On This Thanksgiving

 

"Optimism is really rooted in gratitude."

~ Michael J. Fox 

As this third Thanksgiving since John died approaches, I find myself with a sense of optimism I have not felt for many months.  Surprisingly so, considering this past year filled with a global pandemic, isolation, political unrest, and the rampant fear, anxiety, and anger that resulted.  But reading this quote by the actor, Michael J. Fox, makes so much sense to me because in spite of daily upsets and conspiracy theories, in spite of constant "the sky is falling" and threats and recriminations, I have managed somehow to record 3-5 statements of gratitude every night.  On only one occasion were the statements a repeat of "I made it through the day."  And though not always optimistic, I know the practice kept me from despair.

Were John alive, we would have engaged with a Thanksgiving ritual of taking turns expressing what we were grateful for over the past year.  This year, I will initiate the ritual with my sister and brother-in-law with whom I am staying while I await the availability of my own apartment in the rolling hills of central NY.  For, this, in itself, is certainly one of the most important items on my year's list of gratitudes.  

I offer my list in the hope that it will trigger yours, initiate the possibility that you will adopt this ritual, and conclude with a feeling of optimism for the coming year.

This year I am grateful for:

• having made it without contracting the virus
• having friends who were as careful as I was, thus never endangering me
• the technology that made it, and will make it, possible for us to stay in contact, possibly the silver lining in this mess
• the e-mails and jokes that brought moments of laughter and respite from the steady stream of vitriol on the airwaves and social media
• my circle of "sisters" - you know who you are - who message every morning and every evening to stay in touch, just in case
• dessert sunsets in Utah
• autumn colors in NY
• the constant companionship of my sweet rescue dog, Rufus
• having sold my home in UT in 2 days
• the incredible efforts of support from friends who were there when I most needed them and helped to make the move a success in a very short time
• the kind notes and e-mails that acknowledged the contributions I tried to make to my little Utah community and the many friendships I forged in the process;  the notes and e-mails from old friends to encourage and cheer me on
• a safe automobile journey across the country, thanks to the chauffeuring of a young friend and the absence of snow
• her continued help in tying up loose ends; I never could have pulled this off without her
• the care and generosity of my sister and brother-in-law, especially his wonderful cooking and both of their patience and tutelage as I learn my way around newer technology and newer environs
• getting to know them at a different level, growing to love and appreciate them even more
• chocolate covered blueberries and glasses of chilled white wine
• finding an apartment that meets all of my criteria 
• the unexpected kindnesses of strangers, strangers who are willing to wear masks
• the prospect of seeing old friends I haven't seen in years and family I have yet to meet
• being with my sister on the second anniversary of John's death, she who was with us that night
• warm memories that bring smiles now instead of tears
• being in the position to explore the area, make new friends, strengthen family ties, indulge in hobbies - how fortunate am I?
• and last, but most certainly not least, the e-mail from an old friend on the day I was questioning my decision to move, wondering what lies ahead of me, filled with doubts and misgivings.  Her kind assurance that John would surely say, "that's my Angie", was the perfect boost. I, too, know he would. 

With so much to be grateful for, how could I not be optimistic?  

.

 

 

You Are Not Alone

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

~ Allen Saunders

This is a longer and much different post that I intended to write in February.  Life did indeed happen while I was making other plans.  What follows is a compilation of excerpts from my personal journal.  I share them, not to offer any profound insights or solutions, but in the hope that you can identify with some of my thoughts and emotions and find that at least a little comforting.

Mar. 3 - This virus - why am I only attending to it now?  Apparently, it's been ravaging other countries for weeks now.  This is the downside of not watching the news.  How many other Americans are unaware of the problems that may be coming our way?

Mar. 4 - At a recent rally, the President actually said we could wake up one day and it would be gone.  It's one thing for me to be oblivious, but the President?

Mar. 6 - Italy has shut down all of its schools.  And still, we do not seem to be taking this seriously.  This denial and even arrogance is astonishing and bodes serious concerns for us, I fear.

Mar. 9 - Why am I feeling such a sense of trepidation?

Mar. 11 - Italy is in complete lockdown.  I just watched videos of Italians in Siena, Naples and somewhere in Sicily standing on their balconies singing together to try to uplift their spirits.  One of my favorite memories is of a visit with friends to Siena on a bright afternoon, eating gelato among a throng of tourists.  Today both husbands are gone, taken by cancer within the same week and Siena looks like a ghost town. I weep at the breadth of loss.

