Standing in a Hammock

"So, how was Houston? What did you learn?"  "How is John?" "How are you holding up?"

Today, three weeks since our trip to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, I would answer these questions somewhat differently than when we first returned, having the advantage of hindsight.  First, Houston was in better shape as a city than we had anticipated, remaining water viewed more from the air than in the area of the Center.  The Center itself as busy, as challenging to navigate as ever.  The sight of so many folks in distress as difficult to handle. 

But for us, the fact that they could not get a sufficient bone marrow sample added stress and uncertainty as we had traveled there specifically to check the progress of John's disease.  What we did learn was that currently there were no clinical trials available to pursue.  And that we would have to wait another week for whatever further information could be retrieved from the sample.  The best advice we received was to resume monthly chemotherapy treatments.

I would have said on the morning we left Houston that nothing much had changed as a result of the trip.  And then, in the airport, waiting for our departure, I heard John tell a friendly stranger that he has an incurable cancer and is not sure he will survive another year.  Something I had never heard him acknowledge before, even at times seemed unable to acknowledge.  It broke my heart - and it was such a relief.

For, it has been very challenging for me to hold the reality of this prognosis without impacting his optimism, his conviction that he could endure this long enough for a cure to be found.  That, at least there might be a clinical trial that would provide a better treatment plan.  After all, he beat cancer before. That optimism, however, has been an obstacle to getting our "ducks in a row" should he or before he loses this battle.

Oddly enough, admitting this is a possibility, even a probability has decreased our stress and anxiety.  Rather than be depressed, it has brought us both a sense of calm relief and purpose.  And subsequently, we have adjusted our expectations and aligned behind a commitment we can manage.  We are focusing on three months at a time and a laundry list of to do's that keeps us grounded, energized and in tandem.  

So, how am I doing?  I told someone recently that I'm learning to ride the waves.  "No," she said, "you're learning to stand in a hammock."

And John, well, he recently reminded me that doctors could be wrong.

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.  

Help Wanted

I went to a support group for the caregivers of cancer patients yesterday - the first support group of its kind that I've ever attended.  I almost didn't go.  Used all the reasons I've used historically. "I'm not a group person. I'm strong enough, smart enough, I ought to be able to handle this on my own. I don't know these people.  We've done this before, my own cancer, John's non-Hodgkins lymphoma, his skin cancers."  Reasons I've used to avoid asking for other kinds of help.  Reasons I've used to deflect help when it's offered.  

I had the postcard inviting me to attend in my purse, just in case I would decide to check it out. But first, brunch with a friend, herself in the throes of cancer.  As we chatted, I heard myself sigh a sigh of relief when she told me that she was getting the counseling support I'd been encouraging for months.  I heard myself say, "in such extraordinary times, even the strongest, most capable of us need extraordinary help."  And in that moment, I decided.

Now, I need to admit that I still questioned myself the entire way there, almost backing out when I saw the door to the meeting room had been closed.  And I can't share what happened there, other than to say that the topic was emotions, the support was great, the group leader skillful as well as compassionate, and I will be returning next month.  Most important for me, however, was coming home to reflect on how I think about asking for help and the possible consequences for both John and me.

To help me clarify my thoughts last night, I turned to David Whyte's Consolations, the extraordinary volume of his reflections on the underlying meaning of everyday words, and there was the essay, 'Help', underlined and tagged.

• "Help is, strangely, something we want to do without, as if the very idea disturbs and blurs the boundaries of our individual endeavors, as if we cannot face how much we need to go on."  
• "Not only does the need for help never leave us alone; we must apprentice ourselves to its different necessary forms, at each particular threshhold of our lives.  At every stage we are dependent on our ability to ask for specific forms of help at very specific times and in very specific ways."
• "Every transformation has at its heart the need to ask for the right kind of generosity."
• "It may be that the ability to know the necessity for help; to know how to look for that help and then most importantly, how to ask for it, is one of the primary transformative dynamics that allows us to emancipate ourselves into each new epoch of our lives."

