Waiting for the Boyfriend to Call

Do you remember when you were single?  Go back into the memory files of your brain.  Think back to the time before you had a husband, a significant other, or even the steady boyfriend.  Think back before your husband would call just  to say he was on his way home and did he need to pick up your child from soccer practice.  Go way back in time, before you were comfortable with your special someone.  The person you could call twenty times as work to tell them about the crazy day you’re having and why won’t the principal call them instead of you when their daughter has taken a political stand and dyed their hair blue.  (And then calling them back and asking – why is blue so political)  Think back to the first meeting.  Wade through the foggy memories of being single.  Remember meeting that certain someone, the person you thought you might want to give your heart to or at least have a cup of coffee at Starbucks with.  You smile, they smile, you chat, they say something witty, your eyes twinkle with laughter, they nod their head with confidence.  The age old dance of getting to know each other is played out in a matter of minutes.  Numbers are exchanged and you go home to wait for this new person, this new potential boyfriend to call.

And then there’s the wait.  The first day goes by.  And you were sure they were going to call you sometime between 7 and 9 pm that first night.  You stuff file folders into your briefcase, telling your boss some made up story why you would work better at home tonight than staying late at the office.  You watch “Friends” (remember this is awhile ago – and “Friends” wasn’t a re-run yet) while trying hard not to look at the clock or the phone.  The second day comes and goes, and you begin to wonder if maybe you should call them.  The third day, you finally go to the laundry mat to do some wash otherwise you’ll be wearing your underwear for three days in a row.  You rush home, hoping the red button on your message machine is blinking. Nothing.  Day four and five, you begin to practice your “oh, I thought I’d ask whether or not your heard about blab blab” lines over and over, trying to be cool, upbeat, confident and not a stalker. You can do this, you can make that first call – only to chicken out and eat the last bit of Hagen Das Cookie Dough Ice Cream.  Day six comes, no phone call from them – but yes your mother calls and wants to know if you could have breakfast tomorrow morning  with her and Daddy as they’ll be in town (which everyone knows is the covert language of I’m going to check up on you and try to get you to move back home).  Day 7 rolls around, and they are beginning to be a distant memory to you.  You’ve got plans for next weekend with the girls involving dancing, drinking and dishing up the gossip.  The phone rings……life changes courses and you move forward.

So now if you’re asking yourself what does all of this have to do with the price of tea in China?  I’ll tell you.  I got to play go see the doctor this week.  Remember, I’ve got several new tumors to deal with and got to play pin the tail on the doctor this week.  My oncologist tells me I need to see my radiologist, which doesn’t bother me because he’s drop dead gorgeous and I never listen to what he says cause all I can think about is……oh my lord, why couldn’t I be about 10 years younger and 50 lbs lighter.  My radiologist refers me to a new radiologist who specializes in bone cancer.  (I don’t really like her as she comes in and starts with in a sing song voice – you know you are stage four and you’re going to keep having tumors until….that’s when she realizes she should have had a little bit better bedside manner as the hostility I fell is coming off me in waves).  She’s worried about my sternum and whether it can handle another bout of radiation.  So Ms. Bone Cancer Radiologist refers me to the Big Machine Radiologist.  Now…..just so you know…..this isn’t happening all in one day.   I’m schlepping over to Seattle via the ferry each time I see a new doctor.  $30 a trip, and over a $100 dollars gone is days,  I finally get to meet with the Big Machine Radiologist.  I like her immediately.  She doesn’t play games and lays the facts out clearly (and analytically – remember I was an accountant in a previous life) so that I can understand them.  My sternum can’t take the radiation – but Swedish has a new machine that will direct “a thousand points of light” at my tumors.  It’s shaped like a huge arm that moves around the patient.  She explains that instead of radiating my whole sternum (which is very bad as what’s going to protect my heart let alone hold up what’s left of my boobs) the machine targets just the tumor.   The machine was developed down in California at Stanford and she herself got to use it last year when she was diagnosed with breast cancer that had leached over into her sternum.  Lucky me……instead of 2 to 10 minute blasts of radiation to the general area over 20 days, I get to have 60 minutes of intense radiation on just my tumors over 5 days.  Woo-hoo, aren’t I lucky.