Mar. 12 - We've canceled our April and May luncheons.  If our government won't give us a clear direction, we have to make decisions to protect our selves and our membership.  I am so proud of this Board.  And speaking of decisions, I am putting boundaries around watching the news.  I've been glued to the TV, seeking information and recommendations from the scientific and medical communities.  But too much information and I leapfrog across depression into despair.  I need to pay as much attention to my mental and emotional health as I do my physical health.

Mar. 13 - Emerging voices are sounding an alarm that we are not prepared for a crisis of this magnitude.  Not enough ICU beds, not enough supplies or personnel should this hit us the way it has hit Italy or Spain.  Not enough people taking this seriously.  The attack on science and our press in recent months has diminished their authority.  I fear this pandemic is going to accentuate the cost of our political polarity and expose the underbelly of our society.  We are certainly going to see an interesting cast of heroes and villains.

Mar. 14 - A FOX commentator asserting this is a hoax, accusing opponents of using the virus to embarrass the President.  This is not helpful.  We need facts and reliable information.  How do I remain responsible and sane amidst comments like this and the name-calling and diatribe on TV and social media venues?!  Boundaries, boundaries!

Mar. 15 - I just created a binder of lists - books to read, friends to contact, projects to complete, topics/ideas to explore, hobbies to take up again, etc.  At least, it helped to restore a minimal sense of control.

Mar. 17 - I woke this morning and set about my usual routine - breakfast, taking a few moments to notice and appreciate the shrub beyond the courtyard wall in its coat of purple spring buds, then curling up in my favorite chair with my journal in hand.  Then, I made the mistake of checking the stats - 4565 cases in the U.S. and 87 dead.  The juxtaposition leaves me at best confused and at worst, anxious.  And if I am anxious, retired here in the safety of southwestern UT, what about all those millions of people out of work, many in congested cities?  How are they coping?

Mar. 18 - Watching views of people ignoring the call for social distancing - or is it that they just don't care?

Mar. 19 - Sixteen months today since John died.  I am taken by a wave of relief that he died when and how he died - his valiant heart simply giving up the struggle, in our home, his hand in mine, my sister here to support me.  How would I have handled watching him struggle for air behind a glass barrier as I have seen images of people in just that circumstance?  What if our doctors have to decide who they will try to save as Italian doctors are facing?

Mar. 21 - Structure, focus, mindfulness, gratitude - I cling to these words.  Far too easy to descend into anxiety or outrage at the ineptitude of our federal government.  Thank heaven for some of the governors who are showing up in this leadership vacuum.

Mar. 23 - Thankfully, I have much to be grateful for - friends checking in, the network of support I'm blessed with, learning to use new technology, spring weather, living in a relatively small and safe community, and always the companionship of my sweet rescue dog, Rufus.

Mar. 26 - The cloudbursts of personal grief seem to have subsided, blown away by the larger sense of loss, existential grief as it were.  So much loss - jobs, security, trust in our institutions, in one another, in the belief that we will be strong enough, resilient enough, smart enough and united enough to emerge from this whole and healthy.  My habit of recording five things to be grateful every night is a sanity saver.

Mar. 27 - I have to remember not to try to make sense out of nonsense - it's impossible and exhausting.

Mar. 28 - Thank heavens for images of individuals helping their older neighbors or the creative uses of technology to stay connected, or the generosity of some of our athletes and celebrities and the amazing courage and compassion of our health care workers.  These images comprise a life preserver in this sea of uncertainty. They restore a sense of hope for me.

That's enough for now.  I hope this does as I had hoped for some of you out there - you are not alone.

Thank Goodness for the Little Things

"In grief, the little things are the big things."

~Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D

Grief One Day at a Time

I have been expressing my thankfulness for little things in gratitude journals for over 40 years.  This practice has been a support through divorce, illness, and times of conflict and stress, but never as much as these past months since John's death.  So, upon coming across this quote recently, I decided to revisit the gratitude journal I've just completed to see what little things buoyed me up this past summer.  Could it be that noticing and appreciating these things contributed to the summer being easier than I had dreaded?  