Underlined and tagged, read and reread.  But understood this time more deeply, more profoundly.  For this is an extraordinary time -  we have other friends who need our help even if only to listen, even as we are pressed to help each other, and every day and virtually every hour we receive phone calls and e-mails requesting support in some form - surveys, petitions, more money.  Every day and virtually every hour a message appears on the TV or computer of someone, some group in need.  

And we are older, we have less energy, we have decisions to make with less information than we want or need, less assurance that our decisions can make a difference.  

So, duh!, (ok, not very literate), although I may be strong, and I may be intelligent, and I may have faced other challenges well, this is a new challenge in a new environment, at a different time and place, at a new threshhold.  So, I want to go back to the drawing board and determine the very specific forms of help I/we need, not just physically and logistically, not just intellectually but also emotionally.  I want to determine who can best provide that help for me and for us - a friend or a professional?   And I need to gather my courage and, yes, humility and ask.  

For I believe that most people are willing to help, but they need to be asked and asked specifically. They are not mind readers.  And most people will be honored to be asked, especially if you have helped them.  And most people will feel acknowledged for their competence and caring, just as we are when we are asked for help that we can provide.  At least most of the people I know.

I have placed Consolations on my bedside table, beneath the tablet on which I've begun my list of specific requests for help.  I've blocked out some time to work on this project, accepting that I will need to revisit it in the weeks, the months and, hopefully, the years ahead of us.  For, "even in the end, the dignity of our going depends on others' willingness to help us die well; the sincerity of their help often commensurate to the help we extended to them in our own life."

And, yes, I will be going to the next support group meeting.

A Gentle Reminder

This week, rather than a single quote, I offer a poem.  It was just the reminder I needed while waiting in Houston, struggling to stay positive while I feared the worst.  If it speaks to you, too, you might find the book from which it was reprinted worth a read - The Last Gift of Time by Carolyn Heilbrun.  The poem, "Otherwise",  was written by poet Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise.  I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless 

peach.  It might

have been otherwise.

I took a dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon, I lay down

with my mate.  It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver 

candlesticks.   It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

But not today.

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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Just Another Candle

"Age is a case of mind over matter.  If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

~ Satchel Paige 

I recently turned 76, and, somewhat surprisingly, the number took my breath away.  It's not that I didn't know it was coming.  I usually look forward to celebrating my birthday for an entire week. I'd been saying for some time that  I was going to be 76.  Yet, when the day came and I said the words, "I'm 76", it suddenly struck me that I'm on the downward slope to 80.  And however, you look at it, 80 is old.

Most of the time I don't feel old.  I don't think of myself as old, unless, until -

• I know all the words to songs younger folks have never heard of.  Happens all too frequently on The Voice.
• I catch a glimpse of myself in a store window and wonder who that woman is.
• Or look unexpectedly in the mirror and see my mother staring back at me.
• I have to struggle to get up if my butt is lower than my knees.
• I walk into a room and can't remember why I went there.
• I see a celebrity from my youth and am shocked at how old they look.
• I can recognize all the gadgets and appliances on a quiz about golden oldies - skate keys, ice boxes, party lines, even mimeograph machines.
• I hear myself saying I could be someone's grandmother.
• I notice that none of the heels in my closet are over 1" high and I dress for comfort rather than style.
• I refer to someone in their 50's as young.
• I have to say I'm 1/2 inch shorter on my new driver's license. (At this rate, I'll need a car seat if I make it to 90 and am still driving!
• The news arrives that the last of my Dad's siblings has died.
• I watch a contemporary decline.

