***
I've been to "one year" before, one and a half years ago. The doctor said to come back for a bit more blood work, for another scan. Those scans said: second primary tumor, hereditary. I wonder if the first cancer saved my life. There was no evidence, except in my blood. And no one would have been looking at blood under a microscope if I hadn't already been sick once before. Typical onset is 70, screening begins at 50, sometimes later. I was 35.
Monday was my "one year" from the end of treatment checkup. Last July during my 8th infusion of what was meant to be 12 doses of Folfox6, I began having trouble reading, then seeing, then breathing. Then I realized that I was having a reaction to the medications that were meant to kill the cancer cells. My face burned and I felt choked; I could hardly raise my voice to call the nurse. And in a flurry, a brief moment or two, the line was unplugged from the port.
The nurses called my husband and he drove from work to sit with me. For an hour, the nurses watched to make sure the side-effects were subsiding. I closed my eyes and practiced breathing until the air passed freely in and out of my lungs. My husband, held my hand. In my head, the storm of emotion raged, questions, doubts, and fear. If I could not continue these infusions, what would we have to do for treatment next?
After some time, the doctor returned to send me on my way home. What next? Clinical standards suggest twelve dose, but medicine is still a question, a guessing game, an art of conjecture, laboratory work, and faith. The reaction signaled the end of the chemotherapy and the start of wait and see. Now, blood work and scans.
Now attempt to return to normal life. Now the fog lifting, clarity, hope, and each day another chance to live better. To learn what I am meant to learn: mostly, that I cannot do it all on my own, no matter how able, how strong, how determined, how intelligent, how stubborn I may be.
***
Trade?
In the dream, the group plans to trade one friend for the money to finance a holdiay blowout. Her life insurance will pay for presents, treats, wrapping paper, tinsel. She watches benignly as they collect their temporary treasures around them. Why? I ask. Everyone looks away
***
In the mirror this morning, I ask my reflection: what life am I trading? And for what?
For what?
***
At daybreak, I climb the hill on 20th Street. A buzzard rides on the updrafts, circling. A mouse lies dead on the pavement's edge. Today, I will trade for nothing that will not bring me joy. My son and I hokey-pokey down the hill, even as he protests. I choose these: long walks with children, dogs, and my life's love; the promise of new friends and places; the comfort of those who have shared my highs and lows; and the never-ending pleasure of words. What trinkets could compare?
***
***
In the mirror this morning, I ask my reflection: what life am I trading? And for what?
For what?
***
At daybreak, I climb the hill on 20th Street. A buzzard rides on the updrafts, circling. A mouse lies dead on the pavement's edge. Today, I will trade for nothing that will not bring me joy. My son and I hokey-pokey down the hill, even as he protests. I choose these: long walks with children, dogs, and my life's love; the promise of new friends and places; the comfort of those who have shared my highs and lows; and the never-ending pleasure of words. What trinkets could compare?
***
Market Day
The summer's long, humid days stretch on. Children in the street putter about on their bicycles, even their shouts have lost vigor. Paper and pencils, bright colored folders and lunchboxes fill the aisles at the stores. Days without routine blend into weeks, punctuated only by rain.
Today, we visited the local farmer's market: several vegetable stalls covered with canopies, a table of honey, and one of goat milk fudge. We bring our bag to carry our produce home, turning away the ubiquitous plastic sacks. The young man at the eggplant stall comments that it gives him hope to see more and more people with "green bags." I wish for a market basket, with a comfortable handle. We purchase a dollar's worth of roma tomatoes, an eggplant to fit my cupped hands, local honey for toast with butter, and a basket of okra pods. One feels hopeful at a farmer's market, however small, for the earth's bounty, for those who plant and reap, and for the long market tradition continued for yet another season.
Our routines begin to fall into place: Wednesday afternoon to market and library. In colored ink, the words march across the calendar.
Today, we visited the local farmer's market: several vegetable stalls covered with canopies, a table of honey, and one of goat milk fudge. We bring our bag to carry our produce home, turning away the ubiquitous plastic sacks. The young man at the eggplant stall comments that it gives him hope to see more and more people with "green bags." I wish for a market basket, with a comfortable handle. We purchase a dollar's worth of roma tomatoes, an eggplant to fit my cupped hands, local honey for toast with butter, and a basket of okra pods. One feels hopeful at a farmer's market, however small, for the earth's bounty, for those who plant and reap, and for the long market tradition continued for yet another season.
