Paris’s air is always filled with the fragrance of plants, and I want this fragrance to become a healing medicine for cancer patients.
Dear, I know—chemotherapy days are hard. So hard that all you can focus on is the cold infusion bag hanging above, the beeping of the monitor, the nausea that lingers in your throat, and the fatigue that weighs down your limbs. So many of my patients, they sit there, staring at the wall, their brows furrowed, as if the world has shrunk into that small hospital room, full of bitterness and helplessness. They forget, completely forget, that a ray of sunlight can warm their hands, a cup of hot water can soothe their stomachs, and a wisp of plant fragrance can calm their racing hearts. That’s the pain I see most—missing the chance to heal, just because they’re too busy fighting the pain.
I work in the chemotherapy ward sometimes, and every time I go, I bring my portable essential oil set—small glass bottles, each filled with a different kind of comfort. One day, I stood by the ward, watching a patient clutching her stomach, her face pale, eyes closed tightly. The infusion dripped slowly, and she didn’t even notice the sunlight slanting through the window, falling on her hand. That’s when I decided, I need to guide them, to let them see those small blessings, those tiny sparks of warmth in the darkness.
But it wasn’t easy. At first, they shook their heads, smiled politely but dismissively. "Smelling nice won’t make the chemotherapy hurt less," one patient said, her voice weak. "What’s the use of a little fragrance?" To be honest, I hesitated too. Standing in the ward, holding the bottle of lavande, I thought—am I being naive? Is this really going to help? Wait, the accordion sound from the street outside, I paused for a second, then continued dropping essential oil. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not about eliminating the pain, but about adding a little warmth to it.
One afternoon, a young woman was sitting in the chemotherapy chair, her hands trembling, her breath rapid. She was so anxious, she couldn’t stop fidgeting, her eyes filled with fear. I walked over, sat beside her, and said softly, "Dear, let’s try something. Just close your eyes." I took a drop of lavande essential oil, mixed it with a little base oil, and gently pressed her temples, my fingers moving slowly, with just the right amount of force. My knuckles ached a little, from pressing too hard before, but I kept going. Then I handed her a cup of warm water, my fingers touching hers—cold, so cold. "Feel the warmth," I said. "Just focus on that warmth, and the smell of lavande."
She closed her eyes, and for a long time, nothing happened. I held my breath, my heart racing. Then, slowly, her shoulders relaxed. Her fingers wrapped around the cup, and she let out a soft sigh. "It’s... warm," she said, her voice quiet, "I didn’t notice. The water is so warm." That moment, my heart felt like it was lit up by the sunlight outside. I smiled, and said, "See? There are small blessings everywhere, if you just look for them."
Since then, every time I accompany patients during chemotherapy, I ask them to find three small blessings that day. A ray of sunlight, a cup of hot water, a whiff of fragrance. Slowly, they started to notice—some would point to the flowers on the windowsill, some would smile when they smelled the lavande I brought, some would hold the warm cup tightly, as if it was a treasure. Let treatment no longer be just bitter medicine, but a sensory journey filled with plant fragrance. That’s what I always say, and now, they start to believe it too.
Back in my studio, the floor-to-ceiling window overlooks a Parisian-style street. Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, falling on the wooden essential oil shelf, where rows of glass bottles shine softly. The air is filled with a mixture of lavande and citrus, fresh and warm. I’m standing by the shelf, blending essential oils—one drop of lavande, two drops of sweet orange, three drops of jojoba oil. Oops, too much lavande, the smell is too strong. I frowned, added a little more base oil, and stirred gently. My fingertips feel the coolness of the glass bottle, and the fragrance lingers on my skin, slow and gentle. When the fragrance of plants fills the air, all the anxiety and tiredness seem to fade away.
I remember the first time I used essential oil in the ward. I was so nervous, my hands shook, and I spilled a little lavande on the patient’s sleeve. She laughed, and said, "It smells nice, like the countryside in Provence." That laugh, I still remember it. It was light, and full of hope. Sometimes, when I’mblending essential, the diffuser runs out of water. I panic a little—Wait, the patient is still waiting for the fragrance. I rush to add water, my feet numb from standing too long, but when I smell the lavande again, I feel light again.
Dear, if you’re going through chemotherapy, if you’re trapped in pain and can’t breathe, please try to look around. The sunlight on your hand, the warmth of a cup of water, the faint fragrance of a flower—these are all small blessings, all little pieces of healing. Lavande essential oil is gentle, safe (avoid contact with eyes, pregnant women use with caution), and it can calm your anxiety, ease your nausea. I often mix it with base oil, gently press the Nei Guan acupoint on the wrist, slow and gentle, letting the fragrance seep into the skin, into the heart.
Today, I prepared essential oil sets for tomorrow’s chemotherapy patients—small glass bottles, labeled with the name of the essential oil, a small massage tool, and a note: "Look for your small blessings today." I put the sets on the table, neat and tidy. The diffuser is still releasing a faint fragrance of lavande, lingering in the air. I reach for my cup of lavande tea, it’s still warm. I take a sip, the fragrance fills my mouth, and I look out the window—the sun is setting, painting the sky pink and gold.
Let the fragrance of plants accompany you through every step of recovery, elegant and strong.
I put the teacup down, reached for the notebook to record today’s stories, and found a drop of lavande essential oil on the page, leaving a faint purple mark. It’s beautiful, just like those small blessings in chemotherapy—quiet, gentle, and full of strength.
