The word

A few days ago was the 5 year anniversary of the diagnosis. I wrote the following some time ago when remembering how things happened. By way of explanation, Acute Lymphatic Leukemia (ALL) is a very aggressive cancer. Time is of the essence when starting treatment. I knew this first hand. A friend that I met in the Philippines had this same diagnosis. It took her in a week. So I understood the immediacy of the situation.
R and I went out yesterday--had a date to celebrate the occasion. Just the two of us. :)
Here goes . . .

It was a conversation I knew would happen. You had told me what the plan was for the day. You had told me to come after work for the meeting with Doctor to discuss the strategy. I knew the outcome of the evening. I knew the word I was waiting to hear--dreading to hear. I passed through the day in a haze of numbness--thankful for a new job to distract me--seeking to avoid even the fifteen minute break. Fifteen minutes was time enough to emerge from the numbness into the pain.

I left your place of work, thinking the task of driving would be enough. But the miles of highway sameness offered no solace. I was a pendulum between numbness and pain those sixty miles. A soul between purgatory and hell.

"There you are!" you called out cheerfully when I entered the room. You were flanked on either side by Doctor and Nurse. You three had already started the conversation, but would review for my benefit. Doctor began at the top, explaining diagnosis, disease and options. I listened quietly, nodding attentively. I was waiting to hear the word. I knew it would be spoken before the end of this meeting. Would I have the strength to bear it?

Into my head came an image of our children. I saw them as clear as if they were standing there by your bed. Our children. Our little boy and little girl. Images of them came to mind--after they were born. First was our son, then within two years our daughter. We had them close in age so they would be companions as well as siblings.

You and I had made a similar arrangement as my parents had, so I named our son, then you named our daughter. I saw our blond, blue-eyed children as infants. I thought about how we would gaze at them in amazement and pick out familiar features. We would even see our parents' and siblings' features in our children's eyes and noses and chins and hands.

Our little boy was the picture of you in your youth. He would follow you around--Daddy's little helper. He would always insist on accompanying you to the garage. You were stern but gentle with him. You would take the time to show him things that he needed to know--how to wash and wax a car, how to fix a stereo, how to pet a cat properly.

Our little girl had you completely bewitched. She would wear her dress-up party costumes and invite you for tea parties. Even at your busiest, you would make a point to give her special attention, even if you couldn't sit down next to Mr. Bingles for crumpets and cookies.

You would shake your head in amazement to see an obvious feminine heart forming in our young daughter. And I would thrill to see the young man our son was developing into--already showing signs of those character traits which I so admire in you.

Doctor continued, broaching the subject of a medical study, that you were a prime candidate, that it was entirely up to us . . .

My mind went to my parents, the proud grandparents of our children. We had wracked our brains for weeks to think of the perfect way to bring them the news of their first expected grandchild. How my mom had cried. My dad had embraced his new role with fervor, "horsey-rides" "airplane" and "hide and seek" despite his age. My mom worried and scolded him, but he didn't care. Now that our son was getting a little older, my dad would take him to every airshow he could, pointing out all the different planes. My mom would sit with our little girl and teach her to stitch and sew. "She's quite talented" my mom would beam proudly, inspecting her handiwork.

The word was in the wings, waiting for its inevitable entrance into the conversation, into our lives. I sensed it was near. I glanced at you, wondering if you felt its presence. You were listening to Doctor. He had begun.

He was reading from a list. Page upon page of poisons. Tools they would use to fight this enemy which had invaded us.

The laughter of our children echoed in my mind as the side effects were lined up and ticked off. A whole new list for each poison. I waited and listened . . .

"...nausea . . . diarrhea . . .rash . . . anemia . . . blurred vision . . . dizziness . . . headaches . . . cramping . . . bleeding . . . hair loss . . . blindness . . . "

Then suddenly it was there. The word. Spoken. Hanging in the air. Filling the room. Mingling with our children's laughter.

Doctor didn't stop reading until you reached over and took my hand--the closest you could get to comfort me. Nurse sprang into action, trying to find a tissue for me. Are there no tissues in this room for this weeping woman? Doctor looked at me, surprised. I had been taking it all so well, until the word was spoken.

"Do you two have children?"

I looked at you through my tears.

You answered Doctor for me.

Doctor and Nurse both waited respectfully until I quieted. Doctor gently explained that there was no time to delay. No time. We must start the regimen tomorrow. I nodded. I knew we had waited too long.

Doctor continued with his list. No more surprises. The room was silent, except for Doctor's voice . . .

". . . seizures . . . loss of appetite . . . muscle spasms . . . blood in the urine . . . dementia . . . . . . "


Peace
C

Happy Birthday, G!

Today is my older brother's 40th birthday. I won't mention more about the idea that it is a shock to me that all the old gang that I started hanging out with when I was in my 20s are now crossing that 40 year threshold. I am at the younger end of the group of friends, so I have a little time left, but not a lot. I have been told by family members the next generation up that the 40 decade is wonderful. I hope so, since I am staring down the barrel of the "40 age shotgun!"

Okay. In honor of my big brother passing this milestone, I would like to share a little family story concerning him.

My brother has an unusual name. In the interest of anonymity, I will simply call him G. G's name caused him a fair amount of grief growing up, all the way through elementary, junior and senior high school. Now, members of my family are blessed with a certain degree of oddness--shall I say nerdiness. There are a few who escaped that gene, but only a very few. So, here you have an odd boy with and odd name. On top of all that, he is a red-head. Kiss your social life good-bye, especially for a boy!!!

