Although I'm sorry to miss Keith's birthday today (my girls had better get a cake to our house today!) I am having a great day. I flew to Baltimore this morning in order to help my oldest daughter Melissa drive down to Florida with Remi and Elliot (my grandchildren) tonight so they can join us for Jennifer's wedding. So, this is the ultimate in short visits. Plus, we're going to do it all over again on Monday in reverse.
It's cool up here!!! Yay! The leaves have changed color and the air is dry and cool. (I can tell because I get a static electric shock every time I touch something.) I forgot how much I love the fall in the north.
Flight was great. On time. Smooth. Beautiful skies. Easily got through both terminals. Boy, that doesn't happen too often.
Florida is a great place, but I have really missed the climate here. The Canadian in me comes out this time of year. By December I want to turn off the air conditioner!
Keith, on the other hand, seems to always be cold lately. More than usual. So our tug of war with the temperature has become a battle of wits as to who can change the setting on the AC quicker. I turn on the fan, Keith turns it off. I fling off all the covers, Keith bundles up. I open the windows... you get the picture.
So, for now, I get to enjoy the cold air all by myself with no conflict. Keith can enjoy the 80 degree temperatures while I luxuriate in icy cold winds and falling leaves.
Jennifer's wedding has a winter theme -- so I guess I'll have to be satisfied with pretend snowflakes for my cold weather "fix." I wonder if I could get Keith to go to the ICE thing at Gaylord Palms before he has his surgery?
On a separate note -- Keith is one of the hardest people to buy a birthday gift for. So, for now, I am sending him my love and affection through this blog until we are together again tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A birthday wish
This morning is Keith's birthday. He's 48 today.
For years now we've had a friendly "battle" of the ages. As in, I'm older and Keith likes to make jokes about it. Now he makes jokes about just wanting to make it to 50.
All that fuss I made about turning 50 seems pretty petty now.
We do fuss a great deal about getting older in our American culture. Getting older is seen as something to be feared and denied (as if we have any choice in the matter). We tend to talk about "the elderly" as if they were aliens from some other planet, rather than simply ourselves if we manage to live long enough.
I hated turning 30, 40 and 50. And I'll probably hate turning 60 too. But I look forward to hating it as well. Growing old together is now a goal for us. A goal we once took for granted.
Keith and I have stuck together through a great deal of turmoil at times. We have made lots of little mistakes and a few big ones. However, the one thing we could always see ahead was the two of us together, being cool grandparents together. Taking our grandkids on roller coasters, swimming, sailing and on trips across the country is one of our greatest joys.
We were even developing this neat scenario for retiring together on a larger sailboat and taking off whenever the urge took us. We want to go to Europe and England together. We have stories to write.
Cancer has put everything on hold. Keith is so anxious for things to just get done he would rather have the surgery just to move forward. The waiting to see what will happen seems to be the worst of all. Waiting for test results. Waiting for a response to treatment. Waiting to feel better. Waiting for a new staging, a new prognosis. Waiting. Waiting. And more waiting. It feels endless.
In the end, we are waiting for life to begin again. We want to stop waiting and go back to doing. We want to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, graduations and all the million small events that comprise our lives. We want to grow old together.
I believe this will all happen in time. I'm willing to wait just a little longer.
Happy Birthday my love. I look forward to you turning 50 so you too can get the senior discount at Sea World.
For years now we've had a friendly "battle" of the ages. As in, I'm older and Keith likes to make jokes about it. Now he makes jokes about just wanting to make it to 50.
All that fuss I made about turning 50 seems pretty petty now.
We do fuss a great deal about getting older in our American culture. Getting older is seen as something to be feared and denied (as if we have any choice in the matter). We tend to talk about "the elderly" as if they were aliens from some other planet, rather than simply ourselves if we manage to live long enough.
I hated turning 30, 40 and 50. And I'll probably hate turning 60 too. But I look forward to hating it as well. Growing old together is now a goal for us. A goal we once took for granted.
Keith and I have stuck together through a great deal of turmoil at times. We have made lots of little mistakes and a few big ones. However, the one thing we could always see ahead was the two of us together, being cool grandparents together. Taking our grandkids on roller coasters, swimming, sailing and on trips across the country is one of our greatest joys.
We were even developing this neat scenario for retiring together on a larger sailboat and taking off whenever the urge took us. We want to go to Europe and England together. We have stories to write.
