Key Grip

I feel like I have hold of a rope.  It is a slippery rope that no matter how firm my grip or strong my pull it keeps slipping between my tightly clenched hands.  Maybe a knot would help me hold, but I can’t loosen my grip enough to tie one for fear the rope will pick up deadly, unstoppable speed.  It may be that the rope would move at its own pace, like the trajectory of the waning moon, in spite of my gripping, and that my perception of slowing it is an illusion.  Still, love compels me to hold tight.

This evening Sherry held a spoonful of cranberry sauce in her right hand, her arm crossing over her body so that the cranberries were precariously hovering in space well to the left of her plate and of her placemat. 
“Put this where it goes.” she directed me.

Not sure what she meant, I asked, “Where do you want the cranberry sauce to go?”

“Where it goes!” she insisted.

“In your mouth?” I persisted.

She nodded.  I moved around to her right side from the chair where I was sitting to her left, took the spoon from her hand and put it in her mouth.

“I just don’t know what to do.” she confessed after swallowing the spoonful.  

I had cut up pieces of turkey and had small broccoli flowers on her plate.  I pointed out to her that she could eat them with her fingers.  She did that, dipping pieces of turkey in the small bowl of cranberry sauce on her plate.  When she was ready for her soup, I pointed to the soup spoon and she was able to pick it up and use it to feed herself some of the soup.  The tide of confusion appeared to ebb.

Sherry’s last radiation treatment was on Friday, November 27^th, as was her last round of Temador, the chemo drug she has been taking for over a month.  Her course of antibiotics for the diverticulitis was completed last night, and her dose of flagyl, again for the diverticulitis, was completed tonight.  She is being weaned from the steroids, down to 6 mg. a day from 8 mg.  This will continue for 6 days when she will reduce her doses to 4 mg. a day.  She will resume Avastin IV treatments on Wednesday, December 2^nd.    She will have a MRI in about 4 weeks, her first since diagnosis on September 15th.   Our oncologist cautioned us about a phenomenon he called pseudo-progression, which is to say that the first post radiation/chemo MRI can show that the glioblastoma tumors have grown when in fact bleeding around the tumors is causing the false reading.    It won’t be until subsequent MRIs are completed when a line can be drawn to determine rate of progression.

Who knows?  I do know that my daily assessment is functional and anecdotal.  While this may fly in the face of the empirical, it does frighten me to see Sherry’s increasing disorientation and her increasing inability to remember how to perform basic tasks.  The horror for Sherry is that she is fully aware of what she cannot do, and is deeply perplexed and frustrated by the confusion she feels.

I do know that I need to keep Sherry’s medications straight, and to monitor closely for a fever and high pulse rate in case the diverticulitis or some other infection should flare up.  Plus, I need to engage Sherry in activities she can do without confusion or frustration.  We can share poems, listen to tapes, watch DVDs, recall and share life stories, and I can learn from her vast store of literary and liturgical knowledge.  

I also know that I need to be where I am.  I am fully aware that hazards can await the caregiver.  I am also aware that should these turn out to be Sherry’s last days—and I am visualizing, hoping for the contrary—I want to be with her and do all that I can to improve the quality of those days.  This is not a burden, it is an honor.  Yup, I get tired, and yes I am not the prefect caregiver: at times being less patient than my better self would feign to be.  Fortunately, communication between us is clean and clear; we can quickly find higher ground.

Sherry trusts me completely.  She feels safe with me.  That is sacred ground, and I am learning of the unfathomable depth of love. 

Unplugged

I have been unplugged the past few days.  I haven’t written a blog entry since November 24^th, I just got around to retreiving voice mail, am negligent in returning calls, and I haven’t answered e-mails either.  I don’t know why exactly.  Maybe it’s just that technology isn’t at the top of my list of things I am thankful for.  

Thanksgiving found our gratitude candle burning all day long and well into the night.  We chose to have a quiet, private day at home.  After the litany of medical appointments, home, with no place to go sounded like the right thing to do.  I think it was.

It was a day of remembrance and reflection for us.  We didn’t spend a lot of time with the generic, genetic unknown beings who prospered or at least endured over the centuries through famine, pestilence, plague, war, fire, flood, and all of the other disasters that pockmark the human condition.  We did gratefully acknowledge the genetic strand they carried forth that made it possible of us to have a life, let alone the rich and rewarding ones we are enjoying.  

