My Cup Runneth Over: A Home Care Vignette*
A sticky moment of sadness, laughter, and vitamin E oil
It began with hope and a small bottle of vitamin E oil, clutched in the determined hands of our personal support worker. Her voice was resolute as she brashly explained her plan for Anne’s hair, which had been devastated by the relentless march of chemotherapy. “We’ll have it growing back in no time, you’ll see,” she assured, eyes aglow with fierce optimism. Anne, ever the good sport, surrendered to the experiment, lowering her head and bracing herself for the anointing.
The oil—golden and glistening—was poured with all the ceremony of a sacred rite. It pooled and trickled, casting a glossy sheen over Anne’s bare scalp. When I leaned in to offer comfort, my hairless forehead and Anne’s oiled dome met with an audible squelch. For a brief but gooey moment, we were stuck, tethered together in a sticky, fragrant embrace. The personal support worker tried to suppress a laugh, but it escaped anyway, ringing out like a bell in the quiet room.
After the devastating rigours of cancer treatment, Anne’s journey toward hairdom includes this tender ritual. The subtle scent and silky, though sticky, texture offer comfort, transforming a moment of vulnerability into one of nurturing and connection… in more ways than one.
Witnessing Anne’s quiet resilience and the gradual return of her hair, I am overwhelmed with gratitude—my cup runneth over. This daily practice is no longer just about restoring what was lost; it embodies the abundance of love and support that surrounds her. In the glow of each new sprout, there is a celebration of strength, provisional healing, and the simple joys that occasionally emerge from unspeakable hardship. The act of “anointing” has become a testament to hope, renewal, and the overflowing blessings found in even the smallest – and ultimately most futile – gestures.
My cup runneth over with gratitude for these fleeting moments amidst the creeping, encroaching darkness.
Your friend,
Robert
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/
Growing up in Georgetown, Ontario, and attending St. John’s United Church, I grew to love the 23rd Psalm for the beauty of the language, even though as a child I didn’t understand its true purport. Interestingly, the language of the psalm is anchored in my writer’s consciousness, as this little story reveals.
Psalm 23
King James Version
The Lord is my shepherd…
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm%2023&version=KJV