Goodbye, Duane

Duane is - *sigh* - was - my cousin. Three or four years younger than I, I can't recall I'd ever had a real conversation with him until we met up at a family reunion in Virginia a couple of decades ago. 

He opened the conversation by telling me how much he'd LOVED my green Schwinn ten-speed, which I'd saved up to buy when I was a teenager. I was surprised he'd remembered the bike; as we talked it quickly became clear he'd paid a lot more attention to me as we grew than I'd paid to him. (sorry, Duane)

Since then, I've talked to him a lot more. When I took off in my camper van, I stayed for a few nights with him and his wife, Tracey. One fine Saturday, they took me to Wisconsin and introduced me to the sport of Watercross. (For the uninitiated, this is where you wait until summer, find a good shallow pond somewhere, and see if you can drive a snowmobile across it. You just know the sport started with a couple of guys saying, "Here! Hold my beer and watch this!") I still chuckle when I think about that day.

I admired how Duane had worked to do well in life. He once told me he was a slacker in high school, went to college just because he was supposed to; had no idea how to succeed there. But once he got there, he took a look around, figured out how to study, kept working, and ended up as a chiropractor. Not an easy trick to pull off. 

He married young. Somehow, he and Tracey managed to work through all the things they needed to work through to stay and grow together all these years. Again, not easy to do. They had twins; raised a couple of fine young men.

I last saw him just a few weeks ago at yet another family reunion. There were quite a few people there, and though I said hello, I didn't get a chance to catch up with him. I texted him after I got home, telling him I was sorry I'd missed him. He texted back, said he felt the same, and he'd catch me on the next go-around.

The next go-around won't happen - he died from a sudden heart attack earlier this week.

Damn margarita truck!

I am in shock. Regretting my lost chance to talk with him, to find out how life was treating him. It's not like I think the conversation would have been consequential. I just hate it when I don't get a chance to say goodbye to those I hold in my heart.

So, goodbye, Duane. 

I hope you are where, in the summer, the fishing is good and the mosquitoes (mostly) leave you alone. When winter comes, I hope you will be able to ride free on your sled, with whichever buddies you have there (you'll probably find some new ones, knowing you and your charismatic ways), out in the wilderness you loved so well.

Peace.

Cancer Sucks. Still.

Man! This is some tough stuff!

Kate's surgery was last Friday afternoon. The first part went well - they were able to get the lump in her armpit out with clear margins and no difficulty. Her implant also came out cleanly, but then they started digging into ol' spiky; the mass that had been hiding behind the implant.

Although I'm told the surgeon was pleased with the final results, I'm not sure in what context that should be taken. I'm guessing it was that she was successfully able to plug up the holes in the two ribs she had to cut into to get the tumor out, because at the end of the long evening, she removed the biggest parts of the mass, then had to call it quits. Kate's chest wall was too compromised to dig further even though they still hadn't gotten clear margins. Because of the extensive cutting, they were also unable to insert a new expander - which means reconstruction will require a lot of creative effort.

(Beyond radiation, which was a given, clear margins or not, I haven't yet heard what treatments they will use to follow up now she's made it through surgery. I'm guessing they'll wait to decide until they get the detailed pathology back on the tumor, which will take a bit.)

Lexi and I ventured in to see her on Saturday. (She's not been alone there - Edwin, her partner, has been a rock.) She looked OK when we got there, but then took a sip of water. As soon as it hit her stomach, you could see the nausea rise, which made her cough, which made her pain levels spike.

We didn't stay long - she'd gotten to see her baby, I got to see mine is still breathing - because what she needs most of all is to rest and get better, not to stay awake to talk. 

She's made incremental improvements since then. They took out her chest drain yesterday, which instantly helped with her ability to keep her pain under control. She was able to eat most of a popsicle last night and keep it down. I'm hoping she'll be well enough to come home tomorrow.

I've been doing what I can to keep Lexi's life on an even keel, helping her get to and from her daily activities. 

I've been in an odd state of denial. My head and heart don't want to believe Kate is hurting so badly, and since she's not here at home, I find myself acting as if she were just off on a trip - that she'll come back soon, safe and sound.

Then the image of her in the hospital, pale and hurting, comes to mind, and I cry for a minute, trying to feel my feelings instead denying they exist and stomping them down. Then, I stop and breathe.

I remind myself of my hard-learned lessons and resolve once again to not let fear run roughshod over my day.

I can breathe.

I can Be. Here. Now.

I can rest for a moment in the beauty and lean on the love which has been SO in abundance already during this trial.

I will not let fear win. Not today.

*Not* Stressed

I'm not feeling stressed.

I often pretreat a couple of shirts to try to get some stains out, then start the washer - without putting the shirts into the machine. (I was, perhaps, a bit puzzled when I opened the machine at the completion of the cycle and found it empty.)

Fortunately for my shirts, Shout can safely sit on the fabric for a while, and the grease stains came right out when I re-ran the cycle.

OK. Maybe I'm a little stressed.