Much more time was spent with the known, more recent bearers of our double helix.  I got Sherry’s maternal grandfather’s pocket watch out of her dresser drawer and removed it from the satiny pouch she had made for it after she had it cleaned at a local jewelry store.  It was a timepiece from another time that prompted Sherry to recount stories.  While these stories provided me with only a smattering of the complexity of who Sherry’s grandparent’s were—along with aunts, uncles, cousins—I was able to feel her gratitude along with her .  

I recalled many of the wonderful people who supported, encouraged, and strongly influenced me.  My immediate family came first to mind and Sherry heard stories that I hadn’t thought to tell her before.  I voiced a collage of events: croquet at the Kellers, mince meat at the Gaitins; laughter with the Ottos; exhuberance at the Hosfords; early morning chocolate chip cookies at the Morris home, and much, much more about the strands of joy, pathos, fears, challenge, and triumph that make up the fabric of my life.

Most of our time was spent on the immediate:  a time when we have been overwhelmed by the generous and sensitive outpouring of love we have received since the revelation of Sherry’s brain cancer shattered the world as we knew it; certainly as we anticipated our world would be.

This love was the glue as we picked up the pieces and stuck them back together again and began to embrace this new phase of our life.  

Thanksgiving was in the fullest.  Yet, one day could never contain our gratitude for the many splendored gifts that brought us to this day and give us hope for tomorrow.

Plateau

We have noticed our attempts to normalize, to adapt to, and accommodate the various aspects of the reality we are experiencing.  That is to say we plan and execute a routine that enables us to meet the rigors of the external demands--various and persistent medical appointments--while at the same time finding our little pleasures and giving them prominence so as to not allow our lives to be ruled by reaction.

There is comfort on that plateau.  It is a place with soft edges where we can live.

The difficulty comes when change occurs.  Our corner of the Earth quakes  Deep, perilous chasms open forcing us to find a new path, to make new accommodation, to find new pleasures.

This process is a painful, emotional one.  It brings us to the grim edge where intensity crowds out comfort.  It is also the place where epiphany jolts with bright bolts of new awareness.

The cracks began to open on Saturday.  Sunday was a caution, and yesterday we fell to the bottom when our oncologist suggested that the symptoms could well be the glioblastomas progressing.  We knew that was a possibility, but hearing it directly was  still a crush.  He did shine a faint ray of optimism, again telling us what we had hoped:  that the adverse symptoms were Sherry's body and mind responding to the cumulative onslaught of drugs, radiation, and procedures.  After the appointment we drove out to the lake and parked at Beacon Point where we talked, wept, and allowed ourselves to open,  to reaffirm that we are not in this alone.  We embraced each other and the new reality we were experiencing.  We drove home from west on Sherman to north on 4th where we were cheered by the bike racks, the benches, the kiosks, and the general buoyancy of the work that has been completed there.  Beauty and creativity live!

Today we woke up at 3:00 am.
 "Are you awake?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to get up?"
"Yes!"
"Great, I'll go get the shower ready and start the water for tea..."

We put on the day easily, and arrived at the lab for tests a bit early.  They were completed in time for us to walk down the hall  to radiation, then to our appointment with our oncologist.  We were a bit apprehensive about it because we typically only have one appointment with him a week, and back-to-back appointments are unusual.  We filled the wait time with rich conversation, still getting to know each other after all these years.  When our oncologist came in with the lab reports he told Sherry how much better she looked today.  While the symptoms had not changes significantly, they were now ours and we knew that we could handle them together.

So, we seem to be on a new plateau.  We were thrilled to hear our oncologist talking about MRIs 4 weeks from, now then again in 8 weeks, and again in 12.  It may be that all of those weeks might not be on this same plane.  We are hoping for up, but know there's a down, with meaning and joy and small pleasures all around...