Cancer has put everything on hold. Keith is so anxious for things to just get done he would rather have the surgery just to move forward. The waiting to see what will happen seems to be the worst of all. Waiting for test results. Waiting for a response to treatment. Waiting to feel better. Waiting for a new staging, a new prognosis. Waiting. Waiting. And more waiting. It feels endless.
In the end, we are waiting for life to begin again. We want to stop waiting and go back to doing. We want to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, graduations and all the million small events that comprise our lives. We want to grow old together.
I believe this will all happen in time. I'm willing to wait just a little longer.
Happy Birthday my love. I look forward to you turning 50 so you too can get the senior discount at Sea World.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Lucky after all
Keith is a lucky man. Not about the cancer, of course, but about the people he works with. Today was another example of friendship and support from a group of people I mostly know through stories and anecdotes. These friends and co-workers of Keith's at the Sentinel have given him the kind of support that truly makes a difference. They call, they write, they send thoughtful items, they keep him in touch with what is going on in the big, wide world outside the doctor's offices. When I read the scrapbook created by his friends it made us smile together. And cry just a tiny bit, too.
Knowing that there are people who care is so important to recovery. It has helped Keith stay connected and feel that there really will be life after cancer. It is so difficult for a man who has worked hard all his life to be forced to stay home and rest. Feeling like an invalid can actually make a person an invalid! (I hate irony.) So often Keith feels guilty if he can't help me with something, or if he feels sick or fatigued. It must seem like weakness to him (damn our society and what it does to the male psyche!), but it's not. His job right now is to recover enough to survive surgery, which, in turn, will require that he recover from in order to survive the cancer. It all sounds like a Joseph Heller story. (Catch 22 for you young'uns.)
Knowing there are people out there rooting for him is an amazing help. It boosts the spirit. It takes some of the loneliness out of the battle. And it is, ultimately, a very lonely battle.
Our bodies are the shelter of our souls and when we connect in these small ways I believe we create bridges between us. We are each separate and apart, yet still tied together through the bonds of friendship and affection. When we help each other, we strengthen ourselves.
Thank you. Everyone. You are all a blessing in our lives.
Knowing that there are people who care is so important to recovery. It has helped Keith stay connected and feel that there really will be life after cancer. It is so difficult for a man who has worked hard all his life to be forced to stay home and rest. Feeling like an invalid can actually make a person an invalid! (I hate irony.) So often Keith feels guilty if he can't help me with something, or if he feels sick or fatigued. It must seem like weakness to him (damn our society and what it does to the male psyche!), but it's not. His job right now is to recover enough to survive surgery, which, in turn, will require that he recover from in order to survive the cancer. It all sounds like a Joseph Heller story. (Catch 22 for you young'uns.)
Knowing there are people out there rooting for him is an amazing help. It boosts the spirit. It takes some of the loneliness out of the battle. And it is, ultimately, a very lonely battle.
Our bodies are the shelter of our souls and when we connect in these small ways I believe we create bridges between us. We are each separate and apart, yet still tied together through the bonds of friendship and affection. When we help each other, we strengthen ourselves.
Thank you. Everyone. You are all a blessing in our lives.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Playing with metaphors
Yesterday Keith and I met with his surgeon to talk about what will happen in December. Dr. Boyer was very soft-spoken, kind and clearly explained the details of the surgery and answered every question.
The surgery will require a great deal of strength on Keith's part and a fantastic amount of skill on the part of Dr. Boyer. He assured us that he has a lot of experience doing this surgery, which I believe is even more dangerous than open heart surgery. He also told us he has a high success rate. Since the mortality rate in some parts of the country are as high as 25 percent or more and his runs in the 1 to 2 percent rate, I feel like we just got lucky for a change.
Keith is still doing amazingly well, but at the same time is showing fatigue. He is so tired of the stomach tube, which he hasn't even had to use. And when the chemo pump is finally removed I think we're going to celebrate by doing something special.
We are closing in on our daughter Jennifer's wedding date. Keith's mom is finally in rehab and continuing to improve. The weather has become as beautiful as it can be (ah, to go sailing again). So life continues to "get better" as well.
Through these difficult weeks (which have been complicated by other personal matters that I can't write about here) Keith and I have been redefining our relationship as a couple and discovering that (surprise!) we have become the anchor for a very large family both younger and older than us. At some point in time we became (gasp) grownups.
