Tomorrow she will have chemo again.
She’ll rise early, stretch before getting out of bed, and quietly make her way to the “lady’s room.” There, she will brush her hair methodically. As she looks in the mirror, she’ll notice how much that hair is thinning. She’ll focus her attention on her brush strokes, with concerted brows that look as though they’ve been over-plucked. Her eyes will lock onto her wrists as she runs the bristles through, and she’ll dare the hair to defy her. When she sets the brush back on the shelf it will be full of defectors, but she’ll go about her business and pay no mind to her head’s ungrateful former tenants.
She’ll come downstairs, take her breakfast worth of pills, and wash them down with a cup of tea and a glass of cranberry juice. And then, she’ll climb into the backseat of our Jeep and make her way to Children’s Hospital, while listening to a playlist of Ella Fitzgerald and Britney Spears. She’ll challenge her mom to guess which of four elevators will arrive before making her way up five floors, checking in at triage, and waiting for fluids to pump into her veins so that the sweet poison can follow. She’ll only complain that the day moves by too slowly. And when it’s time to come home, she’ll rest and laugh and fill our ears with random observations excerpted from a chatty commentary on life.
Tomorrow, she will have chemo again.
I’ll go to work.
Luc will go to school.
Jeanette will mother, nurse and ferry.
Tomorrow, Jordan will get it done. Again.
News cycles will flow. Holiday shoppers will acquire gifts. Football fans will discuss the Patriots. Life will swirl around us while my girl gets it done. She’ll make it seem so easy … so effortless. The best fighters always do.
To the Get-it-done Girl. Godspeed!