I know, I know…..what does this have to do with the boyfriend call.  I’m getting to it.  Ms Big Machine Doctor explains the procedure.  I will have surgery to implant 3 pieces of gold into my sternum (ouch).  Five days from the surgery, I’ll have another CT Scan to see how big the tumor is and they will use that coupled with my earlier scan to calculate the growth of the tumor.  Seven days after the surgery, I begin my 5 days of radiation therapy.   The Big Machine uses the gold implants to target the tumors.  And here’s where the boyfriend call comes in……   Ms. Big Machine Radiologist tells me, you get to go home and wait until the hospital can arrange a surgical room and get procedure approval from my insurance.    The hospital will call you very soon I’m sure.  Hmmm, what’s that……what happens if they don’t call?  I’m sure they will, however if you don’t hear from a week from today…..call me.

And so I sit…..waiting for the boyfriend to call.  The first day, I didn’t go anywhere in fear that I’d miss the call.  I’m up to day 4 and now have the irrational fear that my insurance won’t approve the new fangled treatment. Is it “Death Panels” that are holding me up.  Each day that goes by, my tumors get larger and larger.  And I wait for the phone call.  The call that will start the ball moving and hopefully will keep me alive for a little longer.

The Wait is Over

Yep, the wait is over – my cancer has returned.  Cancer, the Sequel.  Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me I don’t really have my game face in place yet.  It’s only now after a week and half that it’s beginning to hit me.  It’s back. It looks like you have more tumors, Joan.  Where,there, there, yes there….why, who knows, I don’t know…..third base (my daughter and I say that to each other whenever someone says I don’t know – it’s an Abbott and Costello routine)

For the past week I’ve been asking myself, how do I feel?  The answer so far is……I feel nothing.  No tears have leaked from my eyes, no panic fear has clutched my chest and interrupted my breath,  arms have been not yet been flung into pillows with anger.  I just move, go forward.  Get out of bed, get dressed, tie my shoes, hustle the girls off to school, do dishes, knit one, purl two.  Feed the dogs, the cats, the fish, the goats.  Wear socks because it feels cold.  Pull the covers over my head because I don’t want to think of what tomorrow will be.

I’m seriously good at rationalizations, though.  Well, I’d better cancel my hair appointment – since I might lose my hair again.   And damn, wouldn’t you know I finally have a cut and color that I’m happy with.  It will be okay…….we knew this was going to happen.   I have stage IV cancer, sooner or later it’s going to kill me.   Hey, don’t worry – it’s not like this is going to be the “kill shot”.   You know, I really did want to take some of this extra weight off before Christmas.  Looks like I’ll have no problem loosing it.

The fact is I do know what to expect.  I wish I really could stay in bed and make tomorrow never happen, but I can’t.  No change in chemo, just get to go through the whole regiment of radiation therapy again.  Oh joy.  I get to look forward to my skin turning lobster red and ooze with whitish pus, massive fatigue that will wear my body, my mind and my heart down and trample all over it, green bile from my mouth while diarrhea cramps the rest of me over in half.   Loneliness will plague me from the isolation of being with friends and family. 

A friend recently said, “it looks like you’re going to do anger this time, Joan”.  I’m not sure if she’s right or wrong……I just wish I’d feel something.

But hey……it will be okay (keep your fingers crossed)  I should be fine soon (in 6 months if I’m lucky)  We’ll manage (I seriously doubt)  I don’t need any help (Hahahahahaha……I guess it’s time to re-activate TeamJoan)

Gardening

Summer is finally here on Bainbridge Island.  It’s hot – around 80 degrees, clear blue skies, frogs croaking in the Alder tree infested woods, chipmunks chatting to each other from tree to tree.  Summer is iced sweet tea, melting popsicles, juicy seed spitting watermelon triangles.  Sun hats, sun screen, sun dresses, sun kisses in the form of freckles on your face.  Summer is also a time for gardening.

For the past three years, I haven’t really been able to garden.  The pain in my chest from having my muscles, underarm, and breast ripped from my chest has made it almost impossible for me to raise my hoe.  Tumors in my ribs, in my hips and sternum make it extremely hard for me to listen to loud rock music through earplugs as I walked back and forth mowing the dandelions and grass down on our lawn.  Poor Rainer has had to do everything – mowing, weeding, hoeing, planting, digging.  He’s been so overwhelmed – we moved from the Bay Area – where if you were lucky, you had a postage stamp for a garden.   To see tall trees you had to either head north to the redwoods to eww and ahhh or find the nearest park and be happy with the occasional non deciduous tree or two.  However thanks to wonderful friends, my church ladies have given me not only someone who helps to keep my house in order but someone to take the stress of the yard off Rainer’s shoulders.  While my wonder woman, Cecile, gives me laughter and a sparkling house, her friend Ruben mows the back forty and whacks down the tall weeds.  And because my dear friends have given me a gift I can never repay, they have also given me back my beautiful garden as Rainer is still weeding, hoeing, digging and planting - but more for pleasure than for the drudgery of always being behind on the massive weeds that were overtaking our house and septic system because the chief weed officer was out of commission.