• a bumper crop of roses - John would have been so pleased
• a hummingbird hovering within inches of my face
• chilled red grapes
• a decent night's sleep
• and an afternoon nap on the patio chaise
• figuring out how to program the TV on my own
• frozen yogurt on a hot day
• a good book - great writing, thought-provoking, elegant - the perfect book for the moment
• an unexpected call from an old friend
• and an invitation for lunch from a new one
• two dozen, yes two, yellow tulips (my favorite flower) from a friend, "just because"
• the desert sky at dusk
• a slice of cheesecake that I treated myself to
• chicken noodle soup when I'm under the weather
• how much better everything sounds with my new hearing aids
• finding an old love letter
• a sudden, unexpected happy memory
• a card, a joke, a silly gift -  moments that evoked giggles, even outright belly laughs
• a customer service agent who actually provides good service
• helpful strangers who reach objects on top shelves without my asking (I'm only 4'11 and need all the help I can get)
• anyone who asks how I'm doing and is willing to hear the truth
• friends who have walked this path before me and can reassure me that what I'm experiencing is normal
• a stranger telling me how much she or he enjoyed John and misses him
• old musicals - especially anything with Gene Kelly
• and gripping British mysteries
• a good news story that sets the tone for a positive day
• stumbling on an inspirational quote
• finding something I've misplaced 
• and always, always, my sweet Rufus, my little companion, who greets me with pirouettes and soft growls, tailing wagging, a guarantee I never walk into an empty house

Reflecting a bit on this list, I can see that this simple practice of recording 3-5 little things I'm grateful for every night is, indeed, one of the little things that is helping me endure this grief.  Without this as an established practice, I suspect I could find it almost impossible to notice the little things. For this enduring practice of finding gratitude for the little things, I am most grateful.

This Much I Know

"Healing in grief is a lot like the onset of spring.  It's unreliable and fickle."

~ Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.

Unreliable and fickle.  Certainly my experience.  It's uncanny how this spring my inner mood so reflects the weather - or is it vice versa?   

Some days, the skies are gunmetal gray and the temperatures have dropped by ten degrees.  It's all I can do to get out of my nightgown and accomplish anything.  A song, a telephone conversation, an unexpected request related to John's death and I'm weeping.  A grief burst to rival the cloudbursts that have been all too common this spring.  

Some days, I wake to sunshine and the expectation of a good day, but by noon, banks of gray clouds roll in and the threat of yet another cloudburst increases by the hour.  On these days, it takes so little to unleash my own cloudburst of tears.  For how could those grief experts who warn you to prepare for the first anniversary or birthday or holiday know how easily I can fall apart at the sight of the first tulip, remembering the delight he took in planting them.  Or the sight of the first hummingbird, reminding me that he is not here to fill the feeder.  Or how even anticipating the first roses brings tears as I know he will never again bring in a fresh rose in the morning to greet my day,  How could they know?

Lately, however, there are days when I think I'm making progress through the forest of my grief.  The sun shines.  It's warm and a breeze whispers the shrubbery.   I have energy, look forward to the day and getting out and among folks.  The memories are sweet.  I barely shed a tear.  I even laugh.  On these days, I can believe there will be more such days, hopefully, many more.

So, this much I have come to know about this path I'm walking - the journey is, at best, unreliable and fickle.  Grief bursts are to be expected at the most unexpected times.  They are a part of the journey, but they, like spring showers, eventually pass.  So, I do best when I take it a day at a time, some days an hour at a time.  

I know that quotes like the above help me to make sense of my experience.  I know that the good days, and there are good days, are cause for celebration. The good days, and there are more good days, are cause for optimism.  I know that somehow, someday, the firsts will not overwhelm me.  I know that I will survive, and maybe, just maybe, even thrive again.  Even if, today, the clouds roll in again.

Hope for the Best; Prepare for the Worst

The first time I heard "hope for the best, plan for the worst" was the morning the man designated to become our hematologist delivered the news that blood tests revealed John had a cancer of the blood and perhaps only six months to live.  

Dr. W. was the hematologist on call the morning after I had driven John to the ER, struggling to breathe. Tall, lanky, soft-spoken, and unassuming - my first thought was of Ichabod Crane. He said as gently as I think anyone could that he thought it could be leukemia, advanced and apparently aggressive. When I broke down in tears, he put his hand on my shoulder and uttered the phrase that I have since inscribed behind my eyelids.

