Of Craftastrophic Proportions: Strong Winds

Strong Winds

It's been over a month since my last post, and I suppose that's enough time off for anyone who writes. A ton has happened in the time between then and now, so I'm going to pretend this is a novel I'm writing and ferry back and forth between past and present (at least until I catch up). Maybe I'll straighten it all out later (maybe not). Today I want to talk about Right Now.

It has been one month and 11 days since I had brain surgery. Can you believe I have had brain surgery?!--I almost can. I have finally stopped waking every morning to the feeling of doom and gloom solidifying into the teary realization that this is real, plus I've stopped having as much pain. Those are both extra-good things. However, it does yet feel as though I fell down the rabbit-hole--I'm still wrestling with the idea that I can't have my old life back and trying to just enjoy this one instead. It was rather sudden, after all...

Tomorrow I will wrap up week 3 of radiation treatments. I have completed 15 of 27 total appointments, so I'm over the hump, so to speak. In 12 more treatments, I will ring a bell, and everyone in the Kirkland Cancer Center waiting area will give me a standing ovation as I leave for the last time. The nurses will give me a diploma and an invitation to a cancer survivors' party, and after I leave, everyone will talk about how long they've been sitting in the waiting room with me every day. I will say goodbye to the techs who have become my new best friends (they're curing my cancer! after all) and set off into the Rest of My Life. You see, this part is more like the Rest of Having Cancer (especially since before this was The Part Where We Don't Know Yet). It's like being in a holding pattern... the cures for cancer are exhausting and cause enough problems in and of themselves that for some of us, they look more like they're killing you than the cancer did.

Today I saw a young woman (I’d guess 5 years younger even than I) waiting in the hall when I left the treatment room for my sort of radiation (heads and such). She was in a wheelchair and a hospital gown and tried to hide her face when I passed, but I saw enough to know she'd been crying. Because of HIPAA laws, we are all learning from signs in our rooms to keep our doors shut and not look around much as we pass through the corridors... yet I felt her sadness as I walked away, and it felt just like mine. So since no one was escorting me, I snuck back. I stuck out a hand and introduced myself; she told me her name was Lisa.

I felt something pass between us, between me and this girl I don't know but really knew way too much about. Because of that, I got bold enough to keep talking to her.

"Lisa, I bet you never thought you'd be so sick, did you?" I asked. She teared up and shook her head. "Neither did I," I went on. I held her hand for just a moment, trying to give her something, anything I could, worth having. Searched for words, came up empty. One more squeeze. "Just hold on, It gets better." That was a moment worth having. I'm so glad I was presumptuous enough to go back.

Look here, you: one day you can wake up and everything can be different, changed in the blink of an eye. The person you think you are, the things you do that make you "important," your art, your kids, your work... different. Changed.

I'm certainly taking a lot less for granted now. God made so many good things purely for us to enjoy: today I was given the opportunity to rescue a fledging starling trapped between the boards of my cabin (because He gives me birds, and starlings are FANTASTIC, that's why, and if you don't agree, it's because you're WRONG). Often on our trips to the hospital an hour away, I am allowed the delightful opportunity to remove an errant turtle from the road. There are little and big cats in the world, and flowers, and good books, and faithful friends. There is a statement the famously agnostic Sherlock Holmes spontaneously makes in "The Adventure of the Retired Colourman" (have you read "The Complete Sherlock Holmes?"--I recommend it) that is particularly relevant here:

"...Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, so I say again we have much to hope from the flowers."

Precisely, Mr. Holmes.

I hope to post some photos with this entry so that everyone can see my new hairdo (or lack thereof). Now that I'm balding, I keep thinking of my beloved bird Frances: she (distressingly) had no head feathers her first 6 months, and yet, because of how completely I was bonded with her after hand-raising her, I couldn't even see it most of the time (remind me to tell Frances' story later when we run out of the Brain Tumor Story. It's much more fun). Remembering baldy Frances helps me remember that the people I love & who love me don't even see it (or if they do, it's only because they wish they could make it better). I know they don't think I'm ugly. It also helps me remember that this will pass and I too will get my feathers back in the end, and this will all just be another set of memories. I just have to figure out how to get there from here.

I got tired of short wiry hairs--short, because it's only what's been able to grow back since the surgery, and wiry, because, well, i'm me--sifting down into my eyes and landing all tickly on my upper lip, so I tried to pull it all off with double-sided tape. See, it doesn't so much fall out as become un-anchored BUT still sitting snug in its little grooves. When this proved not sticky enough, I had chloe fetch me the brand new lint roller. Despite her exclamations of shock and dismay, that did the trick.

I'm not much on doing things by halves, so if I'm balding, let's have it. I can be grateful because I am not sick the way chemo patients are--I'm not even actually sick the way radiation patients usually are!--and a little hair loss isn't going to kill me if cancer isn't (I've decided). Today I even went to Starbucks sans hat. Every lady over 40 in the joint met my eyes and smiled. They've seen it before, and Southern women appreciate pluck and honesty.

Since Mothers' Day approaches, I migh mention here that I deal with cancer the way I do in part because
I have a heritage to live up to: my mother is one of the most brilliant, bold, artistic, compassionate, and brave women you'll ever hope to meet (and I hope you do). Her mother is a true Viking legend (by way of Minnesota/North Dakota) whom I had the privelege of helping in my own small way through a mastectomy she didn't even want to tell us about. My grandfather was tough as nails, and with my grandmother, worked to leave a legacy for their children and grandchildren that just about takes my breath away, considering their humble beginnings.

Then there's my dad's side: my dad is one of the hardest-working and just the best men I've ever known (no wonder I've never married; who can come close?); he has had psoriasis as long as I can remember, but because of who he is, I never even knew it was a big deal. In case you don't know, it's a much bigger deal than short-term hair loss and sleepiness from radiation. My grandparents on his side are strong people too. My grandmother raised two boys and lost her daughter so young. She has helped raise her nearby grandchildren (and now, her great-grandchildren), and my grandfather suffered physical handicaps from polio but served his community until the day he had a stroke. These are strong roots, not the kind that set one up to be blown over in a strong wind.

But LORD!--this is a STRONG, strong wind.