Friday, 28 October 2011
In the dream, I am lacking some key blood component and could not survive chemotherapy were it not for my volunteer. I never see my volunteer clearly. He or she is a figure in white, sitting in one of the hospital's big reclining chairs, arm outstretched, hooked up to IV lines, donating a supply of the ingredient my own blood lacks. I dream this several times and then the dream recurs on subsequent nights. The plot expands.
We are all missing something, we cancer patients, and each one of us has a volunteer. It is treatment beneath the treatment they tell us about. I glance into a room much like a smaller version of the chemo clinic. Volunteers dressed in white are seated in a semi-circle of chairs, donating this precious chemical which will allow us to survive. I cannot see their features. Just the vague shape of faces and bodies dressed in glowing white gowns. The clinic is silent and peaceful. The feeling is matter-of-fact. This is the job of the volunteers and they are doing it unsung and without expectation of thanks or reward.
I wake up thinking of prayers, of healing energy and good wishes sent to we cancer patients. I wake up wondering about the beneath of healing.