After a second series of tests at MD Anderson, a diagnosis of Therapy Related MDS was confirmed and the prognosis extended to two years. Once again we were told this cancer is incurable and once again exhorted to hope for the best (which would be improved treatment to add life expectancy), but plan for the worst.

It has been a year since that morning I brought John to the ER.  We somehow continue to be hopeful, referring to John's cancer as currently incurable, learning how to work effectively with the clinic, consulting with MD Anderson, adjusting schedules and habits.  All thanks to my naturally optimistic husband.  He, who reminds me he is not a statistic.  He, who declares he will live longer than two years.  

I, on the other hand, at my best could be described as a realistic pragmatist.  On my worst days, as a chronic worrier.  So, I research and note questions for the doctors.  I wake in the middle of the night to make note of something else I need to learn "just in case" or add to our "plans." I try to imagine life without him.  

Historically, we have learned to balance his optimism with my pragmatism, to temper my tendency to worry with his hopefulness, to sustain a healthy tension between our two world views.  But this is new territory. His cheerleading hasn't helped me sleep at night.  And I have struggled to create a sense of urgency without diminishing the sense of optimism he needs to continue to fight.

Then, in the middle of uttering one more time that we needed to remember to hope for the best but also plan for the worst, I realized the phrase had lost its power.  It had become a cliche.  I stopped and asked if John could help me hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.  I asked if we could move from talking about and thinking about and listing to more deliberate action.  Could we schedule an hour every day to check something off my to do list or at least move something forward? 

So - we are preparing.  Can I imagine life without him, no way.  Do I want to, no way.  But for now, at least, there is a semblance of balance again.  We can do both.  We can still hope for the best while preparing for the worst.  

Illegitimi Non Carborundum

It has been almost eleven months since John was diagnosed with Therapy Related MDS, a relatively new and currently incurable cancer of the blood.  Our initial prognosis with six months extended, thanks to a second opinion, to two years.  These months have flown by, but looking back, I am proud of how we have settled into a "new normal" - a daily way of living with this new challenge.  A new normal marked by grace, partnership, support and a quality I've come to recognize as resiliency.

Resiliency - elasticity, malleability, flexibility, plasticity, buoyancy - I've long recognized this in John.  With a history of non-Hodgkins that required the stem cell transplant that is the cause of his current illness, five hernia operations, three bouts of skin cancer, and macular degeneration, one might expect him to rail against the heavens or to just give up or give in. But he endures.  He keeps getting up.  He takes a day at a time and never relinquishes the fight.  He stays remarkably present and positive. He remains optimistic and reminds me that he's not a statistic.  He reminds me, too, that he beat the odds once, and he can do it again. That he can endure until there is a breakthrough that will extend his life with me.

What I haven't recognized is that his resilience has rubbed off on me.  I've thought of myself as tenacious, strong, and determined; and those are not bad qualities. But I like resilient better.  It's more fluid, less easily bent or broken.  Definitely an asset during these tenuous days.

And these days are tenuous.  There are the ordinary breakdowns of everyday life.  The breakdowns we all experience. We lose our TV picture. It's so hot that our potted plants all wither and die.  We keep receiving those calls that our computer is infected or someone can help us with college loans we never took out 50 years ago.  A light on my dashboard lights up for the 4th time, still not fixed after three trips to the dealer. The bombardment of news gets more frightening with each passing hour.  I'm not sleeping well.

What's a resilient soul to do?  Well, work patiently with the disembodied voice in technical support to recover the TV picture and be grateful we got a living breathing soul.  Remove the dead plants and wait till it cools off before replacing.  Stop answering calls from locations we don't recognize.  Take the car to the dealer and tell them the car will be returned if they cannot fix it properly once and for all - they did.  And limit the news, which also cured the sleeping problem.

Then, there are the bigger breakdowns.  The medical assistant that we have come to rely on for information and support suddenly leaves the clinic to move to another city.  A few days later, a dear friend who has been a key member of my personal support system lets me know she is moving, a wise decision for her, another loss for us.  A shot that we have hoped would make transfusions needed less often has had no measurable effect.  

What's a resilient soul to do?  Well, learn to access and interpret John's blood test results on the computer.  (Actually, doing so makes this resilient soul feel just a little proud of herself). Get to know more of the clinic staff. Plan a trip to see our friends after they are settled in, giving us something to look forward to.  Work with our doctor to design changes to John's treatment plan.