For the most part, however, I don't mind.  After the initial shock a few days ago, I did celebrate.  All week.  I celebrate that I take no meds.  I can do much of what I did 20 years ago, though I must confess it takes longer.  I love to learn and strive to learn something new every day, deriving more from what I read than I ever did.  I am overcoming my fear of this technology, even have a FB page.  I enjoy people of all ages and particularly enjoy conversations with young people.  Though I may cry more easily, I also laugh more easily.   Though I get angry and fearful, I don't reside there as long as I did when I was young. Though John is ill, we have great medical care.  And we continue to fight the good fight together.  Not bad for 76, if I do say so.

So,I agree with Satchel.  Age is a case of mind over matter.  If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.  The secret is to continue to not mind.  It is after all, just another candle.

Just for Today

"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."

~ Buddha

Just like that, another holiday season is over, officially over as of today.  Another year past. Decorations boxed and stored.  Journals from the past year reviewed.  Just like that.  Like so many holidays of the past.  Over in the blink of an eye.  And at the same time, so unlike other holiday seasons we have known together.  Far less frenetic.  Far more uncertain. 

I have been tempted to make a list of resolutions, create a list of specific goals, design a year of special events and special memories, as I have so many years in the past - anything to gain a semblance of control. Fortunately, I was reminded, by Dear Abby no less, that there is a simpler way, one that I believe will serve John and me much better this coming year.

On New Year's Day, the current Abby, the original's daughter, shared an often-requested list of resolutions that her mother adapted from the original credo of Al-Anon.  I prefer to think of them as guidelines or aspirations that can provide a framework for a simpler, more mindful year.  I offer my edited highlights, those that speak most to me, and a couple more that these have inspired.

"Just for Today:  I will live through This Day Only.  I will not brood about yesterday or obsess about tomorrow."

"Just for Today:  I will not dwell (my emphasis) on thoughts that depress (or worry, or frighten, or anger, or...) me."

"Just for Today:  I will accept what is.  I will face reality.  I will (strive to) correct those things I can correct and accept those I cannot."

"Just for Today:  I will improve my mind.  I will read something that requires effort, thought, and concentration."  Or inspiration.

"Just for Today:  I will do something to improve my health."

And....
Just for Today:  I will do something that is creative and enjoyable.

Just for Today:  I will do something to simplify our home.

Just for Today:  I will do something with John that is fun.

If any of these guidelines speak to you also, I encourage you to read the original list in its totality.   And whether you create resolutions, or goals, or guidelines, or choose to let the year unfold as it will, may it be a healthy, happy one.

This Much I Have Learned

"In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity."

~ Albert Einstein

 I have kept a personal journal for 40 years now, my own unedited, politically incorrect, safe confessional.  I  periodically have gone back to review a volume or two, sometimes out of mere curiosity, sometimes - as this past week - because I want to see if/what I have learned. Not surprising I'm sure that I would start with the most recent volume whose first entry was Sept. 1, three days before the ER visit that led to John's dire diagnosis.  

This much I have learned - in no order of importance -

• that Einstein was so right.  This challenge is the opportunity for many things.  Like learning.  I know more today than three months ago.  I know more about his disease. I know more about John.  I know more about myself.  I know more than I want to know about navigating the health care system, even a good one. 
• that even though John and I have battled cancer twice before, I did not appreciate or respect his courage and resiliency as much as I do today.  He is my hero.
• that just because we fought this fight before, we have had to acquire new knowledge, new skills, new attitudes for this particular battle.
• that the most important role of caregiving may be that of advocacy with the individuals and institutions on whom your loved one's survival depends.  And that that role calls for skill, patience, tenacity and above all, fearlessness.
• that I am a great advocate! 
• that support and help can come in the most creative ways, from the least expected quarters, and take your breath away.
• that we have an incredible network of support here.  And that knowing that has removed a source of worry for John.  He knows I would not be alone.
• that the very differences between John and me that have at times been the source of disagreements and stress, harnessed, are the source of our strength, resiliency and endurance.
• that one of the biggest challenges for me is to stay present and not leap into an unknown, frightening future.  And developing that skill, though difficult, may be the biggest opportunity for me, the one that will impact the very future I worry about.
• that I need to take care of me as well as John.  I sometimes do a better job at the latter than the former.
• that it takes constant conscious attention to maintain a healthy tension between realism and optimism.  And between enjoying the present and planning for a future we may not want.
• that this time is bittersweet.  The bitter - his frequent need for transfusions; the reality that this is currently incurable; watching him give up so many things he enjoys; observing his fatigue; the vigilance needed to prevent infection, etc., etc.  The sweet - deeper communication; greater and more frequent expression of affection and respect, not only between us but for us; a stronger partnership than we've ever had, etc., etc.  And that the sweet does not negate the bitter, nor vice versa. 
• that a sense of humor is more valuable than I ever realized.  Thank heaven John has a good one.
• that simplifying our environment and our routines isn't about losing anything.  It's about gaining time and space, calm and serenity.
• that, while others can and will give you advice, everyone handles a crisis like this in his or her own way.  And what may work for you one day may not the very next.
• that I have a whole new respect for the chronically ill and their caregivers.
• and that, though I have learned a lot, I know I have so much more to learn.