Our routines begin to fall into place: Wednesday afternoon to market and library. In colored ink, the words march across the calendar.
Life, Re-Ordered
The deck overlooks 13 acres of tangled woods, wildflowers, and a myriad of weeds. A path leads into the thicket, beckoning. The first morning, a doe and two fawns grazed just beyond the edge of the yard, in the midst of the purple flowers as yet unrecognized. A hawk krees overhead, perhaps leaving and returning to her young. Nuthatches, in their close knit group hop and bicker, feeding from the tree at the edge of the yard.
Slowly, from many boxes, books and pots, towels and candleholders emerge, shyly into this new place. We learn the names of the streets and avenues, locate parks and walking paths, answer other people's phone calls, reassure the dogs, find ways to make this, too, home.
Slowly, from many boxes, books and pots, towels and candleholders emerge, shyly into this new place. We learn the names of the streets and avenues, locate parks and walking paths, answer other people's phone calls, reassure the dogs, find ways to make this, too, home.
Pause
Tomorrow the madness begins in earnest. The cardboard boxes filling up the rooms, piles of paper, strangers in the house. Everything in a parcel, unhelpful labels on packed boxes, no room to move. In two days it will be over, loaded onto the truck, on the way to elsewhere.
Last night, home from my trip across five states, I found three zuchini and a tomato finally ready on the vine. A small harvest: tomorrow's dinner, with salt and pepper. A simple impulse in the midst of disorder. The mystery vine trails across the stone path, more tomatoes grow on the vines, absorbing the sun and heat. More profusion. The urge to grow amazes me.
The herbs fill out their pots. A moveable garden, to adorn the small house on the end of the street which will soon be, however temporarily, home.
***
The work awaits, the writing must wait, at least for now, on the blog. I'll be back, in a week or two after re-assembling our home. I'm pleased to know, however, that you'll be here online, when I return. Some things don't have to be uprooted. For this I'm grateful.
***
Last night, home from my trip across five states, I found three zuchini and a tomato finally ready on the vine. A small harvest: tomorrow's dinner, with salt and pepper. A simple impulse in the midst of disorder. The mystery vine trails across the stone path, more tomatoes grow on the vines, absorbing the sun and heat. More profusion. The urge to grow amazes me.
The herbs fill out their pots. A moveable garden, to adorn the small house on the end of the street which will soon be, however temporarily, home.
***
The work awaits, the writing must wait, at least for now, on the blog. I'll be back, in a week or two after re-assembling our home. I'm pleased to know, however, that you'll be here online, when I return. Some things don't have to be uprooted. For this I'm grateful.
***
Smoke & Light
For the last three nights, the firecrackers and roman candles have filled the air with a film of smoke and set the dogs' nerves on edge. Even tonight, after the town's display over the park, the noise continues, and will continue for hours.
Early in the week, the days are punctuated with short bursts of explosions, growing to tonight's peak: every street and cul-de-sac filled with children and laughter. The water hose and buckets at hand, we light our corner of the world, with sons grown tall. Five years in this place, a place one could call Home.
We say goodbye with sparks and smoke. We learn to sleep with the commotion.
***
***
Look, Every Day
The gourd vine grows wildly again this year. A mystery. Baby pumpkins? Striped, winged gourds? Little white ones?
Out front, in the flower beds, a watermelon plant, perhaps from last year's Fourth of July festivities. A straggler, a weed. Is there time for it to bear fruit?
I don't know. I look every day, to wonder at the profusion.
Out front, in the flower beds, a watermelon plant, perhaps from last year's Fourth of July festivities. A straggler, a weed. Is there time for it to bear fruit?
I don't know. I look every day, to wonder at the profusion.
Child, we've done our best.
Someone will have to weed and spread
The young sprouts. Sprinkle them in the hour
When shadow falls across their bed.
You should try to look at them every day
Because when they come to full flower
I will be away.
--from "Heart's Needle" by W.D. Snodgrass
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