Now you may laugh and think -- for goodness sake, you are a couple in your 40s (and 50s) with a large family, of course you're grownups! Yes, that's true. But until this year there was always this feeling of being kind of young and carefree. Life would always work out without much effort on our part. Before we just helped our kids because, well, they were our kids! Now they are working adults and their problems are now grownup problems and we are their anchor -- where they turn for guidance with big things that are new to them. My sister doesn't have a family of her own (unless you count three hyperactive pomeranians) so we offer her a family life whenever she feels the need for one. Keith's mom, who has helped us tremendously over the years we were raising our kids, is now in need of an anchor in her own storm of illness and trouble.
Sometimes I think we are not only the anchor, but the entire ship. Our lives are so entertwined with each other it is sometimes hard to extricate the parts that are uniquely our own.
Where is this rambling metaphor going? I just realized it myself. Keith is the ship and the anchor for this family (always has been since I met him when he was only 20 years old). The thought of him not making it through this cancer terrifies all of us . It is Keith the girls call when they need help. It is Keith I call on when I am afraid, angry, joyful, or just bored. It is Keith who calls his mother every day just so she knows that someone is looking out for her. It is Keith who knows the importance of the words "I love you" not just to his wife, but to his mother, children, and grandchildren. Even Jennifer's fiance Chris and Aimee's boyfriend Luis will come to Keith for help and guidance. Because they all know what I know -- that Keith cares about them and will help them if it is possible.
This family is a ship of love and caring. (That does not mean we never fight. That would be unrealistic. We have plenty of disagreements.) Keith has been the kind of father to his children I dreamed of growing up. He talks, he listens, he cares, he loves them -- and he tells them he loves them so there is no mistaking or having to guess his feelings. The family has grown up strong and healthy because of Keith. Bea has survived the most difficult time of her life with his steady support. Even my sister, whom I love dearly, who has a fairly low level of expectations when it comes to men, knows that Keith is a wonderful man.
We have not had a perfect marriage by any means. There have been a few times when we came close to splitting up. When a person feels unhappy about something one of the first responses seems to be to look at your partner and blame them. It's stupid, but natural. But, there has been one defining feature in our marriage and that has been our ability to talk to each other and say the things that need to be said. We listen. This "ship of fools" sails with Keith at the helm. I just raise the sails and wait for the wind to arrive. And sometimes we have to throw out the anchor and wait for the storm to pass.
Eventually, all storms do pass and the sky will be clear again.
The surgery will require a great deal of strength on Keith's part and a fantastic amount of skill on the part of Dr. Boyer. He assured us that he has a lot of experience doing this surgery, which I believe is even more dangerous than open heart surgery. He also told us he has a high success rate. Since the mortality rate in some parts of the country are as high as 25 percent or more and his runs in the 1 to 2 percent rate, I feel like we just got lucky for a change.
Keith is still doing amazingly well, but at the same time is showing fatigue. He is so tired of the stomach tube, which he hasn't even had to use. And when the chemo pump is finally removed I think we're going to celebrate by doing something special.
We are closing in on our daughter Jennifer's wedding date. Keith's mom is finally in rehab and continuing to improve. The weather has become as beautiful as it can be (ah, to go sailing again). So life continues to "get better" as well.
Through these difficult weeks (which have been complicated by other personal matters that I can't write about here) Keith and I have been redefining our relationship as a couple and discovering that (surprise!) we have become the anchor for a very large family both younger and older than us. At some point in time we became (gasp) grownups.
Now you may laugh and think -- for goodness sake, you are a couple in your 40s (and 50s) with a large family, of course you're grownups! Yes, that's true. But until this year there was always this feeling of being kind of young and carefree. Life would always work out without much effort on our part. Before we just helped our kids because, well, they were our kids! Now they are working adults and their problems are now grownup problems and we are their anchor -- where they turn for guidance with big things that are new to them. My sister doesn't have a family of her own (unless you count three hyperactive pomeranians) so we offer her a family life whenever she feels the need for one. Keith's mom, who has helped us tremendously over the years we were raising our kids, is now in need of an anchor in her own storm of illness and trouble.
Sometimes I think we are not only the anchor, but the entire ship. Our lives are so entertwined with each other it is sometimes hard to extricate the parts that are uniquely our own.
Where is this rambling metaphor going? I just realized it myself. Keith is the ship and the anchor for this family (always has been since I met him when he was only 20 years old). The thought of him not making it through this cancer terrifies all of us . It is Keith the girls call when they need help. It is Keith I call on when I am afraid, angry, joyful, or just bored. It is Keith who calls his mother every day just so she knows that someone is looking out for her. It is Keith who knows the importance of the words "I love you" not just to his wife, but to his mother, children, and grandchildren. Even Jennifer's fiance Chris and Aimee's boyfriend Luis will come to Keith for help and guidance. Because they all know what I know -- that Keith cares about them and will help them if it is possible.
