It was an up-and-down day. I awoke early. Sadness and concern hung in the air, permeating every conversation.

To add to the gloom, today was Blood Work Day. The first Wednesday of each month is the day I go to the lab at the Cancer Centre to have blood drawn for the purpose of checking whether my CA125 has remained stable and my cancer drug continues to play nice with my body. I generally don't think about my CA125 on the other days of the month, but on Blood Work Day, I think about it until the results show up in MyChart.

Before heading to the hospital, I wanted to do something productive. This being Garbage Day (in addition to Blood Work Day), I cleared some dry gerberas out of two flower pots and put the refuse out with the compost. Perhaps with this simple activity, I ventured too far across the imaginary line that represents what my body can and can't do at this stage in my recovery. My right chest muscle signaled its disapproval by throbbing on and off for the rest of the day.

On the drive home from the Cancer Centre, my phone buzzed. I had already received a few blood test results and figured that this was a notice that more had arrived in MyChart. Instead, I saw a text from a friend: "Hi Jen - left a bag for you on the chair on your front porch xo." That was a much nicer message to receive than one about my neutrophils or white blood cells.

I arrived home to find a beautiful gift from my friend, with this uplifting message: "Dear Jen – sending my love always as you persevere with extraordinary grace and continue to give of yourself to so many grateful people, including me." My friend had no idea how timely her kindness was; it brightened my spirits on a day when they had ebbed.

A few minutes later, my CA125 result appeared in MyChart. This month, it is 7—low, stable, normal. Though there is no statistical difference between an 8 or 9 and a 7, I always get a slightly higher boost when I see a 7.

Feeling physically and emotionally spent, I snuck up to my room and slipped into bed—giving myself permission to nap. The few hours I spent in bed not only refreshed me, but also gave me some respite from my aching chest and the sombre day. I was reminded of the John Steinbeck quote: "It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it." Indeed, things did look brighter after my nap. I arose and made supper for my family.

This evening, as I reflected on my up-and-down day, I took comfort in many Jenesis posts, which reminded me of different strategies for coping when life feels out of control:

You can look for other relevant posts in the Mental Health and Self-Care section of my blog Categories page.

Also this evening, I consulted The Poetry Pharmacy's Instagram account for a prescription for what ails me and possibly many of you today. I landed on a post sharing Danusha Laméris' poem Small Kindnesses. It feels right.

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs

to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague. "Don’t die," we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now. So far

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these

fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,

have my seat," "Go ahead — you first," "I like your hat."

As Jerry Springer used to say, "Take care of yourself, and each other."