Monday… Exhausted and cranky. This morning I had my 24th radiation session; it comes with a painful and itchy rash, and the entire area is swollen and hot to the touch – has been for about a week. Some areas are weeping where blisters have opened. Joint and bone ache, hips and knees are a constant 4-6 because of the Letrozole which keeps the tumors away, so walking is often quite painful. Basically, stairs are a bitch, and I live in a three-story townhouse. My hands hurt; my fingers are inflamed each morning – have been since I started the radiation, and I can’t really use them properly for about 10-15 minutes upon waking.

The stupid A/C is still not repaired after 12 days of waiting, and there’s no sense of urgency on the part of the repair person. My electric bill is going to be astronomical as a result. On top of all of this, I received a new bill this morning for the ridiculously high, weekly co-pays for the radiology MD, who, during our Tuesday visits, literally counts down 8 minutes before he abruptly gets up and walks off. These Tuesday visits are a complete waste of time and money as far as I am concerned. He never checks my skin (in 24 visits he has looked at it once, and only when I insisted), nor does he bother to update me on how the treatment is going. As such, I resent the mandatory weekly co-pays and am pissed off when I see the new bill this morning. One day, I ask him why we meet every Tuesday (since absolutely nothing is accomplished), he explains that it’s because Medicare requires us to meet weekly. I point out that I am not actually on Medicare. Awkward silence… but still, we meet.

Directly after finishing today’s radiation treatment, I am laying topless on the table and the MD pops in to quickly draws a circle around my scar (literally he takes 30 seconds to draw it, and then immediately disappears); next the techs thoroughly mark over this circle with a Sharpie. I am subsequently warned repeatedly, by both techs no less, not to touch it so it stays on. The techs end the session by debating with each other on whether or not to put tape over my Sharpied scar area (so I won’t erase it). I quickly make this decision for them – a resolute “no tape”. I think the techs are genuinely surprised that I have an opinion about this. For that matter, it seems that everyone in this clinic is surprised whenever I have an opinion about anything regarding my plan of care (I tend to ask a lot of questions). Frankly, I am surprised that more patients don’t.

I leave the radiology treatment center and drive to the Disco Kroger to fill a prescription for a steroid cream. My chest is irritated – raw, blistered and peeling. I am pretty irritated too, so much so, that I suddenly start feeling mighty sorry for myself and commence in having a slight pity party right there in the Jeep, with a few tears thrown in for good measure.

As I turn into a space, I can see that an emaciated, filthy, almost toothless, and obviously homeless woman is sitting directly in front of my car. She has chosen to sit right in the middle of all of the cars, on the hot parking lot asphalt.  She and I are both actually very fortunate that I didn’t run her over. The woman wears an old leather coat, though it’s 88 degrees and feels even hotter, compliments of our Houston humidity. As I get out and pass her sitting there, she quickly looks up and asks me for $2. I reply that I can’t give her $2, but I certainly will buy her something to eat. She carefully considers this offer, and then requests a sandwich.

I go directly to the pharmacy to fill my prescription, ask the price, gasp, and after using my GoodRx app, discover that it’s $15 cheaper at the CVS. I decide that a half block’s trip to the CVS is worth an extra $15 in my pocket. I turn to leave the store, but first I buy a large turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a large bottle of cold water for the woman who is sitting on the hot asphalt in a coat, in Houston’s June weather, in front of my car. As I hand her the bag, she looks up at me, fully making eye contact, both eyes staring directly into mine. It’s strangely uncomfortable and unnerving, but I don’t know why. (Why is this so uncomfortable?). She says, “My name is Pamela,” and then she tells me that she wanted me to know her name. I say “Hi Pamela, I am Julie.” And then I get into my car and drive to the CVS.

As my day progresses, I keep thinking about that woman, Pamela. I consider that she probably would be grateful for many things that I generally take for granted – a roof over my head, weather-appropriate clothing and a place to keep my coat when it’s not needed, food and drink – whenever I want, and whatever kind I choose, a hot shower with soap, a soft bed to sleep in, a dental plan, people who comfortably and regularly make eye contact with me, friends and family who know my name and use it, who love me and show it.

I believe that I was meant to be at the Disco Kroger at 10:45 am this morning, exactly in that parking spot, precisely when a homeless person needed a meal, specifically when Pamela needed acknowledgment of her presence on this planet as a fellow human being – worthy of love. I also believe that I was meant to be right there, for God to gently remind me of how wonderfully blessed I actually am, and to be reminded that He loves me and continually meets my needs, even in the middle of my sad little pity parties. I am immensely grateful for God’s continual grace and mercy in spite of my wallowing, and  give Him thanks for my life, just as it is, with all of its struggles and its beautiful gifts. I hope to be continually mindful to love all my neighbors, in the little ways where I am able.

Please pray for Pamela.

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.”  Hebrews 13:1-2