Now, the story goes, my parents had made an agreement when they were expecting their firstborn. If the child was born a boy, my mom would name him. If it was a girl, my dad would have the honors. Then whoever didn't "win" the contest the first time would name the second child. Also, they agreed that the names would be kept secret from each other until the baby came.

So the time came, and behold! a child was born--a boy. Some time after the delivery, my dad went in to my mom's room to find out what his son's name was. My mom, in delirious exhaustion mumbled out "Horace." Whenever my dad repeats this story, he flinches at this part. All he could think was "oh no! The poor child!"

So he leaves for a little while and returns when my mom is more awake and alert. He asks her at this point, "so, what is his middle name?" I'm sure he was thinking, maybe we can call the boy by his middle name. My mom answers "Paul." So my dad tries out the full name "Horace Paul."
And now, this is the point where my mom yells out incredulously "Horace?! Who's Horace?!" . . .

So the moral of the story: if you're a geeky, gawky, red-haired kid with a funny, at times embarrassing name, take heart! It could be worse! Your name could be Horace!

Happy Birthday, G!

Peace
C

My roots--the treasure

My mom left this week for a trip out west to North Dakota, where she grew up. I have been thinking about my roots since before I posted last. I wrote previously about where I came from on my dad's side--rural Connecticut. My paternal grandfather was the quintessential New Englander. He was the do-it-yourself farmer, with tendencies toward intellectual elitism. He was uncomfortable with emotion and did not show affection well. I think he did not know what to do with his grandchildren, who in many ways displayed artistic "bents." I still have unresolved feelings about him. I never felt close to him. He frightened me in some ways, disappointed me in other ways. but I do have some pride in his strength and fortitude. I am his progeny, so some of his strength (as well as his disdain) is mine. He is my backbone.
My heart is another story.
My mother's father was a child of the prairie. He and his brother were the younger set of half siblings. During WWII, he moved his family to California to the San Diego area. There he worked in a factory which made airplanes for the war. He took a lot of pride in his work there, but he missed home. So after the war he brought his family back to the open skies of North Dakota. When I knew him, he was newly widowed from my grandma (I have only vague memories of her). He was retiring from his work as a diesel mechanic. And he had taken up a new hobby--beekeeping.
It's kind of funny. I saw my CT Grampa several times a year while I was growing up, but the feelings that I have for him are at best undefined. I could probably count on two hands the number of times that I actually saw my ND Grampa, but I can honestly say that I adored that man (I still do). I know I was cherished by him whenever I saw him. I remember him getting on his hands and knees and playing with me. He visited my family in NH when I was in elementary school. I remember him walking with me to school and listening to me. He would hug me freely. He would spend time with me.
The last time I saw him was when I had gone to ND after my step-grandma had died. By then he was suffering the affects of Alzheimer's. The morning that I left, I was hugging him good-bye. He looked intently into my eyes and told me most assuredly "I will never forget you."
He passed away one year later. All his grandchildren were his pallbearers.
I treasure the memories that I have of my Grampa. The only regret that I have is that there are not more of them.

My Roots--the tether

I've been feeling a little nostalgic of late.
I grew up in New England--Nashua, NH specifically. I was born there and, except for a couple years in very early childhood, lived in the same house until I was married and moved to NY state. I know all the streets of my old neighborhood like the back of my hand. I still refer to houses as the family homes of people who have not lived there for decades. I remember the dog on the corner who would wait for us every day to toss a dirty tennis ball for him to catch and bring back. My friends and I would grow tired of this game long before he would. And the bike riding. The corner food market--Jean's Foodland--was always a favorite destination of mine for buying candy bars and birthday cards. Later on I worked my first job at that store. It still is sometimes a surprise to me that it has been replaced by a Rite Aid--has been for 20 years or so.
Yeah, Nashua is my hometown, but my roots are planted somewhere else.
I am the granddaughter of a Connecticut dairy farmer and his wife. The farm that Reuben S. worked was in the family for at least 2 generations before him (I know I will be corrected soon on this). He was literally born in the house in which he lived his entire life.
I remember going to the farm as a kid and walking out to the cow pasture. My brother and I were each given the honor of naming one of the cows. I can't remember the name I gave my cow (I'm sure it was something sensible like Bessie or Blue Bonnet). My brother, being such a boy, named his Cow Flop. Yup. That poor creature is immortalised in my memory for that unfortunate name bestowed on her.
It was always a treat going to Grandma's and Grampa's. In the summer Grandma would give us an empty coffee can with a shoe lace handle to pick berries. Those were that best blackberries! And the thunk! sound they would make when they would hit the bottom of the coffee can. Of course, they would always make that sound. I don't think there would ever be more that a single layer of berries--I would always eats too many for that to happen!
But the best was the house itself. It is an old farmhouse. I to this day love the smell of wood smoke--it smells like Grandma and Grampa's. Our coats would be hung up behind the wood stove in the kitchen upon arrival. That provided the added benefit of saturating our coats in wood smoke, to bring the memories home with us. The adults would talk around the wood stove, my brothers and I would spread throughout the rest of the house. It's funny, the rest of the house has kind of an echo quality to it. There is no carpeting, the floors are bare except for some throw rugs. Despite the echo, it is not an empty house. It is full of memories of generations of my family. I suppose that a large part of the reason that I love old things now is because of that house. It is a sort of tether for me. It is my roots.
Peace
C

PS It is a recurring dream of mine that somewhere in that house there is a secret passageway to a hidden room. It gets more and more real every time I dream it!