This is our new normal.  To take in new information and adjust, as quickly as we can, as patiently and gracefully as we can.  To work with each other and our network of support. To seek solutions rather than rail against the problems.  To focus on what is within our control. A day at a time, some days an hour at a time.

I do like resilient better.  It's more fluid, less easily bent or broken.  Definitely an asset during these tenuous days.  Definitely, a valuable asset for an unknown future.

Looking for the Silver Lining

For as long as I can remember, song lyrics have popped into my head at the strangest times - a chance remark, a memory, someone's story, or even for no apparent reason.  I'm used to it.  Have come to just let it be when it happens, and trust that if there is a meaning or reason for its appearance, eventually I will make the connection.

Given both the current political climate and our personal challenges, it hasn't surprised me, therefore, that "Look for the Silver Lining" would be echoing in my head for days now.  "Look for the Silver Lining", for folks who haven't heard of the song, was introduced to the world in 1920, made popular by Judy Garland in 1945 and revisited most recently by Tony Bennett in 2015. And though many people may not know the tune or lyrics (which I include later in this post), the exhortation to "look for the silver lining" has become a common phrase used to support people through trying times. 


So, I've taken time to look for the silver lining in John's illness.  Clearly, we would much prefer not to be fighting cancer yet one more time, not to be facing something currently incurable, hoping that a breakthrough will occur, will be offered the next time we see the doctor.  We would much prefer that John have the energy and stamina he used to have. We would prefer he not need regular blood transfusions and chemo.  But having said that, there are other very real, very special side effects that we might never experience without this challenge, and that's the silver lining.  

Of course, there is the obvious - we are more present in the moment, more conscious of how we speak to each other, how we spend our time, the choices we are making and need to make.  As we have been through other crises, yet seem to forget once the crisis is past. We are also more affectionate, more intimate.  More so than we have ever been.  With little gestures, and at odd little moments.  More appreciative of the life we have had together, the homes, the friends, the memories.  We enjoy the little things, the simplest things, like laughing at Paul Harvey's antics on Family Feud, or deciding which judge a contestant should choose on The Voice, and are conscious, in the moment, of our enjoyment.  Then there are the everyday things too easily taken for granted, like the desert sunset or a glass of B and B after supper, the call or e-mail asking how we are doing, the thoughtfulness of the service people who have taken up the slack for us, a favor we do for each other without being asked.

I'm sure there are others who have learned to live their lives this way without incurring a disease or experiencing a disaster.  I'd like to think we might have evolved this level of consciousness and appreciation over time, but I'm not sure that we might just as well drifted along, most days only semi-conscious.  I also am aware that some people never see the silver lining, never look.  For us, this is the paradox, the contradiction, the both/and.  We are fighting for John's life and we are blessed.

Look for the Silver Lining

                            

Look for the silver lining

Whenever a cloud appears in the blue

Remember somewhere the sun is shining

And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you

A heart full of joy and gladness

Will always banish sadness and strife

So always look for the silver lining

And try to find the sunny side of life

Nevertheless, He Persists

John is my husband of 34 years, my best friend, my partner, my love, and my hero.  My hero, because over the years, I have watched him endure three bouts of skin cancer, five hernia operations, the gradual loss of hearing, and a stem cell transplant for non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.  Each time with perseverance, courage and a belief that he could handle whatever was thrown at him.  And he did.  And so, we did.

Last September he was diagnosed with Therapy Related MDS, ironically brought on by the transplant he received 15 years ago, the result of a mutating chromosome impacting his ability to produce red blood cells. One of his first questions was whether there was a gene for orneriness, for though we have been told his condition is currently incurable and the prognosis for survival is approximately two years, he is determined to prove the experts wrong.  After all, the original lymphoma prognosis was three years and he made it for fifteen!