Saturday

Sherry is becoming increasingly disoriented.  Today I was alarmed when she could not find her way from the dining room table to the bathroom, and from the bathroom back to our bedroom.  I had discussed this with our radiologist when we were in for radiation therapy on Friday.  He ruled out the medications and counseled Sherry to take more time to think and me to be patient.  When the disorientation appeared to be worse to me today, I called our oncologist.  He was off for the week end and I got to talk with the on call oncologist.  We reviewed medications and he advised me to watch for a fever or a pulse over 120 in case the steroids were masking an infection.  She didn't have a fever or an extraordinary pulse.  I'm left with thinking that this is possibly a cumulative effect of the radiation, or, dreadfully, that the tumors are growing in spite of all the therapies.  Of course speculating on the cause is just that:  speculation.  My hope is that when Sherry resumes Avastin treatments on Monday her disorientation and confusion will diminish.

Obviously, this is hard for me to see, and it is extremely frustrating for Sherry.  Today was as low as I have seen her.  I decided to get us out of the house.  We went to Creative Elements, an art supply store, where Sherry picked out a couple of drawing pads and some pastel markers of various hues.  We then drove down to the NIC campus and inched our way along the dike road losing ourselves in the antics of the geese and in the expansive view across Cougar Bay and to the snow line skirting Mica Peak.  We continued on past City Park, down Sherman to the east end of town, then took Lake Coeur d'Alene Drive out to Higgins Point.   The bare silhouettes of the trees lining the lake leaflessly flaunted the brisk south wind.  The waves tossed us flashes of sunlight that had escaped through holes in the gray sky.

We were out of the house and out of ourselves.  I made green salads and salmon loaf for our lunch when we returned home.  We took the rest of the day slow and easy, hoping for more light tomorrow.

Home Again, Home Again, Rig a Jig, Jig!

This afternoon Sherry was discharged from Oncology at KMC.  She had reached the benchmarks of being able to tolerate oral versions of the drugs she had been receiving via IV, and she was strong enough to use a walker which she demonstrated taking short trips up and down the hall under the watchful eye of the physical therapist.

She will resume her Avastin treatments on Monday, so any respite the tumors may have been enjoying will soon be over.  She will complete her regimen of radiation therapy next Friday, November 27th.  It is nice to be able to see the end of it.  She should have another MRI soon after to determine the effect the various therapies have had on the tumors, and suggest the next course of action.

That is down the road.  In the meantime we embraced his gray day where the horizon was obliterated and it was impossible to tell where the Earth ended and the sky began.  That didn't really matter.  Our feet are on the ground and we are home.  

Indulgence

I have frequented the hospital.  Enough so that I am familiar to the after hours gatekeepers at the Emergency Room entrance who just smile and nod to me as I stride past the "All Visitors Stop Here" sign.  This is not a familiarity I sought, yet it is nice to be known as I walk into mystery; into so much that I don't know.

Yesterday morning, I came home after spending a couple of hours with Sherry in her room.  I began to feel like I was in a perpetual dance with the RN, the CNA, Transport, Custodial, the Student Nurse, and the KMC Auxiliary volunteers.  I don't think I stepped on any toes, but I knew I was in the way.

After returning home I began to settle into things that needed doing, I wanted to re-ink our return address stamp.  Our address was growing faint in the middle.  I thought the ink was in the catchall drawer.  It wasn't.  When I woke up that day the thought of cleaning out the catchall drawer in the kitchen did not cross my mind.  Yet in the process of looking for the ink I began to empty the drawer and sort its contents.  I wondered at the volume of the squirmy pile of rubber bands:  thick blue ones from bunches of broccoli, blue narrow ones from green onions, red ones from newspapers, and a rainbow of others whose origin I had forgotten.  The most interesting pile was that of the unknown objects.  The only sure thing about its contents was that as soon as any of it goes out with the trash its essential function will be revealed.

I sorted and stacked, washed the drawer and its dividers, then carefully placed like things together.   It felt good to close the drawer, confident in its contents.  I thought about what attracted me to this superfluous task when the choices included so many more important ones.  Bringing order to a small drawer full of chaos was a comfort in face of the cosmic chaos swirling about.  I thought about how the flutter of the butterfly's wings changes everything in our universe where everything is connected to everything else. and everything matters  Surely, my orderly drawer must be weightier than that fluttering butterfly.

I also recognized my indulgence.  Sherry was left in the middle of the hospital dance of endless procedures where her greatest intellectual stimulation came from choosing from the menu for her meals.  I realized that she needed wider horizons, and mine needed to be wider than the junk drawer.

