"Hustle, bustle and so much muscle / Cells about to separate, oh /And I find it hard to concentrate" --"Hard to Concentrate", Anthony Kiedis
Thanks to some unexpected cancellations of other patients' appointments, Gayle and I were able to meet her surgeon today. Rather than bury the lede, I'll give you the takeaway first: The bad news is, it's stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma that has infected at least one nearby lymph node. The good news is, it may only require surgery and radiation to treat. At this point, we don't have all of the information that we want. There are still some tests that need to come back, an MRI to take, and some other pieces to the puzzle. However, based upon what we currently know, Gayle will be able to have the lump removed via an out-patient lumpectomy in the middle of November. The follow-up treatment of radiation is anticipated to extend three to six weeks after that, which means that by New Year, the scariest part would be over. Even without the complications of COVID-19 (which are real but, fortunately, not unsurmountable) ,the variables are manifold: Depending on her risk factors, the results of some of the tests, and a couple of other things, the treatment may need to be more severe, up to and including a mastectomy, a double mastectomy, and chemotherapy. Reconstructive surgeries would also be part of the equation if the single- or double mastectomy have to happen. Because that was more along the lines of a worst-case scenario that didn't seem likely considering the data, her doctor didn't go into any details about chemotherapy. I tend to shy away from strictly comparative judgments on things: I'd prefer to understand things as they are, rather than in comparison to others, if possible. In this case, though, with the understanding that my wife has breast cancer, I feel that this is some excellent news compared to what it could be. A tentative bud of hope is there, and, more than that, Gayle smiled--really smiled--today for the first time in a week. That's enough for me to feel pretty good about the prognosis. There's plenty of reason to hold back a full-bodied sigh of relief--those pending tests are necessary to ensure that we steer this course correctly. But that there's even this possibility of being "done" with the surgeries and initial treatment in 2020--rather than having it drag into next year--is a positive change. At this point, our whole family has been inundated with love and appreciation. Former students from previous decades have reached out to offer support; anonymous gifts have materialized on our pumpkin-bedecked porch (also provided to us by caring friends). We've still not eaten our way through all of the desserts that have congregated on our countertop. I've received gifts from coworkers and help as I've juggled my home responsibilities with those of my school; Gayle has had the complete support of her administration. This outpouring of affection has done an immense amount to help us feel as though we aren't facing this trial alone. We're so grateful to everyone--including those who took time to read through these words from my distracted globe to your glowing rectangle of choice--who has reached out and provided meals and positive thoughts and prayers. We will surely need more as time goes on; the battlelines are drawn, but the fight is yet to come. And that leads to my final point here: As I mentioned in a previous post, Gayle and I are praying and fasting for divine help. If you're so inclined and wish to join your faith with ours, we're going to be specifically fasting that Gayle's tests might come back negative. If they all return negative, then we have the (again, comparative) easiest route back to full health. This upcoming Sunday, 1 November 2020, is a fast Sunday for members of the Church. If you would like to join us in fasting for Gayle, please do. If you're not comfortable with that, I invite you to take a moment and think about Gayle on this upcoming Sunday. Knowing that people are thinking about her, remembering her, loving her for the goodness she spreads and the kindness she sows (and sews) will go a long way to strengthening us. Thank you for taking a few minutes out of your day to get caught up on Gayle's situation. It means a lot to both of us that you'd spend your time with us this way. Thank you. "Christmas is coming / The goose is getting fat / Please put a penny / In the old man's hat / If you haven't got a penny / A ha' penny will do / If you haven't got a ha' penny / Then God bless you" --English nursery rhyme
One of the largest struggles I had as an elementary kid was not being a very good singer. My elementary school boasted one of the best kids' choirs around, and I very much wanted to be a part of it. However, when I went in to audition, I couldn't quite hit the pitch that Mr. Harvey was playing on the piano. I was close, but not close enough. Still, being the vertically challenged youth that I was, my seat in Mr. Harvey's normal music class was on the front row. During singing time, he would occasionally lean in to hear me, as if thinking, "He was close; let's see if he got better." Despite that initial setback, Mr. Harvey later changed his mind, offering me a chance to be a part of the choir during my sixth grade year. I was very happy about this change of fortune and I worked hard in the choir. The rhyme I posted at the top of this post was part of the lyrics from one of the songs we sang for our Christmas Program back in the mid-nineties. The tune still rings in my ears, even all these years later. I picked those specific lyrics for a couple of reasons. One, Christmas is, indeed, coming on apace. It will be a markedly different one for everybody, though our family's celebration will likely be even more memorable and difficult than we can anticipate. We don't have a timeline for treatment for Gayle's breast cancer yet, though that should be shaping up in the next few days. (I will, of course, post an update when we have more information.) But it's most likely that Gayle will be laid-low by the chemotherapy (we're assuming) when the holiday season strikes. We are not actually old men begging on the street corner, but we are those whom others want to help. Sometimes it's a penny, sometimes it's a ha'penny. But it's one of the ways that