The Stars Overhead

 

 *Milky Way image courtesy of NOVA (PBS). 

Six years ago today, at about 2:45 in the afternoon, I learned I had myeloma, which is an incurable bone marrow cancer. My amazing friend and doctor, Pat Hubbell, had been honing in on what was "wrong" with me, and she called to say that, from everything she saw, the diagnosis had just changed from "might be" cancer to "it looks definitely like" myeloma.

I was sitting in my law office when we talked. I remember watching with a sort of shocked detachment my hands shake as I hung up the phone.

My life changed irrevocably in one phone call. It has never been the same.

I've blogged some about how cancer changed my life and what it's like to live with one that will never go away. Just look at the labels on the right: "cancer" pops up 20 times (and that's just all the times I remembered to tag it).

 

Ham and eggs, salt and pepper, April and myeloma.

I continue to be grateful and amazed for the support and care my friends and the community immediately, unhesitatingly, and freely gave me from that moment on, starting with Pat. Family, friends, and even strangers stepped forward, wrapped their arms around me, and never let go.

Six years ago today, I wasn't sure I would even make it to the first anniversary, let alone any more beyond that. It has been an amazing journey.

I just today started corresponding electronically with a young woman who just a few weeks ago received a diagnosis of Hodgkin's lymphoma, stage 2. We were connected through a mutual friend. In my reply to her initial email to me, I told her: You are at the start of a long journey, Loise. I'm here on the path too. We can travel it together.

Thank you to all of you who have kept me company on my own travels in Cancerland. Whether you dropped off a meal, sent me a note, gave me a hug, made me laugh, slipped me some money, commented in support on my blog, or even went so far as to marry me (thank you, dear Warren), you are the stars in the heavens overhead, lighting the path over which I still journey.

Morning Notes

I am eating breakfast alone this morning as Warren is giving a talk to an early morning Rotary group. We almost always eat breakfast together.

He just drove off and I am sitting at the kitchen table, with the early morning light just coming through the trees, listening to the birds outside.

My notebook is open in front of me and I am writing these lines out longhand.

The day promises to be hot - the last hot one of a short string of them. I plan on walking to the library first thing this morning before it gets hot to swap my books.

Right now, though, it is cool. There is just enough breeze to clatter the kitchen blinds a bit and stir the wind chimes hanging in the dogwood tree.

I have a lot on my mind. There is a blog post or two stirring around. There are bills to pay and chores to do. My hours have dropped off at court due to changing projects and priorities, so I am stretching already tight dollars a little tighter. I am missing my far-flung children a lot. Little things, big things. The kitchen table still holds a few empty canning jars and I wonder, idly, if I could can my thoughts and put them on the shelf.

I smile at the thought of canning up my cares and concerns.

There is plenty to put my hand to, and I know I need to start the day. But for now, for this moment, I am content to sit here, watch the morning light rise, and welcome the day.

Parallel Play

"I'd rather it be the chicken soup," said Warren.

He was referring to the chicken soup he made me Thursday for supper at the height of my recent bad cold. It was delicious soup and Warren somehow found noodles so close to those my Grandmother Skatzes used to make that I was as awash in nostalgia as I was in the pleasure of a good meal. I am convinced that it was the chicken soup - richly flavored with Warren's love and concern - that caused my fever to break later that night.

But this post is not about the chicken soup, although it is about Warren and me. It is about parallel play.

"Parallel play" is a term from the child development world. It refers to a stage children go through when they will play alongside, often with the very same toys, but not interact with one another. It is more prevalent in preschoolers than older children; I saw it often in my son Ben and his playmates (parallel playmates?) when they were 4 and 5.

This morning we went out to Price Organics for my birthday present: a cubic yard of compost. We are borrowing a friend's rototiller tomorrow and wanted the compost on the gardens before we till. Once we got back home, we both went to work with shovel, pitchfork, and wheelbarrow. Together we unloaded the compost from truck and trailer, me preparing more for loading while Warren wheeled the barrow back to the gardens for dumping.

About two wheelbarrow loads into the task, I was smiling radiantly as Warren came back around the side of the house.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just really happy."

Warren looked at the load of compost to be moved, then at the gray, chill sky. Not the lightest of tasks, not the warmest or most welcoming of days. He looked back at me. I was still beaming goofily.

Warren shrugged and we loaded the next load.

I was still smiling when he came back around the front again.

"I figured something out," I announced.

Warren raised his eyebrows in a question.

"This is the first thing we have done together in weeks. Everything else has been parallel play."

I don't know if Warren bought into my thinking at all, but I knew I was onto something. Ever since midwinter, we have both been engrossed in major projects of our own: United Way, grant writing, the whole Chasing Light… project, to name a few. Yes, we knew what the other was doing; yes, we talked over our days and our stumbling blocks and our progress every night; yes, I attended as many of Warren's events and programs as possible, but we lacked the textured interweaving of our lives that has is the hallmark of our relationship.

Instead, it was parallel play. Each with our own toys - our calendars, our engagements, our deadlines - playing alongside and not with one another. Informative, interesting, intense, educational, engaging, to be sure. But also alone and somewhat remote from what the other was doing.

During the last two plus months, each of us had mentioned, sometimes as we collapsed into bed after a particularly grueling day, that we were feeling a slight disconnect. We'd talk about making sure there was time for our relationship, and maybe carving out some "us" moments tomorrow. Then tomorrow would become today, then yesterday, and we were still talking about maybe.

I don't regret the involvement or the events of the last couple of months. I am proud of my United Way work; I am proud of my court work. I am prouder yet of Warren's work on behalf of the Symphony and the community in bringing the Chasing Light… project to fruition.

All the same, I think I got more pleasure from the compost than almost anything else we have done recently. We were working on a joint project, we were working together instead of in our own spheres, and I was in sync with my dear husband once again.