I not only used to be a Vice President of Finance but I used to also be the Chief-Weed Officer of our little family company.  I used to love to weed.  I had very cool tools, a well sharpened red hoe to turn the soil and pave the way for seeding, the four finger claw that I used to hack not only the slugs but could break up the root systems of the dreaded Himalayan blackberries, a trowel that with one swoop dig down and get the deep roots of the pretentious dandelion.  Weeding was my source of relief from the ins and outs of working as an executive and playing the party politics games that one is forced to play when being the chief bread winner of the family.  Each time I raised my hoe, dug with my trowel, or raked through the soil with my trusty claw enabled me to put away the frustrations of work and helped me to still keep my chin up even in the chaos of working.  I enjoyed seeing the fruits of my labors – the year we grew corn – it was deeeelicious as my Nana would say, or when we built teepees and grew tomatoes, planting seven different colors of red nasturtiums and collecting their seeds in the fall for yet another year’s crop of little flowers.  But that pesky cancer has prevented me from doing what I love, however this year……I’ve been able to do very small tasks and those small tasks and Rainer’s back breaking hard work has given me my garden back.

This year I decided that if I couldn’t garden at least I could become the Director of Planting.  Poor Rainer, my bullheadedness is probably driving him crazy but he loves me unconditionally and has given me the beautiful, deep, rich colors of our garden back.  Since he was no longer playing catch up, he’s been able bring our garden slowly back to life.  It’s not as huge as it used to be…..and there are more perennials and self seeding plants as we used to have.  But he has given me little patches thriving greenery and smiling faces of flowers that I can see from my window when I sit in my rocking chair trying to take my mind off the pain in my bones.  And I have even taken of the role of weeding clerk.  I no longer can swing my hoe or claw, but I can sit crossed legged and with a little hand held device I can turn the earth and get rid of the pesky weeds and flower eating slugs.  I can only work on a small patch, usually no bigger than a square foot or so (for which I still pay the piper in the pain department – and usually take the next week to recover from).  And now when Rainer tackles a huge project of a new bed or a planting a hydrangea or two, I sit in my chair outside and play at being the Director of Planting.

I wish all my friends both near and far would come over to our little slice heaven and sit with me outside on a hot summer day, drinking lemonade, watching the hummingbirds sipping nectar from my many shades of red flowers.  I thank my church ladies for giving me back the ability to garden even if I never actually lift a hoe.

Revelations

No, this isn’t about God or anything like that.  It’s more about memories.  The other day it was blistering hot, about 75 degrees.  (Now many of you who are sweltering in 100+ weather may think that 75 degrees is a welcome respite – but here up in the Pacific Northwest – a sunny day over the temperature of 60 degrees is hot……75 degrees and we’re passing out on the sidewalks).  I had made a deal with my girls – two chores – and then a trip to Battle Point Park and its wonderful playground.

It took awhile for my girls to do their chores.  Not because the chores were herculean tasks, but because my girls are typical children.  Mom, do I have to.  Why does Emma always get the easy job?  Hannah, if you want to scrub toilets you are more than welcomed to.  Mom, I finished my chore – can we go now.  Did you do X, did you do Y……I did X; I’ll do Y when we get back. No, you’ll do it before.  Okay…..two hours later. Can we go now, did you do Y.  Not yet.  Hmmmm, maybe you should do it now.  Ten minutes later, a girl comes rushing upstairs…..Mom, Mom, Mom, where are you.  Oh there you are – naturally, I’m on the toilet – God forbid I am able to use the bathroom without an interruption.  I’m done.  Can we go now?  As soon as I am finished here, we can go.  Yippee!!! My eight year old exclaims.   And then those faithful words come out of her mouth, hurry up Mom – it’s time to go.

