English is not my mother language ...

One year after my chemo started, here I sit again, looking out my living room window at the same maple tree. That chemo treatment has long been completed. We all thought that after radiation, I would return to my everyday life, wiser, but pretty much unchanged.


Here I sit again, a year later, looking out my living room window, seeing my gorgeous maple tree. Two days from today I will start the oral chemotherapy that I expect will follow me all the days of my life. It might make my life easier, the pain less severe, who knows? There will be other treatments - radiation, bone strengthening medications ... A couple of weeks ago, one of the doctors told me: "The goal will be to keep you comfortable, to maintain the pain under control." 


I can't remember which doctor said that to me. But I thought, "Oh, you are so smooth. This is how we speak English in South Western Ontario."  The goal is to keep me comfortable, not to cure; for there is no cure. And if you miss the phrase, and don't ask for confirmation of what you just heard, it may be quite a while until you finally get it. 


When you ask a question about timing, they tell you that "Statistics show the the majority of patients in similar circumstances are able to live two years with treatment." Or something like that. We don't have the final scans that will tell us where I fit in those statistics.


English is not my mother language. I did not learn it at my grandmother's knee. There are a lot of little subtle nuances to English - to any language, really, but of the languages that I know best, English takes the prize. Yet I long for clarity, and so I ask impertinent questions, out of season. Before it is time for questions, I often ask for clarification, for then it is easier for me to cope with the real meaning of what it being said. 


So, to get back to the goal of treatment, the goal is pain control. We surely are not there yet! I ache, and I hurt. My sweet Prince David and I have long and involved discussions, scholastic conversations, about when did I take the one pain pill, and whether is it time for another pill to deal with the breakthrough pain. We discuss with amazing seriousness whether the pain might be from the cancer or just arthritic pain that is getting worse, and should I not also take a Tylenol, then? 


Further, there is the issue of carefully documenting what I take, for I often forget three minutes after having taken something. Yes, I have a pill box, and soon we will be graduating to a mega-pill box! Some pills are to be taken as needed, so I do not want to mix those with the regularly prescribed ones. I would not like to take them just because they were there, rather than because I really needed them. 


Today is a beautiful, sunny, Victoria Day. The birds are having a field day, singing to their heart's content. There is a cardinal who deserves an Oscar for best song of the year, right out my bedroom door. The iris is in bloom in the front garden. In the back, the bridal wreath spirea went crazy last week, and has almost bloomed itself out! Next to it, the peonies are about to burst. at least two weeks before their normal habit in our garden. A lot of flowering bushes are working ahead of schedule, telling me: "Do not worry boss, we will keep on blooming; we know how to do this." 


My mother grew huge carnations and hydrangeas. She had grapefruit and mango trees in her back yard. My dad was a skillful farmer, cultivating vegetables for the whole neighbourhood until he died at 78. My grandmother grew her own coffee. I am happy that both my children enjoy coaxing beauty and nourishment out of the soil, and are passing their delight in gardening on to my grandchildren.


Those reading these words might be thinking that I seem to be concentrating on the minutiae of life rather than the ostentatious and pedantic topics of cancer treatment and recovery. You are damned right! I am concentrating on the details of living; I'm keeping my spirit alive and well fed and watered. I am concentrating on clearing up the clutter of my mental closets and bookshelves, and mind. When my nephew in Greece reads this, I want him to know all about his aunt Myrta, with all her wrinkles, rather than to learn about potions, and medicines, and conditions that he can find through Google!                                                


Recently a friend asked me how I stay calm. "I would have been freaking out!", she said.


First of all, I have discovered that when you have to do something, you pretty much do it: put one foot in front of the other and keep walking on. Pilgrims know that. When you are in the middle of a muddy field, you cannot quit - you may decide to quit later in the day, but at that moment you have to keep going and get out of the muddy field!


Sometimes cancer is discovered long before one has any discomfort or pain. In that case, the first signs of discomfort and illness come during the treatment for a disease that has not yet begun to make you sick! 


In my case, this second time, the pain came first, and then the chemo. The reason for this chemo treatment is different than the earlier time. You have to have a different mental framework. You cannot say, "be patient, consider the alternative. In sixteen weeks this will all be a memory, and you will get your life back." 


It is easy to feel discouraged or afraid, weary of the changes in one's daily life. " When can I have my life back, my energy back?" This time, it is different:  I have to say to myself, you have your life! This is your life. Maybe the flowers blooming out of season are trying to teach me something. Don't look for schedules, and get confused or upset because they came out of season! "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." 


I admit that there are moments, late at night when I am tempted to ask questions that have no answers.I have not yet asked "Why?" My questions have more to do with being a wife, a parent, a friend.


Once or twice I have had conversations, around 3 a.m., with a friend who did not make it. Ted was a wonderful friend, a carpenter and maker of beautiful kitchen and office furniture, . He was a good dancer, a loving father, a loyal friend, a man who lived his faith both at home and out on the road. His wife has been a good and loyal friend to me during this time. 


My conversations with Ted are rather one-sided, I admit, for he has been gone for more than 15 years.  I must imagine what he might say to me. So, I have not asked my friend to tell me anything. I have merely asked him to shine a light for me, as an example of courage, love and steadfastness of purpose. 


So far, it is working. And we will see you around, with the flowers, and Ted, and a great company of planetary pilgrims, on the way to Santiago!