This family is a ship of love and caring. (That does not mean we never fight. That would be unrealistic. We have plenty of disagreements.) Keith has been the kind of father to his children I dreamed of growing up. He talks, he listens, he cares, he loves them -- and he tells them he loves them so there is no mistaking or having to guess his feelings. The family has grown up strong and healthy because of Keith. Bea has survived the most difficult time of her life with his steady support. Even my sister, whom I love dearly, who has a fairly low level of expectations when it comes to men, knows that Keith is a wonderful man.
We have not had a perfect marriage by any means. There have been a few times when we came close to splitting up. When a person feels unhappy about something one of the first responses seems to be to look at your partner and blame them. It's stupid, but natural. But, there has been one defining feature in our marriage and that has been our ability to talk to each other and say the things that need to be said. We listen. This "ship of fools" sails with Keith at the helm. I just raise the sails and wait for the wind to arrive. And sometimes we have to throw out the anchor and wait for the storm to pass.
Eventually, all storms do pass and the sky will be clear again.
Monday, November 12, 2007
I'm back
I can't believe I have been away from this for so long. Life lately has been a series of illnesses, constant work and never-ending problems. Keith's cancer has almost taken a back seat lately to all the various daily "stuff" that seems to take over. Life is so very strange and twisted indeed.
I am absolutely amazed at Keith's resilience and stamina while undergoing chemo and radiation. He is still driving to the doctors by himself. He was able to grill hotdogs for awhile on Sunday while we celebrated one of our daughter's birthdays. He is still able to go out to eat (although we take our time with eating) from time to time. Although he tires easily, he is still able to do quite a bit around the house. Nausea has been more of a problem, but he deals with it as gracefully as possible. He still has his sense of humor. He is a bit grumpy at times when he's tired, but so are we all.
The human ability to cope with difficult situations is really quite remarkable. Serious illness often brings out the best in people. It requires us to find reserves of strength. It forces us to focus on important matters. It causes us to intensely notice the quality of our lives. When facing our mortality and our fragility we must look to others as well as ourselves. We are forced to open our lives and become vulnerable emotionally and physically. Our lives are no longer exclusively our own as we must trust in the expertise of stangers to help us get better.
When my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer I was the one who took the call from the doctor and had to tell my mother she had a short time to live. This was a conversation I never imagined I would ever have with my mom. I sat in that room and calmly explained what was wrong and what kinds of treatments they recommended. Mom was also calm. She knew it was coming, but at the same time, it was still a shock. She smiled and made a joke about not getting to go to Las Vegas with me. She asked questions. She accepted everything I said. She accepted her fate.
Later, I came to understand how bad the cancer had become in her. The lung cancer had spread to her brain, and to the soft tissues of her abdomen. She had developed tunnel vision, could not read, and could not follow simple steps, such as how to turn on the shower. She couldn't remember many important people and events. She called me Theresa a great deal (my sister's name). Sitting waiting for her radiation treatment I asked her if she wanted to go see her sister in Ottawa. She turned to me with a puzzled look on her face and asked, "I have a sister?"
Mom was one of nine children -- and she couldn't remember any of them.
After her radiation treatments on her brain I took her to see her great-grandchildren before her chemo started. We spent a long weekend in picnics and zoo visits with her older grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. She played ball with the kids and watched them roll down hills. They talked and laughed a lot. She was very weak and often felt confused, but at the same time delighted in the company of these children. In the car she told me "That was the best day in my entire life."
She meant it. Mom had reached that special point in her illness where the illness could no longer rob her of life. She had taken that day and made it a metaphor for her life -- joy in the moment. It finally struck home what she had tried to tell me for many years in words. Don't worry so much about the future that you lose sight of the present. Treasure the day that you have. Make the best of those brief moments.
Her favorite song was a Beatles tune that expressed her feelings about life -- Let It Be.
