(Original post date: January 12, 2010)
On my use of the big one: when I’m in fear for my life, feeling powerless. I vividly recall using it three times looking back at our history together. Bill pulled me into many adventures that I doubt I ever would have done on my own – and would relive again with him in a heartbeat.
After a few runs down the tame ski hills in Wisconsin, we went to Utah for a week. The green runs at Snowbird were nothing more than the narrow roads winding around the edge of the mountain. Bill caught up with me and convinced me to take another run away from the road and down the side of the mountain. He stayed at the top while I gingerly traversed the mountain. Ski across, fall down, turn, ski, fall, turn, ski, fall, turn. After six or eight reps of this I stopped after ski, fall and was only a quarter of the way down the mountain. I just sat there with tears burning my cheeks. Bill, my alpine skiing hero, came swooshing up next to me. Seeing my tears, he said, “Oh, let me give you a hug!” My reply, “A hug won’t get me off this f@#$ mountain!” I have no idea what got me down the mountain; perhaps unleashing steam got the adrenaline going. I got off the mountain, sporting an eight inch bruise on the back of my left thigh where I fell on every left-handed turn.
On another adventure we were sailing with friends in St. Martin, bare boating, which means taking the boat out on our own with no paid crew. We had picked a week with a lot of wind. It was torturous, blowing all the time everywhere on the boat. Even as the sunset, when winds usually fade, it blew. If we tried to escape it down below, we would sweat because it was so hot. It made for some great sailing but happy hour was more like windy hour. We had sailed quite a way from the boat’s home base and had gotten caught in rainy weather. The Captain and First Mate, the men on our boat, decided to set sail anyway despite the rain. Soon it was more than rain. We were in 20-25 foot swells and beating rain. I sat looking out over the bow, watching land disappear as we slumbered over the crest of a wave and into the trough. I couldn’t do that, so I looked over the stern, only to see land behind us disappear. I looked all around us. No other boats were sailing these high seas. I turned to the Captain and the First Mate and asked, yelling over the gale, “Why are we the only f@#$ boat out here?” They were redeemed as a big dive boat motored by at full-power – with a lot more power than our little engine. Lying out flat on a dock never felt so good as at the end of that sail.
We rented a pretty large sail boat on that trip so we had two sleeping berths and a third just for scuba gear. Despite the constant five to eight foot swells, we still had some great dives in St. Martin. We would drop anchor near a dive site then giant stride off the back of the boat and settle down between 30 and 80 feet deep where there was no chop but sometimes a pretty strong surge. During one dive we checked air levels and decided we needed to head back to the boat. At 30 feet deep we swam and swam, longer than what we did on the way out. I was getting big-eyed – swimming at 30 feet was a lot easier than surface swimming in choppy water, and I didn’t have an abundance of air. I developed my own underwater sign: cupping my hands together and moving them emphatically as if to say, “Where’s the f@#$ boat?” Bill understood. At that point our captain went to the surface and found it. Behind us. It had swung around in the rough seas and we had swum right past it.
So, June 16th I found myself on yet another boat bracing high seas. Atop a very steep mountain skiing on a narrow road. Diving with little air not knowing where my boat was anchored. From then until early August I woke up every day with the same thoughts, “Mmm… the sun’s up. What day is it? F@#$, I have cancer.” I’ve never sworn so much in my whole life. Once the cancer was thoroughly defined and didn’t appear anywhere else on the PET scan the word dropped from my wake-up routine. Slightly smoother sailing, a mountain with gentler slopes, back safely on a stable sail boat. No longer in fear for my life and gaining knowledge, hence power. I was going to live.
I saw my oncologist yesterday before chemo. I’m not sure what the discussion was but he referred to the time when I “had” cancer. And I think back to the radiation doctor in September who said to count the cancer cells in my body would be like "counting the angels dancing on a pinhead." All I’m doing now and in the near future are preventative measures. I’m officially putting cancer in the past tense.
Staying strong,
Linda
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Spring
(Original post date: January 11, 2010)
We had a 60-degree day mid-December. The unexpected warmth was a reminder of how beautiful the spring sun will feel this year. Or was it a reminder of how far away spring is? Whichever, outside playing with the boys, I felt silly on this warm sunny day brushing away tears under my sunglasses.
I relate to Frog and Toad’s adventures much the way some people follow Peanuts, Dilbert, or Winnie the Pooh. There’s a speech by Frog to his best friend Toad from the story “Spring” that gives me hope but draws tears, no matter how many times I read it…
“What you see is the clear warm light of April. And it means we can begin a whole new year together, Toad. Think of it. We will skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim in the river. In the evenings we will sit right here on this front porch and count the stars.”