We piled into our car, windows rolled all the way down, rooftop open, tunes on the radio.  Their brother opted to stay home – quiet time for him.  I brought bottles of water, knowing that sooner or later my girls would be begging for drinks.  I got lost while driving over to the park; I turned when I should have gone straight.    The girls were in the back seat chanting their mantra, are we there yet.  Oh well, my zig zag  was an adventure – and I must say those mansions on the southwest of the island are pretty spectacular.

Finally we made it to the park, the girls practically jumping out of the car before I had even parked it.  My girls were off as I scrambled to get my cane, the bottled water, my knitting (hey, I get pretty bored while they’re off frolicking on the monkey bars), and my hat.  I found a place in the shade and began knitting while they we off at a hare’s pace up the play structure to cross the rope bridge. 

I knitted and watched them.  The sun was beating down.  I had ceased to exist for them as my girls were in playground nirvana.  Swings, rope bridges, hot steaming metal slides, and bars to practice being Tarzan as they swung from bar to bar. 

My mind was wandering from the playground and off to the left I started watching teenagers on the tennis courts.  Knit one row.  I noticed two teenage boys were getting lessons from a tennis pro.  Purl one row.  It was obvious who the pro was and who wasn’t.  Knit one row. The pro was slamming balls at the boys like some gangster shooting his Tommy gun. Purl one row, pull out more yarn.  As I watched them, my mind drifted back to my early twenties. Knit one row.  I used to play tennis.  I was terrible at the game in high school.  I was rather gangly and my legs were about as coordinated as a new born fowl trying to take its first steps.  However, in my early twenties – when I was just a mere accounting clerk – I developed poise.  I remembered how I used to play a mean game of tennis with a fellow accounting clerk on my lunch hour.  I had a wicked serve and a seriously mean backhand. Purl one row.  As the instructor lobbed the ball up for a serve, I thought back to my own serve, throwing the ball up and crushing it down with my right arm. Knit one row. Immediately I was ready for the return service from my friend.  Purl one row.  My mind was drifting, I was the one playing tennis, I was the one running around the court ready to slam the ball back to my opponent.  I was the one sweating in the heat, laughing with my friend, running, jumping, making silly lobs, Knit one row....  Mom, I’m thirsty.

I was back in the real world, pulling cool water bottles from my purse, being the mom and my children were calling out – look at me mom, look what I can do.  I realized I will never be able to lob that ball up in the air.  The pain in my chest, the lack of muscles that were taken out during the mastectomy, the living with stage IV cancer will never allow me to run and play.  And so, I looked away from the tennis courts and smiled at my children as they bounded from slides to swings to hanging upside down like monkeys on that playground bars.    

ticking

I was chatting with some good friends the other day. We were discussing life, the usual way that friends discuss life. How was your spring holiday? The weather was warm in California. Did you hear that blab; blab was playing at the Pavilion. Gosh, I’m hungry…..here, have a bite of my scone. Do you think the skies will ever change from gray to blue again? When a friend turned to me as said that proverbial phrase I hear so often……. How are you doing, Joan…..really.


Normally, I make some flip remark, I’m medium, oh I had a hard night last night but I’m okay today. Or I just turn the edges of my lips up in a soft smile and say…..I’m hanging in there. But, I’d had caffeine and just hanging in there wasn’t working for me on that particular day. I wanted laughs, so I told them about my recent tests……and my new prognosis. (I’m sure you’re all waiting with bated breathes). So I guess I’ll not only update my friends, but the world out there who might read this.

In 2008, I was given 18 months to live. In 2010, I was given 18 months to live. Now nearly three years later and numerous claustrophobic PET/CT Scans, MRI’s with blue barium, sharp, pokey, needle drawn blood tests, tight mask head exams, etc. I now have been given 24 months to live. Now you have to admit, my prognosis is hilarious. If I’m lucky, I’ll live until I’m 90 and then still be given another 12 months to live.

The thing is that I am ticking down. I use a cane now to walk. I find that by the afternoon if I didn’t have my tiny white pills of Percocet with ibuprofen on the side, I would curl up into the fetal position on my bed because my ribcage hurts from the bone cancer. Although I loathe doing housecleaning and used to have the ability to write a check with the best of them for a housekeeper, I now would kill to be able to get down on my knees and scrub my wooden floors as the grim keeps building up on them day after day. I am slow and no longer at the top of my game.

But we’re all just ticking down……some of us just at a little faster pace.