we have to assist others, and there has been a lot of people who want to assist our little family. I decided to mention a couple of things that have happened, with the final two lines of the rhyme always applying: If it's nothing you've got, then God bless you. I'm not writing this in an effort for you to open your wallet; I'm trying to be open with those of you who care enough to read this what Gayle and I are thinking about and feeling. Well-wishes, prayers, and positive vibes are legal tender in crises, and we gladly accept those, paying back your change in heartfelt gratitude. Masks Many, if not all, of you know that my wife is an excellent seamstress. I mentioned her award-winning habits in an earlier post. Since COVID-19 hit and it became clear that one of our best defenses against the microscopic malady is a correctly-worn strip of cloth, Gayle has been making custom-ordered masks. (You can find her current inventory here.) She's produced over 1,500 of them, if I had to guess, and part of the reason so many have sold is because they are the most affordable masks around. These masks have been one of Gayle's primary coping mechanisms. Well, sewing is a coping mechanism for her, because it allows her to focus on something tangible. In the case of the masks, though, it has the added benefit of being just complicated enough to distract her and just familiar enough to not tax her creativity the way her more intricate costumes can. And though she's had to modify some of how she operates as time has gone on and school resumed, the masks continue to be one of the ways that she helps others while also helping herself. To that end, she currently has breast cancer awareness masks available. They cost more than her standard masks ($10 as opposed to the normal $6), and that extra amount will go into a special account. She still has all of the other masks (and, as of the time of this writing, she's mostly fielding Christmas-inspired masks), of course, so if you're looking for some this-will-only-be-a-good-gift-this-year kind of stocking stuffers, you could pick up some custom masks. Again, her order form is right here. Donations We've received a handful of messages through the manifold ways we communicate these days of people wishing to help above and beyond (or in lieu of) ordering masks. One such person is a fan in the UK, who wrote to Gayle saying that she (our British friend) doesn't have to worry about paying for her healthcare, so she wanted to pay forward some extra money to help Gayle out. Rather than focus on the idea of healthcare in the United States, I wanted to draw attention to the power of remote kindness. Gayle and I are anglophiles, with the happiest place on Earth for me being Stratford-upon-Avon (the birthplace of William Shakespeare). We've been to "this sceptered isle" (Richard II 2.1) twice; for me, both visits were like coming home. Considering a good 47% of me is genetically British, that kind of makes sense. Nevertheless, this fan of Gayle's is not a personal acquaintance. She isn't one of the handful of people that we met while touring London. Three or four people on Twitter, also from England, have wished me and Gayle luck and good thoughts, reaching out across the pond to help a small family in suburban Utah feel a little less alone. I won't say this sort of thing outweighs the other ills of social media, but there is something to be said about human solidarity that transcends national boundaries and physical space. Others have Venmo'd money to Gayle, or asked for her Venmo account (which is gayle-dowdle with no capitalization) because they want to chip in here or there. All of this money that's coming through these different means will go into the same bank account, where we will keep the cash until we know what we're going to need to do. Gayle and I have been on the same insurance for the past 15 years--it's the same company that paid for the majority of our firstborn's heart surgeries--and while we're still awaiting the official prognosis, and thereby knowing what to talk to the insurance company about, I do think that insurance will cover a lot of what we're about to go through. That isn't to say that we'll be fine--there are hidden costs to catastrophic illnesses, including lost workdays, increased food budget, and travel--but it isn't to say that we're in dire straits. At least, not yet. I won't take anything for granted at this point. However, as I mentioned, Gayle's sister has been diagnosed with thyroid cancer, and there are other possibilities of more family members likewise needing treatments. The takeaway from this is that, even if we don't end up using all of the money that has been so generously donated to us, we plan on helping those in our family who may need that financial support. And if, through some redemption arc that 2021 has in store, those closest to us who are also battling cancer don't need the money, we hope to donate to breast cancer awareness campaigns and research into curing this pernicious disease. Fasting Another way that you can help, if you're so disposed, is to participate with us in a fast. Gayle and I are both members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Our religion teaches us that a monthly effort of fasting--abstaining from all food and drink for two consecutive meals during a twenty-four hour period--helps us with a number of things. It helps us focus more on spiritual matters; it reminds us not to get too tied up in the temporary things of life; it increases our gratitude for what we do have; and it also helps us with our own contributions. In addition to meal-skipping, we're also encouraged to donate the amount of money that we would have otherwise spent on food to the Church, where the local denomination redistributes that money to families in need. Fasting is a physically uncomfortable process that is designed to heighten our devotion. Additionally, we believe that when we couple fasting with praying, it acts as a way of indicating the devotion that we have toward a particular cause or purpose. The first Sunday of every month is usually set aside as a fast Sunday. That means that 1 November is going to be a churchwide fast Sunday. Gayle and I would ask anyone who feels like participating in the November fast to join with us in wearying the heavens for help