There will be more projects for both of us. I know that and I can't imagine either of our lives without them. Close as we are, Warren and I are not Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I am sure there will be other times of parallel play, although I hope not quite as prolonged as this one.

And besides, if we find ourselves getting a little too remote, we can always unload a truck full of compost.

October Gifts

Among the many books I read to my boys when they were little were the Bunny Planet books by Rosemary Wells. In the Bunny Planet books, the main character - a little boy or girl bunny - would have a terrible, awful day, then be whisked away at bedtime to the Bunny Planet where they would be given "the day that should have been." After a day centering on something very simple - a warm meal and a game of checkers while a storm rages outside, soup made from the first tomato of the season - the little bunny would wake up back in his or her own bed, restored and refreshed and ready to face everyday life again.

Those books were very reassuring, both for my boys and for me. We read one of them, The Island Light, repeatedly. That one began with the little bunny throwing up at school and even without my having seen the book recently, I can still recall the distressed eyes of the bunny as he looks up, stricken at what he has done.

The literary transition between the real world and the Bunny Planet was by way of a rhyme:

Far beyond the moon and stars,

Twenty light-years south of Mars,

Spins the gentle Bunny Planet

And the Bunny Queen is Janet.

I sometimes think I need a voyage to the Bunny Planet.

October has been a mixed bag.

On the one hand, it has been rich and generous with its gifts. The excellent opening concert for the Central Ohio Symphony (which now has a Facebook page!) My aunt Ginger's 80th birthday party (a good time was had by all, especially the birthday girl, who was completely and totally surprised). Our first wedding anniversary. Beautiful October skies. Flaming fall colors. Warren any day of the week and any hour of the day.

Riches beyond compare.

October has also brought some difficulties with it. In my case, it is last week's head cold that settled in my throat and caused me to be hoarse all week, leading up to being voiceless today. I canceled a walking date with Patricia this morning and just canceled coffee with Nancy later today because of it. I was pouting when I canceled the coffee date.

That's nothing, though.

October has brought phone calls and emails from friends with news no one ever wants to hear or read. My friend Larry, not Myeloma Larry but just plain old Larry, has just been diagnosed with lymphoma. His emails now come to me titled "a note from Lympho Larry." (That's cancer humor, okay?) He is meeting with his oncologist today to get the stage of the disease and the game plan for treatment. They think they caught it early (good news); it is the most common form of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and responds well to treatment (more good news). The type he has - diffuse large B cell - is often very aggressive (not so good). When I touch base with Larry next week, I expect to hear a schedule of chemo and radiation, along with some really terrible cancer jokes.

The other call came from my colleague and friend, Doug, who started his call with "so what do you say to someone who has just found out they have cancer?" Not knowing where this was going, I asked "who?"

It was Doug. Doug with whom I have sat through more goofy court meetings than either of us thought we could stand, telegraphing our thoughts to one another with a carefully raised eyebrow or quick glance. Doug who has given his time and heart to community, church, and family. Doug whose innate decency shines through no matter when or where.

Doug's doctors are still deciphering and staging his cancer, but it appears to be stomach cancer (adenocarcinoma), past the early stage. Not the kind of diagnosis you want to hear. I have only heard bits and pieces since Doug and I talked earlier this week, but the bits and pieces I have heard from his coworkers are not promising or positive. When asked, one of them could only offer a few comments before his face fell and he said "I don't want to talk about it right now. It makes me too sad."

Where's that Bunny Planet when you need it?

When Doug broke the news to his staff at Adult Court Services (felony probation office), where Doug is the chief probation officer, they reacted the way you would expect a bunch of people who work in the criminal justice system would. One of his staffers immediately emailed the rest:

We all have had time to absorb Doug's diagnosis. Now it's time to think about how we are going to help him. Our focus need to be on Doug, Susan, and Rachel during the next few weeks and months. We need to start thinking about how we can help them. It could be cooking a few meals, cleaning their house, taking Doug to appointments, getting meds for Doug, (not the ones in our evidence drawer!!), grocery shopping, or even plowing their driveway when it snows. We all know that Doug is stubborn and may not want to ask for help, but we just need to jump in and do things for him and his family. I know Susan just started a new job so she may not have much time off to do things for Doug during the weekdays. We all have some vacation or comp time that we can use to help Doug do some things.

Doug really needs us right now. We all need to remember how many times we have gotten a call here at work and had to leave on a moments notice. It may have been a sick child, spouse, parent, or some other emergency. What is the one thing Doug always says when we tell him that we have to leave………."Take care of your family and don't worry about this place"!! Now it's time to take care of "our family". We are a family here. We are the 13 member, slightly dysfunctional, ACS family and one of members needs our help. We all know that Doug would do the same for us.

Let's be thinking about what we can do to help him, Susan, and Rachel. I would like to have an office meeting soon and discuss more ideas of what we can do.

Doug has done a lot for all of us. We may not always agree with some of his management decisions, but we all realize we have it pretty easy here. Who else would let us create our own schedules and pretty much come and go as we please. Let's take some of our time and show Doug how much we appreciate him and appreciate working here.

Carolee

(I asked Carolee before writing this post if I could include her letter. Thank you, Carolee!)

When I read something like that - a spontaneous outpouring of care and concern, when I think of Doug, who has traveled over some hard roads in the past and is now facing the hardest one of his life, and of all the people in his life who will be there to help him make that journey, when I think of Warren calling my friends today because my voice won't carry, I realize I don't really need to visit the Bunny Planet. Not today, not ever. I may not always get the day "that should have been," but it is moments like this - life like this - that restore and refresh me and leave me again grateful for every moment that I have.

This one is for Doug. We're all with you, big guy.