I think, perhaps, that is an anthem I would like to try to follow, although my personality is quite different from my mother's. I have trouble "letting things be." I worry. I stress. I over-analyze at times. I think and think and think until my brain feels like a swirl of images. I see Keith's illness in every possible scenario, from best to worst. I read medical abstracts and studies until I'm falling over with fatigue. I bounce from acceptance to anger to determination to despair and then start the process all over again. I look at Keith and think, "how can you be so calm?" Then realize how stupid that thought is. He is calm because there is no other choice. You have to accept those things that cannot be changed, or you cannot survive. The ability to cope is no miracle. It is an imperative. We cope or we cannot function. We cope and move on because we must. We cope and adapt and accept.
The Beatles and my mother were right -- Let It Be.
Accept. Fight. Move On. Live. There is no other choice. Stress and worry simply suck the joy out of life and joy is there for the taking even on the darkest days. Sometimes the joy is a brief moment. Sometimes the joy is expansive and encompasses our lives from day to day.
Keith finds those tiny moments. As did my mother. Many do the same each day who face similar challenges. It's the only way.
I am absolutely amazed at Keith's resilience and stamina while undergoing chemo and radiation. He is still driving to the doctors by himself. He was able to grill hotdogs for awhile on Sunday while we celebrated one of our daughter's birthdays. He is still able to go out to eat (although we take our time with eating) from time to time. Although he tires easily, he is still able to do quite a bit around the house. Nausea has been more of a problem, but he deals with it as gracefully as possible. He still has his sense of humor. He is a bit grumpy at times when he's tired, but so are we all.
The human ability to cope with difficult situations is really quite remarkable. Serious illness often brings out the best in people. It requires us to find reserves of strength. It forces us to focus on important matters. It causes us to intensely notice the quality of our lives. When facing our mortality and our fragility we must look to others as well as ourselves. We are forced to open our lives and become vulnerable emotionally and physically. Our lives are no longer exclusively our own as we must trust in the expertise of stangers to help us get better.
When my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer I was the one who took the call from the doctor and had to tell my mother she had a short time to live. This was a conversation I never imagined I would ever have with my mom. I sat in that room and calmly explained what was wrong and what kinds of treatments they recommended. Mom was also calm. She knew it was coming, but at the same time, it was still a shock. She smiled and made a joke about not getting to go to Las Vegas with me. She asked questions. She accepted everything I said. She accepted her fate.
Later, I came to understand how bad the cancer had become in her. The lung cancer had spread to her brain, and to the soft tissues of her abdomen. She had developed tunnel vision, could not read, and could not follow simple steps, such as how to turn on the shower. She couldn't remember many important people and events. She called me Theresa a great deal (my sister's name). Sitting waiting for her radiation treatment I asked her if she wanted to go see her sister in Ottawa. She turned to me with a puzzled look on her face and asked, "I have a sister?"
Mom was one of nine children -- and she couldn't remember any of them.
After her radiation treatments on her brain I took her to see her great-grandchildren before her chemo started. We spent a long weekend in picnics and zoo visits with her older grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. She played ball with the kids and watched them roll down hills. They talked and laughed a lot. She was very weak and often felt confused, but at the same time delighted in the company of these children. In the car she told me "That was the best day in my entire life."
She meant it. Mom had reached that special point in her illness where the illness could no longer rob her of life. She had taken that day and made it a metaphor for her life -- joy in the moment. It finally struck home what she had tried to tell me for many years in words. Don't worry so much about the future that you lose sight of the present. Treasure the day that you have. Make the best of those brief moments.
Her favorite song was a Beatles tune that expressed her feelings about life -- Let It Be.
I think, perhaps, that is an anthem I would like to try to follow, although my personality is quite different from my mother's. I have trouble "letting things be." I worry. I stress. I over-analyze at times. I think and think and think until my brain feels like a swirl of images. I see Keith's illness in every possible scenario, from best to worst. I read medical abstracts and studies until I'm falling over with fatigue. I bounce from acceptance to anger to determination to despair and then start the process all over again. I look at Keith and think, "how can you be so calm?" Then realize how stupid that thought is. He is calm because there is no other choice. You have to accept those things that cannot be changed, or you cannot survive. The ability to cope is no miracle. It is an imperative. We cope or we cannot function. We cope and move on because we must. We cope and adapt and accept.
The Beatles and my mother were right -- Let It Be.
Accept. Fight. Move On. Live. There is no other choice. Stress and worry simply suck the joy out of life and joy is there for the taking even on the darkest days. Sometimes the joy is a brief moment. Sometimes the joy is expansive and encompasses our lives from day to day.
Keith finds those tiny moments. As did my mother. Many do the same each day who face similar challenges. It's the only way.
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