Last September I decided to share our journey here in the hope that what we are experiencing and learning along the way could be of value to others who are or will be in a similar situation.  I hope this is so.  And to all who are following this and perhaps sharing it with others, thank you.  And Happy Holidays to all.

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!"

 

One Day at a Time

"It is not the strongest of the species, nor the most intelligent that survives.  It is the one that is most adaptable to change."

~ Charles Darwin

I have thought of myself as a survivor for some time now, secure in my knowledge, skills, and attitudes toward change.  I studied the work of William Bridges, an 'expert' on the topic of transition, and worked for years with organizations and individuals in the midst of change, as a corporate trainer and executive coach.  And heaven knows, I've had plenty of opportunity to practice what I preached. 

So, when some folks said, "You can handle this, you've done it before", I said thanks and set out to 'handle' it. I researched, made lists, put out the word, tossed inappropriate food, resigned from large group obligations, made more lists, cleaned and sterilized, gathered low salt and low sugar recipes - (and I don't even enjoy cooking), made yet more lists, etc., etc. The little engine that could.

This engine came to a screeching halt one morning this past week as I caught myself writing in my personal journal, overwhelmed, "I can't keep up with this pace.  I'll get sick and then what!!"   

It took that pause to recognize that I haven't done THIS before.  The last time John was ill, we lived near the hospital in Houston for 3 1/2 months. When he was in most danger, he received 24/7 care from professionals - for weeks on end.  I stayed in a hotel room not far from him where the suite was cleaned, by someone else, every day. We were never told his cancer was incurable. And we were 11 years younger.

I realized that morning that we are being called on to adapt our thinking, our attitudes, and our behavior almost daily, sometimes hourly.  Each new piece of information - from our research, from friends and family, from our health care team, and most importantly, from our bodies and behavior - can call for a new decision.  I took a deep breath and began to consider ways to be more gracefully and consciously adaptable every day.  One day at a time.

So, today, I'm still in my nightshirt.  I've found a good new mystery to read after catching up with some favorite TV shows.  John is enjoying his respite from chemo and is engrossed in a sportscast marathon.  The lists will wait until tomorrow.

After the Diagnosis

serendipity - n.  the occurrence of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way

~ The New Oxford American Dictionary

Serendipitous moments - discovering a book that helped me through a rough spot, coming across a quote that perfectly captured my feelings at the time, a friend's words of wisdom that opened a new possibility, meeting John the only time he had ever visited Kansas City - have peppered my life in many happy and beneficial ways.  I cherish these moments and try to stay open to their unexpected appearance.  

So, it didn't surprise me much this past week when I opened the October issue of Real Simple, one of my favorite magazines, and discovered After the Diagnosis, by Jennifer Kind Lindley, words of advice for those of us grappling with the news of a serious illness and wondering how to proceed with the information.  Or in my case, wondering if what I/we have been doing is enough.  Serendipity.  Perfect timing.  