His determination and his persistence are remarkable, and perhaps the most critical reason he has survived so many physical challenges with a modicum of grace.  I watch him as he gets chemo shots for five consecutive days each month, wait with him to hear if he might need another transfusion (we've lost count of how many now) and marvel that he can get yet another round of Neupogin shots for declining white blood cell counts with calm acceptance. The most he has ever complained is to say he is feeling like a human pin cushion. The most impatient he becomes is when he has to wait more than 15 minutes for an appointment.  I can almost predict the moment I'll hear, "C'mon doc, I'm ready," 

I have always ascribed his survival to resiliency or to pure stubbornness, to that hypothetical gene for orneriness.  Today we had an exchange that made me reconsider.  We were driving back from an appointment with the eye doctor, because on top of everything else, John was diagnosed with macular degeneration earlier last year.  The diagnosis today confirmed our observations that his eyesight is worsening, perhaps the result of the chemo, and our decision to curtail his driving, though difficult, is appropriate. I told him how much I respect him, how much I admire his inner strength.  How much he inspires me to remain optimistic, to stay strong, to fight the good fight.  How much he is my hero.

His response was to repeat a quote I had never heard before.  "Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent." ~ Ray Kroc,  the founder of MacDonald's. Persistence, determination, not stubbornness, not orneriness.  I asked when he first came across the quote; he said many years ago.  He had to look omnipotent up in a dictionary, but the quote has been one of the most important in his life, and consequently in ours.  I asked if it has become a silent mantra.  He paused and said no, he just has tried to live his life with those values at his core.  And in my experience, he has.

There are many people who, over the years, have commented on my strength.  I know I would not be as strong as I agree I am were he not as strong as he is.  As persistent and determined as he is.  He is my best friend, my partner, my love, my hero.

Thank you, Ray Kroc.

Dancing in the Rain

You'd think I'd have learned this lesson sooner in life.  Heaven knows, I/we have had plenty of opportunities, but it took a wise and gentle doctor to bring it home recently.  

John's hematologist must have some psych courses in his background because he has an uncanny ability to deliver information in a direct, yet compassionate manner at  the most opportune moment. It is one reason we so trust and respect him.  From the day he delivered the diagnosis and prognosis of John's disease, he has never failed to be forthright and considerate, consistently striking that tenuous balance between reality and optimism, a balance too few physicians have yet learned.

He also is a natural mediator, sensing when to speak directly to either of us or both of us as the case seems to warrant.  So, whenever John wants to do something that I fear may be detrimental to his well-being, or I want him to do something that he does not feel ready to do, we turn to Dr. W. and ask him to arbitrate.  

One of those occasions occurred a month ago, when John wanted to go to a nearby casino to celebrate his 75th birthday.  As infection is a threat to John's survival, I have been adamantly opposed to any large group gathering for either of us, and especially so to the casinos.  And John has been remarkably agreeable, a great patient.  This time, however, he persisted.  It was, after all, his 75th birthday, or as he puts it, the 50th anniversary of his 25th birthday.  Fortunately, we had a doctor's appointment within a few days of his birthday, and we agreed that if Dr. W. gave the ok, I would concede to John's wishes.  If not, he would comply.  

The day arrived.  We went through all the preliminaries, weight, blood pressure, temperature, blood test results, the list of typical questions and answers.  And then John posed his request.  Dr. W. paused, looked at John, looked at me, paused again and then - first to both of us, "I don't want to cause any marital discord here."  Then, at me - "We're not keeping John alive at the expense of his quality of life."  Then, at John - "So, I think you should go, but do it wisely.  Take intelligent precautions.  Have a good time and happy birthday."

We did go to the casino.  We went early and he wore gloves while he played.  A few days later, my sister and brother-in-law surprised him for his birthday with a visit from NY.   We had a small party with his Starbucks buddies and a get together with friends. He received several cards and calls and e-mails.  All in all, he had a great birth week.

I've returned to that conversation several times in the interim.  I realize that I've been hoping this storm might pass.  If we are vigilant, if there are medical breakthroughs, if I can protect him.  But the reality is it might not.  So, I'm not throwing away the umbrella or rain gear, but I'm trying to splash in the puddles.  To consider every day some ways to celebrate that we can still go out in the rain together.

As Good As It Gets

"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so let us all be thankful."

~ Buddha

We returned last night from John's six month checkup at MD Anderson in Houston, on the brink of being too tired to go to sleep, on a high from having had better news than we had feared we might receive.  

It was a quick turn-around trip, there and home again in three days. It requires a shuttle drive of a couple hours to Vegas, using a wheelchair to navigate the airport, a three hour flight to Houston, another wheelchair, and then a long taxi ride to the hotel, a stressful trip under any conditions, anxiety laden under present conditions.  Prior to the trip, John had experienced a sudden drop in his white blood cell count and I had read that such a drop could indicate progression in the disease, even indicate the onset of leukemia.  