As fortunate as I feel, there are occasional days when I just want to recover stolen moments. Playing at the beach. Visiting family. Taking the boys to birthday parties and staying to chat with other parents. Accepting kisses on the lips. Scooping my sons up effortlessly from the ground into a hug. When visiting recently, my sister scooped up Will and Liam into big, beautiful hugs while picking them up from school. I felt the same wincing pain as I did on that warm late fall day.
I try to flip it, to spin it, knowing full well the number of blessings that have come on this journey and knowing there are future opportunities for all of these moments. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge and to grieve those nuances lost.
Years ago, in a smaller life quandary, I found that the best way to start solving a problem is to take immediate action, no matter how small that action is. Just by asking myself, “What’s the one thing I can do tomorrow to start fixing this?” – that puts the ball in action. One small step opens the mind to possibilities.
So, after this 60-degree day and needing to look past winter, I called the local radiation doctor to get a glimpse of the next phase. I have two chemo treatments left: today and on January 22nd. Then I get a month break. February is treatment free. March 1st I start daily radiation (five days a week) for six weeks. I decided to get my appointments booked right away while the schedule was wide open. I’ll drop the boys off at school at 8:30 a.m. then go for my 9 a.m. appointment. It takes about 10 minutes per appointment, so the rest of the day will be mine. I finish radiation April 9th. April 19th is the beginning of spring break week. I’ve made these plans knowing they may change. I will get a second opinion on radiation treatment as I did with chemo to make sure the local doctor and a MGH doctor agree on protocol for radiation.
Shortly after I set the radiation appointments, I dreamed that I had hair again. I could feel it on my ears in the dream.
Staying strong,
Linda
P.S. Aunt Kim, my Gurney’s catalog came on Friday. I decided rather than dream about spring planting I would take action. I’m starting with a small sun garden space outside our fence by the drive. I've been watching this tiny chunk of ground and even in the winter it gets a good dose of sun. I placed my order on Saturday, taking advantage of the “buy-$50-get $25 off.” I’m going to check around and find the phone number of someone who owns a horse. :)
We had a 60-degree day mid-December. The unexpected warmth was a reminder of how beautiful the spring sun will feel this year. Or was it a reminder of how far away spring is? Whichever, outside playing with the boys, I felt silly on this warm sunny day brushing away tears under my sunglasses.
I relate to Frog and Toad’s adventures much the way some people follow Peanuts, Dilbert, or Winnie the Pooh. There’s a speech by Frog to his best friend Toad from the story “Spring” that gives me hope but draws tears, no matter how many times I read it…
“What you see is the clear warm light of April. And it means we can begin a whole new year together, Toad. Think of it. We will skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim in the river. In the evenings we will sit right here on this front porch and count the stars.”
As fortunate as I feel, there are occasional days when I just want to recover stolen moments. Playing at the beach. Visiting family. Taking the boys to birthday parties and staying to chat with other parents. Accepting kisses on the lips. Scooping my sons up effortlessly from the ground into a hug. When visiting recently, my sister scooped up Will and Liam into big, beautiful hugs while picking them up from school. I felt the same wincing pain as I did on that warm late fall day.
I try to flip it, to spin it, knowing full well the number of blessings that have come on this journey and knowing there are future opportunities for all of these moments. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge and to grieve those nuances lost.
Years ago, in a smaller life quandary, I found that the best way to start solving a problem is to take immediate action, no matter how small that action is. Just by asking myself, “What’s the one thing I can do tomorrow to start fixing this?” – that puts the ball in action. One small step opens the mind to possibilities.
So, after this 60-degree day and needing to look past winter, I called the local radiation doctor to get a glimpse of the next phase. I have two chemo treatments left: today and on January 22nd. Then I get a month break. February is treatment free. March 1st I start daily radiation (five days a week) for six weeks. I decided to get my appointments booked right away while the schedule was wide open. I’ll drop the boys off at school at 8:30 a.m. then go for my 9 a.m. appointment. It takes about 10 minutes per appointment, so the rest of the day will be mine. I finish radiation April 9th. April 19th is the beginning of spring break week. I’ve made these plans knowing they may change. I will get a second opinion on radiation treatment as I did with chemo to make sure the local doctor and a MGH doctor agree on protocol for radiation.
Shortly after I set the radiation appointments, I dreamed that I had hair again. I could feel it on my ears in the dream.
Staying strong,
Linda
P.S. Aunt Kim, my Gurney’s catalog came on Friday. I decided rather than dream about spring planting I would take action. I’m starting with a small sun garden space outside our fence by the drive. I've been watching this tiny chunk of ground and even in the winter it gets a good dose of sun. I placed my order on Saturday, taking advantage of the “buy-$50-get $25 off.” I’m going to check around and find the phone number of someone who owns a horse. :)
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