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.