John was to receive a bone marrow biopsy to determine how well his current chemotherapy plan has been working and whether he would need a more aggressive chemo as suggested by his St. George hematologist, a treatment plan that would require stronger medication that carries possible serious side effects.  Treatment we were hoping to avoid, nevertheless treatment we feared we might be returning to St. George to initiate.  

Following the biopsy, we were scheduled to meet with the hematologist who is consulting with us, Dr. K, a Russian-trained, rather austere, cool and contained woman who had been almost two hours late for our initial consultation in September, known for her tardiness, but thankfully also known for her expertise.  Thursday, she was on time, greeted us warmly, reassured us that John's blood work looked good, that the white blood cell drop was a minor glitch, and that she did not feel the aggressive chemo was necessary.  Just like that, in 20 minutes, the air in the balloons of our anxiety was released.

Relieved, we recognized that John was stronger this trip than our initial visit six months ago. We recognized that we had managed the trip with grace and competency.  We recounted, once again, how grateful we are to have access to this wonderful organization, to another fine doctor, to the collaboration our health care team is exhibiting, to having one another.

We learned a lot in that 20 minute consultation, not the least is that I should not be doing my own research.  I don't know enough to make distinctions about the information.  I don't have the necessary training to understand all the vocabulary.  I am too close to the situation to take in the information neutrally,  too quick to jump to the worst conclusions.  Almost as valuable a learning as what Dr. K shared with us.  Almost.

This is as good as it gets...and that's pretty good.  We are grateful.

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From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

"We are made of oppositions; we live between two poles....You don't reconcile the poles.  You just recognize them."

~ Orson Wells 

I woke Friday, dreading the day.  I still struggled with the reality that "he who would be king", as I have begun to refer to him, would be in the White House.  That so many people could overlook, condone, even applaud his fear mongering,  threats, adolescent petulance, sexist and racist behavior, and blatant lies has been - and remains - a source of dismay and distress. That he and his inner circle exhibit many of the characteristics of Fascism, and that so many Americans either don't appear to recognize this nor seem to care, I find alarming.   That I am being asked to wait and see, to give him a chance...for what?  For how long?

The morning sky did little to uplift my spirits.  Gunmetal gray overhead, a steady persistent rain that mirrored the darkness of my spirits.  John coughing and sneezing, courting yet another cold. I decided not to watch the event, knowing I would end up at best, muttering under my breath so as not to disturb John or openly spewing my frustration and anger at the TV; neither the image of the intelligent, wise woman I'd like to think I can be.

I managed somehow to get through that very long day keeping my frustration and pessimism at bay by staying occupied with household chores and hobbies.   I eventually fell asleep wondering how I would manage the coming months concerned for John, concerned for my country, and concerned for myself if left alone, an old woman, in a world that looks potentially unsafe and inhospitable.

Then, Saturday dawned, still dark, still gloomy, still rainy.  Fortunately, I had a meeting in the morning with a group of women I enjoy and trust, women as concerned as I am, women with whom I can express my concerns without being told to get over it or "give him a chance." Got in a little retail therapy and went home to catch news of the march in Washington. Would the resistance I've been hearing about and reading about on-line materialize into anything that neared the goal of a million women gathering?  Would anyone notice? Could it matter?  What if it went south and people were hurt?

I remained glued to the set as images of women and men and children marching in peaceful protest were gathered from across the country, from across the world.  I delighted in the diversity of cultures, was encouraged by the span of generations, surprised to see some of the cities represented, and entertained by the audacity and cleverness of some of the posters.  I watched as they flooded streets for mile upon mile.  Over 500,000 in D.C. in the midst of winter.  Hundreds of thousands marching in cities in red states.  In Europe and Africa.  Even a group in Antarctica.

But most of all, I could feel the tide of my pessimism and dread recede.  We are not as apathetic and cynical as I have feared.  It will not be that easy to manipulate and remove our civil liberties.  Perhaps, the best to come out of this morass is the awakening of engagement and participation.  Peaceful engagement.  Participation by people in the mainstream who have been lulled into complacency or cynicism.  People on the fringes who have come to believe that no one cares.  People who will be heard.