Mostly, I'm glad to be moving on this Kate surgery thing. Getting to this week has been a too-long process. Too much time to think and stew. I am scared, and my subconscious knows it. Time and time again, I've had to turn my thoughts away from the doomsday scenarios my imagination so easily conjures up when I let down my guard. 

So many unknowns. 

Soon, they will be resolved.

I've been busily nesting, getting my place ready for winter, so that when I return home at the beginning of November I can snuggle in without having to fret about all the fall chores I left undone. 

Truth be told, this is one of those times when it's hard for me to picture an 'after'.  Probably because I know surgery is just the first line of defense against her cancer, and getting through the follow-up therapies will be one long and hard slog.

Back to one step at a time.

What can I do to help her take *this* step? Don't worry about all the hard next steps. Just take *this* one.

It's worked for me, for us, before. I am pretty sure it'll work again.

Getting Real

Kate texted me this afternoon. She said her upcoming surgery is getting more and more real by the minute.

Yup. I'm there. "Not Yet"is quickly becoming "This Is Real".

My vacation in Minnesota was lovely. Lots of driving (*ugh*), lots of good family time and some quiet time to myself (*happy sigh*). There was a lovely wedding (*awwww, my heart!*) and I bought some new red boots (*bonus!*).

I'm back home and looking at my calendar and what was AN ENTIRE MONTH away is now the end of next week.

The idea of the upcoming surgery is frightening, but also oddly reassuring. She'll finally be able to GET IT OUT!!!! EEEWWW!!!! and know what she's dealing with. She'll be past the interminable waiting of the last few months, and moving on to whatever it is that comes next.

She will be in good hands. She has a team of three surgeons scheduled and ready to go a week from Friday. The plastic surgeon will remove the implant. The oncology doc will take care of lump #1, and then work with the thoracic surgeon to go in to see what that other scariness in her chest wall is up to. 

Nothing can change the fact these upcoming months will be hard for Kate and everyone who loves her, but I have a lovely group of friends at my back, ready to support me as I do my best to support her. They know there's nothing they can do to help, but they offer anyway. I know they'll be there when I need them. 

One friend has set us up for a pre-surgery pedicure later this week. (Pretty toes make things just a little better, it's true!) Another stopped me before my exercise class this morning to give me a box of my favorite butter cookies (the secret is in the touch of salt!) she'd picked up just for me.

One of my most enduring lessons from my cancer journey 12 years ago is that I am loved. 

I don't have words to describe how much it means to me to know this is still true; to know I don't walk life's paths alone.

Good Is. 

A Moment to Breathe

 

It seems the Universe is not vested in my martyr complex after all, and so I’ve been able to go on my long-scheduled trip back home to Minnesota this week. (Part of my heart still thinks of Minnesota as home, and I find that funny - it’s been 40 ??!!! years since I last lived here.)

It’s a chance to leave my to-do lists behind and pause in the Not Yet before Kate’s surgery at the start of next month.

Stop.
Breathe.
Relax.

Yes.

Welcoming Myself

In yoga the other day, the instructor invited us to settle onto our mats. Then, she asked us to envision a time when we felt welcome. Once we captured one such time, could we break it down just a bit, probe the feelings underlying the moment? Perhaps acceptance, perhaps joy because someone felt joy in our presence?

Then came the kicker - could we welcome ourselves to that room at that moment? 

I gave it a shot - and, I could! I envisioned myself opening my arms to me, pulling me into the space. I felt a frisson of the joy I feel when I am welcomed, and was able to carry that bit of self-acceptance into my movement practice.

That night, as I settled into bed, reflecting on my day, the moment came back to me. It made me realize how I take my presence in my life for granted.

I'm a good show-er up-per. I keep a list of things to get done each week, and usually make a good dent in the pile of tasks. I realize I can be a bit hard on myself, chastising me when I don't make sufficient progress in checking things off the list (using whatever arbitrary scale I'm using to define sufficient this week).

What I don't habitually do is welcome myself to my day.

Even the concept has a ... I dunno ... braggadocious flavor. (my word of the day!)

*sigh*

The message I once received to not think too much of myself is clearly deeply ingrained in my psyche. Be humble, put others needs first, don't be needy (God forbid!), work to blend in with the crowd, don't toot your own horn.

Hmmmm....

Perhaps, just perhaps, welcoming myself to my morning isn't showing off. I mean, it's not like I can avoid my presence anyways. What would it hurt if I greeted me with a pleasant 'Good morning. Welcome!' ? 

Perhaps this is a facet of the message I received while on the Camino last year - that my life would be easier if I relied on my strengths.

Perhaps.

The Grass Is Greener

Ah, September!

Many of my life's changes in direction have had their launch in late August and early September, and they've left their mark on my psyche.

My soul remembers all those first day of school moments, fresh supplies and at least one new outfit at the ready. Mom died in early September. I launched into motherhood one late August, started my camper van journey that same time of year several decades later. Last September found me walking across Spain.

