Goodbye, David

Goodbyes are always hard for me, and some of them raise downright complicated feelings, which makes them even harder.

David fought his pancreatic cancer to a draw this last week. (I stole that phrase from someone. I wish I knew who it was, because I like it. He didn't lose any battles; the cancer definitely didn't win. But the contest has definitively come to an end.) Most people, once they find they have this type of cancer, die within a year. He lived almost three, beating the odds one last time. (Grit was his middle name...)

I first met David some thirty years ago - he was the photographer at my step-brother's wedding. He and my sister Maria hit it off as he was taking photos at the reception, and started dating very shortly thereafter. The first few years of their relationship were good, at least from the outside in. They got married, had a baby, settled in a house in the suburbs.

But their relationship couldn't stand the strain of the drinking - his, hers, theirs, whatever the combination. The alcohol-fueled sparks eventually led them to a bitter divorce. He went through some rough years after that; dark years where alcohol came and went and played a large part in damaging his relationships.

But time has a way of healing even deep wounds for some people, and so it worked for David. The last few years before he got sick found him back on his feet. He had his drinking mostly under control. He'd found a good partner, and did his level best to mend his relationships with his kids. He had steady employment, and worked once again to create a good home for himself and his wife, who I know only by reputation. (Juliann and Connor tell me she's good people, and they are rarely wrong in such assessments.)

Because he was not kind to his children during those dark years, I was angry with him for a long time. But when he found his balance and worked to change, and his children forgave him, my anger also dissipated. I cheered him on, even. Not everyone gets a second chance at relationships, and he didn't take his for granted.

I find it both sad and ironic that he'd finally gotten his stuff together and, poof! The margarita truck hit. But, it's also the good news part of the story. He died in a good emotional space, surrounded by people who loved him. He had time after he found his way out of the dark to mend a lot of broken fences. He was able to enjoy a bunch of good days. And that's nuthin' to sneeze at.

 Rest in Peace, David. 

Bonus Days

I bid goodbye to my oncologist this week.

It was an oddly bittersweet appointment. I like Dr. Sheehan; I chose her because, if my cancer came back, I knew she would carry her compassion and empathy along as she walked the path with me, wherever it led. Well, my cancer hasn't come back (yet. I can't even think the previous sentence without adding a qualifier.), and since I'm not going to go back on any hormone therapies, we are done.

She gave me a hug at the end of the appointment. I left feeling like someone had just rudely yanked my security blanket away. It's been comforting to know she had my back. Now, I'm on my own???

I am fully aware of how ridiculous my reaction is. My primary care doc will continue to check the cancer markers with my yearly blood work. My OBGYN will make sure there are no lumps growing on my chest. And, if something does come up, it's not like I can't call her up and get back in the patient rotation.

So, I'm working to get past it.

I have seen a lot of positive changes in my health since stopping the aromatase inhibitors some ten months ago. Just in the last two months, I've had to cut my fingernails TWICE because they were getting too long. That hadn't happened in a decade - one of the side effects of the assorted treatments was to weaken the nails. For years, the minute they grew at all, they would rip and tear. Forget about using them to try to pry up the edge of a sticker - the sticker generally won, which says a lot about the formerly sad state of my nails.

My energy levels are better, my weight is easier to control. No small gifts, these.

Some side effects will probably never go away. I'm pretty sure the balls of my feet will be numb-ish for the rest of my life. 

I still miss my breasts. these plastic replacements might look good, as long as I have clothes on, but I'd take my old saggy originals any day. Those gals had sensitive nerve endings, which makes the current dead zone across my chest hard to live with, even now, almost a decade later.

Back when I was first diagnosed, I frankly never thought I'd be alive even five years later. I've started to think of the days I am living now as bonus days.

I don't have to work, I'm healthy enough. I have a pile of things I want to (re-)learn, to see, to do. It's been almost two years since I retired, and I am still working on the top levels of  the pile, which I consider to be a good thing. I'm still struggling with trying to figure out how my days look, but am ever so grateful I am here for the struggle to exist.

I am starting to plan, however tentatively, for days more than six months out. I am gaining some confidence, though COVID-19 is NOT helping, that those plans might even come to fruition. Who'd'a thunk it?

Good Is.

Holding On, Letting Go

I thought I'd managed to control my yearly bout of sadness over Mom's death quite well this year, thank you very much. The beginning of September approached, and I was just fine.

Then, just before I left California, I felt an ominous bump arise on my lip. I've been getting cold sores since I was a young girl; as an adult, there's a direct correlation between unacknowledged stress and the appearance of one of the yucky lesions. This time, I couldn't figure out why it had chosen to make an appearance. I wasn't stressed; I was having a great visit. Surely, the latent virus had made a mistake.

