time. There is no more chemo for me, no more attempting to be hearty, no more falseness in trying to greet the infusion room with a joke and a smile. I settle into the green of this day. I could be in Ireland it is so green, and the sky is again clouded over. I am okay'd to live with the leprechauns. I have been given a pot of gold. I give thanks for that, and thanks for you, too.