I returned to the hospital.  We listened to a Billy Collins CD that I had downloaded onto my I-Phone.  We laughed and wondered anew at the poems that have become familiar.  We nodded knowingly to each other as he began to read our favorites.  We thought of friends with whom we would like to share selected poems with the hope they would find the pleasure and meaning we were finding.

We were transported out of the hospital into the cosmic dance, grateful for the gentle, joyous hinging of that Monarch's wings.

Potholes

Sherry will be in the hospital a couple of more days.  She has improved.  She hasn't had any pain medication since Sunday; her fever from the infected diverticula has subsided, and she can stand to transfer from her bed to a wheel chair.

Diverticulitis is fairly common.  With Sherry any infection poses serious risk because her immune system has been compromised by radiation treatments.  The good news is that the IV antibiotics seem to be working.  She will remain in the hospital until she is stable with the IV medication and is transitioned to antibiotics in pill form.  Then she will be able to come home.  I put on crisp, new sheets on our bed anticipating her homecoming.  I will consult with the Registered Dietician before Sherry comes home.  While she is on an unrestricted diet at the hospital, the food there tends toward the bland side for obvious reasons.  I want to be sure that I can feed her food that will contribute to her recovery--food is medicine.

A significant question for me comes from the temporary end of Sherry's Avastin treatments.   A side effect that Avastin poses is the risk of causing a intestine perforation; a risk accentuated by the weakened intestinal walls.  Until the diverticulitis subsides the risk is too great.  On the other hand, the Avastin is an important part of the therapies attacking the glioblastomas.  There will be a time when the benefit outweighs the risk and the treatments will resume.  I'm glad that we have an oncologist who is keeping us informed and is carefully balancing benefit with risk.  I'm not sure how Sherry's motor skills will react to this what I hope will be a temporary change.  Even if they do not improve beyond the current level we will be able to manage at home.  If they decline I will need to seek additional support.

All of this again underscores for me that we are miracles whose existence is an amazing, interconnected balance.  We are at once incredibly resilient and exceedingly fragile.  The cumulative onslaught of tumors, surgery, radiation, infection, and drugs has pushed Sherry to the fragile side.

Her spirit remains miraculously resilient.

Detour

What appeared to be the unfolding of a quiet Sunday got to be pretty noisy.  Sherry woke up early, around 2:0 am, feeling like she had some gas pain.  She didn't sink fully into sleep until about 9:00am.  By 10:00am she was again awake experiencing more severe abdominal pain.  She also was having difficulty standing, sitting, and walking.  I didn't know if this mobility problem was due to the "gas pain" or to the reduction in the amount of the steroids.  Sherry is being weaned off of them, and the reduced dosage could have cause the motor problem like the problems that occurred earlier when the dose was reduced.  I called Sherry oncologist, and I was able to connect with him around noon.  He told me to bring Sherry in to ER so they could have a look at her.  I did that.  It was extremely difficult to transfer Sherry from her chair to the wheel chair, then from the wheel chair into to truck.  She simply couldn't offer much assistance so that meant a lot of careful lifting on my part.

ER this Sunday afternoon was busy.  All of the ER rooms were filled and people were being seen in the order that they arrived unless triage indicated greater urgency.  The lobby was full and I worried about Sherry's compromised immune system.  I pushed her in her wheel chair  to a remote area near the hall and brought one of the volunteer staff's desk chairs over to sit next to her.   Sherry was wheeled into an ER room about 2:30pm.  After a plethora of tests Sherry was diagnosed as having diverticulitis.  Of of the many dire possibilities abdominal pain could manifest, this is a relatively good one.  It is treatable and manageable.

Sherry was admitted to KMC at about 7:30pm. They will treat her with pain medication and IV antibiotics.  Hopefully, she will respond and be home soon.   I am now at home tying up some loose ends and will head back to the hospital tonight.  The nice thing about doing a blog is that I am spared from having to make a lot of phone calls and can focus my attention on Sherry.

Two Thirds

20 out of 30 radiation treatments completed.  The usual schedule has consisted of radiation every week day, chemo in pill form seven days a week, and Avastin IV one day a week.  This, smattered with doctors' appointments, physical therapy, and occupational therapy are the big rocks in our week.