The four page article is well worth the read.  It is thorough, well-written, and supported with statements by experts and those who have been through the challenges. Some things I learned -

• that according to a 2010 Gallup poll, 70% of respondents said they would not seek a second opinion after a medical diagnosis.  This statistic amazed me.  It was our second opinion that gave us a glimmer of hope and also strengthened our trust in our local hematologist.  Not only did he support the decision, but he acted quickly to help make it happen. 
• that it helps to organize the deluge of paperwork that inundates you.  This was a task I hadn't done along the way.  Doing so when we came home was an immediate accomplishment that gave me a modest sense of control.  Although I chose a low-tech three ring binder, the article suggests electronic solutions as well. 
• that there are financial assistance programs available even for those folks who consider themselves financially stable.  I wish I had known this the last time John was ill.  We took a financial beating that possibly could have been allayed a little.
• that sharing information is a way to gather support expediently and efficiently.  We are using this blog and e-mails, but there are also websites that provide a way to share news with one's network of family and friends like CaringBridge.org,  CarePages.com and PostHope.org. 

Most of all, the article assuaged our concerns.  If this were a test, I/we would pass with flying colors.  We did our homework; asked the right questions (thank you, Leah and Matthew); not only went for a second opinion, but went to the center of excellence for this disease; broke the news honestly and directly; and gathered a network of support.  Some days just knowing you've done your best and that your best was good enough is a major reason to celebrate.

P.S.  John has gone through his first treatment cycle, chemo delivered via subcutaneous shots, with no other side effects than fatigue.  This morning he woke saying he hasn't felt this good in two months. Another small victory.  Another reason to celebrate!

 

Out of Crisis Comes...

"Often out of crisis comes this enormous wellspring of generosity and motivation."  

~ Josh Fox

We know from past experience the truth of this quote.  I retain many of the 100+ angels that were sent to me when I had cancer.  Although I am a confirmed agnostic, I do believe that the prayers offered when John battled Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, contributed to his survival, if nothing else, because he knew he was being supported, even by people he did not know.  And that contributed to his will to survive, in spite of a poor prognosis.

Even with our past experiences, we are profoundly touched by the outpouring of concern and offers of assistance we are receiving from across the country.  Many have asked what they can do to help.  I know there is plenty of advice out there that you should just do what you can because people in the midst of crisis often don't know what they need.  We certainly don't know the extent of what we might need yet.  

Some folks have gone through a challenge of their own and have a sense of what might be helpful.  A card from old friends who had heard our news through the grapevine came unexpectedly and that was touching.  Several friends have sent well wishes and prayers - always welcome.  A friend and a family member who have special medical expertise continue to provide translation of medical terms, insight into possible treatment, and research into other options.  Another who knows me well, knows how I tend to think and react, is a good sounding board as I contemplate important decisions.   Sometimes, a simple offer...like "what would make the day easier today and can I get or do that for you", as one dear friend recently queried, may be the sweetest gesture in and of itself, needing no response other than thank you for the offer.  And anything that brings a smile, or better yet a laugh, is a treasure.

But it is more than fine with us that you offer and then wait for our requests.  We are leaving tomorrow for MD Anderson in Houston. We will make more specific requests once we have more information.  For now, your prayers, moral support, positive thoughts and wishes are deeply appreciated.

How Could I Forget?

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

~Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I woke thinking of this quote over a week ago and have been wrestling with what I wanted to say as a result.  I have heard myself saying to myself and others, far too often, that I am afraid.  But afraid of what, of whom, why?  What happened to my commitment to realistic optimism?

So, for days now, I've reflected on this.  Asked a group of women whose values, and intellect, whose thoughtfulness and honesty I respect if they are fear-full.  Deliberated on their responses.  Written pages in my personal journal.  