The sun gets up a little later, the quality of the light shifts towards the softness of fall, and I'm ready to go. I woke up this morning wanting to explore beautiful places, to head off into the wild blue yonder, to transplant myself to new surroundings in anyplace that's not here, to start afresh.

Ain't happenin'.
Not this year.

I mean, I do have an important task on the near horizon. (All Kate's scans are done, the doctors are in agreement about what needs to happen in the operating room, and we're back to waiting for them to find a date on their schedules when all three surgeons will be available.) And while there's no place I'd rather be when the time comes, I'm sure you understand I'd just as soon not have this particular trip on my calendar. 

Perhaps now is a good time to remind me that this, too, shall pass. God willin' and the crick don't rise, I will have other Septembers for fun adventures. In the meantime, I have today to enjoy the beauty present in my life here and now. 

The summer heat has broken for today; we're having a fall preview in these parts. It's cool enough this morning to have windows open, to feel the fresh breeze. The sun is shining, there are still some late season flowers blooming in my yard. 

Beauty Is.

Say Yes??

For all that has been, thanks.
For all that will be, yes.
-- Dag Hammarskjöld

For ALL that has been???  For ALL that will be??? Really????

I am working to say yes to ALL that life is bringing me.

I don't want to say it. My heart is still screaming, "NO!!!!"

As I crest a hill and see this new section of the path unfolding before me, I have been reminding myself I can choose my reaction, my reaction is the only thing I can choose. (Thank you, Viktor Frankl.)

Life is going to bring its gifts and burdens whether I say yes to them or not, and, most probably, the path will be easier if I am not dragging my feet as I walk along it, resisting every step of the way.

so, "yes"?

I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it.

Waiting...

Kate's visit to the thoracic surgeon last week left her impressed with both the good skills the doctor brings to the table, and the inefficiency of our medical system. One of the first things out of the surgeon's mouth was that she needed to see more scans (from a different angle), along with a pulmonary function test, to know how best to proceed with the surgery. From what Kate said it sounded like she'd decided how best to proceed before she ever walked into the room. My question is this: the scans couldn't have been done in the weeks Kate was waiting for the appointment because, ????

So now, we wait some more. The scans are scheduled for this coming Friday. (?? Happy Birthday, Kate ??) She meets with the doc a second time the following Friday.

The basics of the information haven't changed - they won't be able to begin to formulate a treatment plan until after they can get in there and see what is lighting up the scan.

In the meantime, I am encouraged by words I hear them using, still. 

Operable. Treatable.

These are good words. Words of hope. Words helping me to keep a sense of balance, of center.

Already, as this storm comes in to land, I am held in the arms of love. It's the same sense I felt in 2012, when I found my lump. In 2015, when Kate found her lump. In 2017, when Libby found her lump. (You women out there reading this, you ARE checking for lumps regularly, yes???)

This road is a tough one, no question. But I do not walk with her on my own, and that makes it oh-so-much easier. As I've spread the unwelcome news, I've heard SO many times, "I'm pretty sure there's nothing I can do to help, but if there is anything I can do, please ask." 

I've begun to plan my trip to be with Kate for the surgery, and I have heard 'yes' from every person I've asked for help. There is someone to walk the dog, to pick up the mail. The lawn will get mowed, the plants tended. And, there is someone to take over Fairy Wren duty while I am gone - a child's imagination is important ground to keep watered!

Take one more step...

Waiting Some More

I hit my uncertainty limit last week. Not knowing when the next chance would be to know something had me spinning my wheels. Other than checking my phone every fifteen minutes, making sure I hadn't missed an important notification, I got NOTHING done. I wasn't able to get off square zero until I heard they've found a thoracic surgeon and have an appointment set for this coming Friday to discuss what surgery and the next steps will look like.

While I was busy wringing my hands, I had someone upstairs working on my long-delayed shower repair. This is the first time I've ever hired someone to do a job, and then just sat back and let them do the work. Weird!

They finished up last Friday, there were several problems with the finished project. I texted them - they are back today, not arguing, just fixing the issues. I guess this is why I went with the expensive crew. They stand behind their work.

And, on Saturday, the problems gave me something to be mad at. I needed something to be mad at. I stewed. I fussed. I obsessed. I took pictures. I rehearsed arguments inside my head. And then, finally, I let it go.

I wasn't really mad at them anyways. (I was pretty sure they'd come back and set things right.) I'm mad at cancer for messing up Kate's life once again and it's so hard to be mad at cancer. It's such an amorphous target - no known cause, no guarantees it can be banished to the ether where it belongs. Its appearance is so unjust unfair unkind unreal unwanted. 

And despite everything, I still want life to be fair. I don't want to acknowledge my inability to control anything but my reaction to what happens in the world around me. 

I'm grateful for my yoga classes. I arrive scattered and spinning, then somewhere in the breath and movement, I get a glimpse of balance. By the end of class, I'm remembering to breathe; have been reminded my center exists, even if I can't always find it.

Be Here Now.

I'm working on it.