Radiation will be complete November 27th.  We don't know about the Avastin or chemo at this time.

We do know that we get to continue using the wonderful McGrane Center for strengthening.  I have been learning the settings on the various exercise machines that Sherry is using so that we can continue with the program without incurring the OT and PT costs.

The Avastin IV (above) occurs on the second floor of the Cancer Center--commonly referred to as "Chemo".  Chemo is staffed with exceedingly kind and supportive people.  Sherry takes her I-Pod and listens to her choice of music during her time getting the IV.  The chair is heated and will vibrate if Sherry chooses.  They serve lunch and warm cookies that Sherry is eager to munch.  The staff will bring warm blankets on request, so it is hard to imagine how the treatments that occur there could be more patient friendly.

The most disturbing thing to me was watching the nurse put on a gown and double glove before hooking up Sherry's IV.  I'm sure that this is a medical version of belt and suspenders, but it does underscore the toxicity of the substances that are used in chemo.

So far the negative impact on Sherry has been minimal.  She is tired more that before, she is puffier, and she has lost much of her hair.  We can literally live with that.

Sherry is currently napping on this snow dusted, sun dappled Saturday.  Nancy Allison from North Carolina is here, as are nephew and nieces John, Ellen, and Kathryn Blair.  We are warmed, encouraged, and delighted by their presence.  Sherry's cousin, Andrea Dixon, will arrive this afternoon.
Life is rich and full.

Hi! Ho! Silver: AWAY!

I like how my mind wanders while I am doing tasks that don’t require full engagement.  Yesterday, while picking up the sticks from the pear trees I had pruned a couple of days before, my mental path went from children’s poems--”Five, six, pick up sticks; seven, eight lay them straight”-- to thinking about the Lone Ranger.  I thought about how destructive the notion of standing alone, of riding off to the horizon abandoning connection with people and place; off to be heroic again and again in new situations where the only common theme was the Lone Ranger rescuing; never upon building strong, stable, interconnected community capable of solving its own problems.  

I thought further about how pervasive this theme is in our culture.  From Horatio Alger to Ayn Rand and many manifestations in between:  The self made man pulling himself up by his own bootstraps, persistently shedding the grasp of the many who seemed to him intent on pulling him down.  

While picking up the bundles of sticks and carrying them a step closer to the transfer station where they will be transformed to compost,  I wondered about what it would take to transform our stories to ones in which heroic, valued acts are ones of people caring for one another  Stories about creating just systems where all voices are heard, where seeking truth carries more weight than sophistry; where compassion trumps possession; and where the commonwealth is paramount. 

Maybe it’s beyond laying them straight and big fat hen:  eleven, twelve, beyond ourselves; thirteen, fourteen, the future green; fifteen, sixteen, an end to mean; seventeen, eighteen, justice queen; nineteen, twenty, enough is plenty...      

Side Effects

The side effects from Sherry’s chemo and radiation therapies have been moderate.  The classic puffy cheek steroid look is reasonably apparent; the hair loss is obvious.  

As I understand it the radiation kills the hair follicles where the beams go in and where the beams come out.  The result is an interesting patchwork of thin hair and bare scalp.  New constellations of freckles have become visible, and await discovery and naming.  Shampooing has also changed from the rigorous scalp massage that Sherry loves to a gentler process.  I fill my cupped left hand with an extravagant pool of shampoo, close the bottle one handed, then invert my shampoo filled palm on the crown of Sherry’s bowed head.  As the cool shampoo begins to spread and is warmed by the heat from Sherry’s head, I begin to move my left hand in a soft, gentle, ever expanding circle soon joined by my right hand.  Slowly Sherry’s head is covered with smooth creamy lather and the shower stall fills with the enticingly unique baby shampoo smell.  After the rinse of warm water from the hand held shower head carries the last of the abundant lather down the drain, I can then get to work on the constellations, and on carefully inspecting Sherry’s scalp for any skin damage.  The radiation is also hard on skin, and I discover a small patch that looks like a sunburn. It will get some skin repair lotion after Sherry pats her head dry with a thick terry cloth bath towel.  