This morning, as I complete this, the rains have stopped.  The sun is shining.  The sky is filled with clouds.  He is still in the White House.  There is no balance of power in D. C.  But I know there are millions of people watching.  Millions of people speaking up.  Millions of people who do recognize what could too easily happen.  Perhaps some of them did not vote in November, but maybe, just maybe, they will vote it 2018.  This is something I will wait to see.

My deepest gratitude to all who marched.  You have restored my faith and hope.  No small accomplishment.

  

Today Is a Good Day...

"Today is a good day for a good day."

I don't know the origin of this quote, but I've been repeating it often of late.  I first heard it used on an HGTV series, Fixer Upper, with Chip and Joanna Gaines.  It not only makes me smile, but reminds me to declare each day as a new possibility, regardless of the state of the preceding day. 

It's not that I'm into denial.  I certainly know bad things happen to good people.  I believe we are in for some rough years ahead with the division in this country and threats around the world.  I understand full well that "aging is no place for sissies."  I face reality every time John needs another transfusion or I hear about another Trump nomination. 

In order to have some good days in spite of all that, however, I am focusing on what I/we can control.  I read my news from a source I trust. I call my representatives to express my opinions and concerns.  I take appropriate surveys.  I try to influence others to do the same. I make sure we stay in regular communication with the cancer clinic.  I learn as much as I can digest about John's condition so that we do our part in his treatment.  

And I repeat, sometimes more than once a day, "today is a good day for a good day."  It reminds me to focus on those things and those thoughts that contribute to a good day.  For me, that includes spending time with John.  It includes contacting a friend, taking time to journal and to read something inspirational.  (Right now, that's The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.)   It includes limiting negative news as much as possible, whether on TV or Facebook.  And spending time on a project whose completion brings me satisfaction, like simplifying our home or drawing.

It also includes watching something entertaining on TV.  When I had cancer some years ago, I watched every Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley film I could find.  I know every lyric to the songs of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and can quote much of the dialog of The Princess Bride and The Wizard of Oz.  And I confess, I'm a sucker for Hallmark movies, especially over the holidays.

I could wish I had come across this quote years ago.  It might have made some difficult periods in my life easier to endure, but I suspect I might not have had the wisdom to appreciate and use it.  For now, therefore, I am adding this quote to tonight's list of gratitudes, followed by "it has been a good day!"

 

Gratitude Is an Attitude

"Gratitude is one of the sweet shortcuts to finding peace of mind and happiness inside.  No matter what is going on outside of us, there's always something we could be grateful for."

~Barry Nell Kaufman

It was an unusual Thanksgiving for the two of us, the first time in our 33 years of marriage that we celebrated alone. Had to cancel meeting old friends for our tradition of a marvelous buffet near Zion - can't risk being in large gatherings anymore. Had to decline the warm offer of sharing dinner with a friend and her family -- couldn't risk passing our debilitating head colds to her elderly relatives. 

Each year at Thanksgiving we take turns expressing what we are most grateful for. This year, as you might expect, the list was significant - having each other in this fight for John's life, our doctors, the wonderful hospitals we have at our disposal, modern medicine, the safe community in which we live, the remarkable network of support, my loving siblings, sufficient resources, the strengthening of our already strong relationship, our home. 

As we acknowledged one blessing after another, our lagging spirits definitely lifted. In the hours since, I've turned my thoughts to other, more personal gratitudes and the list is somewhat overwhelming. 

• homemade soups and biscotti delivered by friends who know I don't enjoy cooking
• a particularly thoughtful gift - a king-sized flat sheet because I can't fight with fitted sheets right now
• photos via the Internet by friends who suspect we may be feeling isolated
• the clinic office manager who heard my frustration and rectified a problem immediately and without attitude
• e-mails that have brought laughter and tears
• unexpected calls just to see how we're doing
• Robitussin and NyQuil, cough drops and throat sprays
• retirement - how do people who have to work find the time and energy for such a battle?
• the last Henry Fonda roses of the year
• jigsaw puzzles and adult coloring books, my meditation practices of choice
• afternoon naps induced by a few pages of a good mystery
• jokes John forwards, often outrageous, always fun
• and seeing that this blog is being read in Portugal and France, Germany and the Ukraine, amazing, humbling

My list is actually much longer than this.  A good reminder that in spite of John's disease, in spite of an election outcome I did not want and still fear, in spite of head colds and being alone at Thanksgiving, there is always something to be grateful for.  Some things, many things to be grateful for. Just need to remember.