This is what I've concluded:

• I've been afraid, very afraid of the hate and venom that Donald Trump has unleashed, even more than Trump himself - and that's saying a lot.  
• I've been afraid of the environment of exclusion and pessimism, of blame and relentless attack promoted in Cleveland.
• I've been afraid that people who see the world differently than he does might not stand up for their beliefs, might retreat and retract rather than engage.
• Most of all, I've been afraid of my own fear, aware that I wanted to retreat, saying I would move to Costa Rica if he is elected.  

And, then, yesterday,I remembered.  A friend had posted an appreciation for the speech made in Philadelphia by the father of a fallen Muslim American soldier.  The response from, I am assuming, a Trump supporter, dismissed this father's message by pointing to Bengazi.  My response..."what if both views are valid."  Both/and - a concept I have tried to live by for years.  How could I forget?  Is this what fear does - block out what we know is better for us?
Make us deaf and blind to anything other than what we believe?  

What if, instead of "either/or", we could consider "both/and."  There is hate and venom out there, and there is compassion and consideration. There are those who will retreat and those who will engage.  There are those who will seek exclusion and pessimism and those who choose inclusion and optimism.  There are significant problems in this country and there has been significant progress over the past eight years.  One does not negate the other.

Isn't realistic optimism an example of both/and thinking?  Surely I can be both aware of and acknowledge  the negative and work to promote what's positive.   And with that, the fear has morphed into concern and commitment.  A relief for my husband, I'm sure.  And much healthier for me.  

That's What Friends Are For

Having just reread my last post, I wish I had concluded it with this cartoon - 

For younger readers, this is Joe Btfsplk, Al Capp's little carrier of doom and gloom, an inhabitant of Li'l Abner's town of Dogpatch.  I see him at the periphery of my vision whenever I feel the degree of dismay I was expressing some nine days ago.  Fortunately, he doesn't visit me very often, and fortunately, he has returned home.

What's changed?  Not much out there in the world, sad to say.  In fact, there's been more stories of terrorist attacks, more non-sense, continued murder and mayhem, vile and bile, even in this short period.  What has changed, however, are my mood and morale in spite of it all - thanks to some help from my friends.

Friends take many forms and I've been blessed to be visited by a few this past week.  There are the old friends, one that I've cherished for over 40 years and another for almost 30.  The old and tried relationships that have been there through divorce and illness, the passing of parents, the challenges with children.  The friends with whom I can pick up a conversation after a gap of months, even years, and it's as comfortable and comforting as though we just had a slumber party.  The friends who remind me that I have overcome obstacles and crisis and am stronger and more resilient than I may think I am.  The friends who called just to check in and who listen through filters of shared history and memories and values.

There are the new friends, friends who seem to enjoy and value who I am today, wrinkles and warts and all.  One who, by sending a book with a slightly sacrilegious and wholly hilarious inscription , brought a belly laugh in spite of my mood.  One who shared a morning with bright and eager eighth grade girls, reminding us both that opportunities are so much better for them than they were for us at their age...progress!   Or another, who listening to my litany of dismay reminded me to return to what I know works for me - turn off the news, watch something pleasant and uplifting, read a good book, look and listen for the positive, focus on what I can control, remember to be grateful.

And the three I cherish most - my husband who accepts me just as I am, cheerful, anxious, upset, remote, frustrated, angry - room for it all, without a shred of judgment or criticism.  My 'baby' sister who has become close friend and trusted confidante over gaps of distance and age and circumstances, and my brother who knows better than anyone alive today why I am so committed to being optimistic, especially when it is challenging to do so.  Each was there this week.  Each listened and each cared.

I'd like to think I have long appreciated the importance of friendship, been grateful for the men and women I am blessed to call friends, but this week has added a new depth of understanding.  Friends, old and new may never be as important as in these last years of our lives, when the impersonal insecurities of a changing, tense and frightening world intersect with our personal physical and emotional challenges.  

So, I have declared a recess from the news.  I have been watching musicals and reruns of The Golden Girls and Murder She Wrote.  I'm reading a good book, focusing on what I can control - and being grateful for good friends.