The cognitive dissonance is not as readily discerned.    Copying numbers from her address book to envelopes is difficult for Sherry to do accurately, as is writing appointments in her calendar.  Some confusion results from short term memory loss.  We don’t know if these changes are a side effect from the steroids, other medications, radiation, chemo, or are a result of the tumors themselves.  We are watching closely as Sherry’s dosage of steroids is decreased, hoping that Sherry’s sharp as a tack cognition will return.  As I write I hear Sherry doing exercises on her piano.  While scales and drills aren’t the most interesting music to hear, I am an appreciative audience.  She is integrating her left hand functioning. Playing the piano, even two handed mirror exercises, is a benchmark that seemed exceedingly lofty just weeks ago.  Seeing this change encourages us about the cognition.  

The good news is that Sherry is Sherry.  There is nothing more that I could ask for.

Comfort

Comfort comes in a multitude of ways, some from without and some from within: 

◆Waking to the dark and hearing Sherry’s breathing, regular and deep with sleep, and feeling her radiant warmth slide under the covers we share pulled up to our chins.

◆Hot shower water steaming down my body pushing rivlets of foaming Dr. Bronner’s lavender soap down the drain.

◆Hearing Sherry’s verdict on the oatmeal I have prepared for her.  “Delicious!”  I believe her while wondering how anyone could conjure up superlative exclamations about oatmeal.  

◆Going to the garden to dig a few carrots for lunch.  Forsaking the garden fork and plunging in with my bare hands, unwilling to stop at a few.  I kept sifting for more in the dark earth until I had all of them, and took them into the utility sink to remove the tops and wash the carrots.  Now my trips for a few will be to the mesh bag hanging in the garage.

◆Pondering the magnitude of the generosity of spirit, work, food, and encouragement that has been heaped upon us.  We even have a new front door that closes tight and keeps both wind and water from seeping in under it.  

◆Knowing that the only work I need to do is to dive deeper into love.  

There is discomfort in the diving:

◆Comfort is not to be found in knowing there is someone else worse off than me.  Diving deeper elicits compassion and empathy.

◆Comfort is not to be found in having when there is have not.  I recall the forlorn children begging in Malaga, Spain.  I remember how I had to harden as I made my way through them, looking, but not really seeing.  Diving deeper is to soften, to look, and to see.  

◆Comfort is not to be found holding love as an abstract, a construct from which no action emanates.  Love comes from service and not the other way around.  

Which brings me back to the love through service, gracious and generous, that has comforted me and Sherry.  It is more than we could have imagined and more than we deserve (or certainly more than I deserve).

What Halfway Looks Like

Sherry asked the technician to take a photo of her after they had her ready for today's radiation therapy.

As you can see in the photo Sherry is wearing a rigid, form fitting mask that is bolted to the table in order to keep her head absolutely still.  The machine (I'm sure it has a much more elegant name) is programed to fire beams of radiation in seven different locations designed to torment the tumors.

The good news is that the process doesn't seem to be tormenting Sherry too much at this juncture.

We wish the tumors a hard knock life!

Playing for Change

Last night we watched and listened to a DVD that definitely falls into the wonderful category in this blog.

For the last four years a small film crew has been travelling the world with recording equipment and cameras in search of inspiration. They traveled from streets and subways to Native American reservations, through African towns and villages, up to the Himalayan Mountains, and beyond. Throughout this journey they created a movement connecting the world through music. The album, “Playing for Change” is a collective statement from over 100 musicians spanning five continents. Many of the musicians have not met in person, but through their different cultures, the songs on the album that were mixed in the studio demonstrate a profound human connection and willingness to unite.

The title is a double entendre. Many of the musicians are street musicians who are literally playing for spare change. One of the most moving songs for us was Bob Marley’s “One Love.” That is the greater change celebrated in the songs and spirit of the album.

Tipping the Scale

Sherry’s weekly weigh in confirmed that she has turned the corner on weight loss. I don’t know if it was the Madjool dates, the gourmet macaroons, cookies, pie, protein powder, or Sherry’s voracious appetite driven by steroids. Likely, it was a combination of all of the above and so much more. Now we are going to make sure that the rebound doesn’t bounce too high. I believe there is a bit of an “Urban Legend” phenomenon that buzzes around the Cancer Center waiting area. So, I don’t know if the story about the guy who gained 40 pounds in two weeks is credible. Credible or not it does give Sherry pause; not enough pause to restrain her incredible appetite. The delicate balance here will be between the weights on the Cancer Center scale.
Wednesday will mark Sherry’s fifteenth radiation treatment. She is scheduled for 30 sessions. We will celebrate the halfway point even though we’re not sure if it will end up being halfway. The follow up to our current round of radiation, chemo, and Avastin treatments will be determined when we get to the end of it.