Then, I looked at the calendar. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the sore arrived on the anniversary of the date of her death. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the 20th anniversary of 9/11 was just a few days later.

Sure enough, as I dug inside for insight, grief began to bubble - my personal sadness amplified by memories of a bright blue sky on a perfect September day; the day I watched in disbelief as I turned on the TV just in time to watch the second plane impact the World Trade Center, my mind struggling to make sense of the images on the screen.

I remember stepping outside. I looked at the perfect sky, free of jet trails. Tears flowed freely as I cried for all those killed in the attacks. My heart skipped a beat or three as I tried to imagine the many ways our world had just abruptly changed course. I was frightened, and rightly so. 

This poem surfaced for me on Instagram this week (W.S. Merwin):

There is no reason 
for me to keep counting
how long it has been 
since you were here
alive one morning

as though I were 
letting out the string of a kite
one day at a time
over my finger 
when there is no string

The words brought me to tears. No string? No string.

The connection I long for, still, was severed 44 years ago. The course of history was changed by angry men with boxcutters 20 years ago. There is no reason to keep counting.

Yet, as evidenced by the cold sore, count my heart does, whether I will it or no.

I've cried a lot this week; my sleep has been unrestful. I have been overwhelmed by the legacy of darkness stemming from the 9/11 attacks, the ways the world has hardened and become less kind in response to the terror.

But. And yet.

I went to a neighborhood picnic on Saturday, and fell in love, as we waited in line for ice cream, with a three year-old pixie. Her bright smile, framed by the sparkly orange and green ninja turtle mask painted on her face, was impossible for me to resist.

I went to a jazz concert in the rose garden in the park on Sunday. The air was warm, the breeze was cool, and carried on its breath the perfume of the flowers all around us. The (properly socially distanced) people were relaxed and enjoying the evening. The live music filled some empty spaces in my soul; spaces recordings, however good they are, rarely reach.

Beauty Is.

Today, I have a renewed resolve to do what I can to be on its side. It's a selfish resolve - I do so like my days better when I see the Beauty that's always there when I remember to look for it.

Beach Days

Back in the olden days, before COVID-19 came to upend the world as we knew it, I had had plans when I went to visit Kate in California. I had just retired, and I wasn't sure how I would spend my days there since she would be at work and Lexi at school. She (memorably) put her figurative hands on her figurative hips and said, "I work in Malibu. You've heard of Malibu. They have a coffee shop, a library and a beach. If you can't keep yourself busy there, I can't help you."

She had a point, and I was planning to give it a try, but I arrived for that visit just in time for the state to lock down in response to the virus. Instead of going to the beach, I spent my time helping Lexi begin to adjust to the abrupt shift to home schooling, and on a hunt for toilet paper. (Kate had been caught short as the great toilet paper hoarding event of 2020 played out.)

Forward eighteen months.

I went out for another visit last week. With the state open for (masked) business, I was able to give the day-in-Malibu thing a try. It went well, I never even made it to the library.

She dropped me off at the coffee shop on her way to work - a touching role reversal, which brought back memories of all the days I dropped her at school on my way into the office. I sat there for an hour or so, people watching and crossword puzzle solving, easily passing the time until the temp rose just a bit and the marine layer started to lift.

I then meandered the mile or so down the road and around the marsh to the beach, where I dropped my towel on the sand, sat down, and tried to relax. Turns out, I am a lot out of practice on the relaxing thing. I fidgeted. I scooted the sand around under my butt to make a more comfortable seat. I sat up, I laid back. I watched the birds and the surfers. I became aware of every tight muscle and latent ache in my body. I worried. I fretted. 

Finally, I got myself to stop. I eased down, leaning back against my backpack, eyes half closed and fixed on the water, hat shading my eyes. I managed to begin to shut down my mental chatter and to listen. After a few minutes, the roar of the surf began to work its magic. My breathing slowed as I tapped into the connection between the beating of my heart and the rhythm of the waves.

The waves have been crashing on the shore for eons. They care not for climate change, viruses, wars, or peace. I have been taught that all life on earth started in the sea, and lying there, it was easy to believe. I slipped into a meditative state. My aches disappeared and time was suspended as I let go.

*pause* *breathe* *be*

I came back to myself at lunchtime, my bladder and stomach competing for attention as my awareness returned to my body. I headed back up the walk to town where I enjoyed a delicious lunch and indulged in some more people watching. When the time was right, I returned to the water's edge for a reprise of my morning meditation.

Stop.  Breathe.  Relax.

Ahhhhhh.....  Yes.