Today we have physical therapy this morning, and then we have two hours open until radiation therapy. The bright day beckons. We voted absentee so our polling place won’t need to be a stop. We could visit Midtown and enjoy the work there that makes it so inviting. We love the bike racks, the kiosks, and the benches. We could visit City Park or a number of the other attractive and interesting parks in our city. We could visit the Library, always an uplifting experience. Tubbs Hill would be too much for Sherry to navigate at this point. That will be a goal for another day. What I know for sure is we live in a great place where the streets get repaired, the snow gets plowed, our community college enriches us fiscally, culturally, and intellectually, and the police and fire fighters respond when they are called.

After radiation the day plan is more defined. After I make us mushroom omelets for lunch, I will plant the peony tulips that my sister, Marla, and her husband, Steve, sent to us. Some pruning may also be in the picture if I listen to the pear trees. I also want to move a couple of our rose bushes to sunny locations that should make them happier. The garden always has things for me to do; things that I like to do. Sherry will read and rest after the rigors of physical therapy. She will also wear her headphones while tilted back in the recliner to listen to favorite music.

Tonight we have a fresh Netflix film to watch.

The day promises to be rich and full. We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Permanent

Seven days since I posted my last blog entry.  It’s not that the the days haven’t been eventful.  It’s that I have allowed the events to fill the time I had been using to write blog entries. 

I have been making jelly.  I have several reasons for doing this.  Functionally, I needed to make room in our freezer.   To accomplish that I removed all of the containers of boysenberry, raspberry, blackberry, and quince juice that I had accumulated over the summer.  I mixed much of the boysenberry, raspberry, and blackberry juice together to make Brambleberry Jelly.  I had enough raspberry juice gathered from this banner raspberry year to make several batches of Raspberry Jelly.  Then there was the quince juice extracted from a large basket of quince I picked last week.  From it I made Quince Jelly, and two large batches of membrillo, a quince paste popular in Spain and delicious with a sharp cheddar cheese.  There are no new blog entries, but there are now six cases of jelly as well as more room in our freezer, which is to say I can now close the door.

Another reason has to do with taking care of our garden and the wonders it produces.  Our garden in a generative act that Sherry and I share.  The liturgy of season is marked by sharing events such as the Spring showing of the magenta rhubarb shoots, or celebrating the first ripe tomato.  Picking the berries and the quince are in there, too.  Fully utilizing  the produce completes the circle and honors our cogeneration, and it is a way of sustaining the goodness of the garden.

Probably the best reason is that I can.  Today was the second day Sherry didn’t wear her gait belt--the one that snugs around her waist that I hold onto while she is on her feet to prevent falls.  She is getting around the house independently.  I still don’t think it would be a good idea for me to leave her alone, but I am more free to focus on other household tasks without interruption.  So, I stirred my bubbling jelly with abandon.

The other change, as predicted, is that Sherry is beginning to lose her hair.  She leaves silver strands behind her like the tail of a comet.  I put a glass container with a lid on it in the bathroom to store the hair I pull out of the bristle brush Sherry uses every morning.  We  plan to put the hair out for the birds in the Spring so they can use it in making their nests.  

Word among the radiation veterans is that hair loss happens around the  thirteenth session.  Sherry completed session twelve on Friday, and thirteen is scheduled for tomorrow.  She appears to be right on schedule.  Her radiologist on Thursday told Sherry that her hair loss would be permanent.  We got real excited about that.  Wow!  Permanent!  That sounds like a long time--just what we have been hoping for!  Celebrate!  On every count collateral hair loss while bombarding tumors is the better choice.  As for me, I love Sherry’s hair, but I don’t love her for her hair. 

Cheryll, my sister, sent me the following Wendell Berry words last week:

“Whatever happens

Those who have learned to love one another

Have made their way to a lasting world

   and will not leave

Whatever happens”

I believe this is the kind of permanent we are seeking...