in our future battle. I know that not everyone who reads this is a member of the Church (and if you are, I'm sorry you had to wade through the CliffsNotes version of what you already knew), but I felt that the offer should be extended to any who wishes to participate. If you want to abstain from something you normally get--perhaps the day's coffee--and donate that money to a breast cancer research firm, a local food bank, or even the homeless person on the street, that act of solidarity and support would mean volumes. And, if you're uncomfortable participating this way, that is absolutely fine with us, too. The fact that you've read this far is an intangible-but-real support to us, as well. Conclusion I feel strange doing this. One of the benefits of being part of the Mormon community is that one is usually given a lot of opportunities to serve other people, in both small and large ways. However, buckled into that Mormonic upbringing of mine is an expectation to be self-sustaining and -sufficient. Taking care of oneself, of one's family, is very much engrained in me, for better or worse. That means that asking for or accepting help is often difficult for me to do. It isn't unusual for me to demure on offers, and then feel embarrassment when I do take someone up on the help. I've gotten better about this as I've grown older, but the feeling that my woes are an inconvenience to others comes with it a hefty dose of shame, as if I'm confessing my weaknesses or inadequacies and now someone else has to make up the slack. So, despite my own misgivings, I've decided to go ahead and post this update. I want to be as transparent as possible about what's going on--writing is one of my coping strategies, after all--while also recognizing that for some people, offering words of support, hunting down and sharing survivor stories, or tossing a couple of dollars our way is how they cope with difficulties. I am quite grateful for all of the love and support that has been shared, and I know Gayle has, too. Not a day goes by that we don't cry; not a day goes by that we don't feel the love of our community. In fact, just yesterday, some of Gayle's students drove all the way down from their homes near her school to where we live (a good twenty-five minute drive, give or take) in order to cover our front yard with smiley balloons and signs of encouragement. (The photos at the top of the post show what they did.) We're so grateful for wonderful students who did so much to show that they care. When I was in elementary school, one of the hardest things for me was when I failed to get into the school choir. I got in a few months later; I rehearsed with my choirmates; I traveled to different venues to sing. Then, in the spring, our end of the year finale was coming up. The week of the performance, I got strep throat. Though I was well enough to attend the concert, I couldn't participate. I had worked as hard as I could to be a part of that group, only to have a sickness snatch away my last chance to be with them. I won't let this sickness take Gayle away. Thank you to all who are helping--in whatever form that may be--make sure that doesn't happen. "Then God bless you." "Total strangers/Moved to kindness by my story" --Hamilton, Hamilton
While I don't intend to write about Gayle's battle with breast cancer every day, I do want to try to compile the important moments of this journey. I did that (to a degree) with my oldest many years ago, and it ended up helping when the difficulties were over and our memories had fogged. I had not anticipated needing to do this again… The update on Gayle's condition is minimal: It's invasive ductal carcinoma, at least Stage 2 as it has spread into a nearby lymph node. We have an appointment with a specialist set up for two weeks from now--an impossibly long time to try to live a normal life when nothing is normal. When our firstborn was diagnosed in utero, we had to wait for about a month to meet with his cardiologist. This is less time, but that doesn't really alleviate the stress. Anyway, there's nothing more we can give details on. We don't have any idea what the plan is, the odds of survival, the requirements on us, the insurance's response--nothing. Instead of focusing on this unknown component, I wanted to take this time to write an expression of gratitude to the many hundreds of friends, family, and fans who have interacted with our news. I know Gayle in a variety of formats and would be hard-pressed to give a single word descriptor for her. However, a great many people know her in narrower capacities. Over her decade-and-a-half career as an educator, she has taught thousands of students (mostly because Utah schools are notoriously overcrowded), many of whom keep in touch via social media. Because she's the kind of person who inspires friendships everywhere she goes, Gayle also has a bevy of fellow educators who know and love her. Many of them have sent messages of solidarity, compassion, and confidence in her ability to overcome. In recent years, Gayle has become a bit of an icon within the Utah cosplay community for her extravagant and detailed costumes. She's won awards for her work, as well as being a judge for some of the cosplay contests over the years. At the Utah Renaissance Faire, she is visible to guests in her costumes of Queen Elizabeth I. A couple of years back, Gayle and I did a charity cosplay fashion show. Gayle's combined Instagram and Facebook page follower count is a couple of thousand, with people who know her in this capacity also reaching out to voice their support. In the Hundred Acre Woods of our family, I am the Eeyore while Gayle is the Tigger. So, despite the fact that she's attached to me and my own introverted personality, she has managed to make a number of friends in our neighborhood and church community. We're part of a Facebook group that is designed for members of the neighborhood, and upon letting them know of our newest challenge, we received phone calls, texts, Facebook Messages, and more. Each person wanted to know how we were doing, how they could help, how they knew we'd be able to overcome this. Perhaps this is not strange to you. Maybe in the turbulent course of your life, your support network has always been vast and vocal, capable of buoying you readily. That has not ever been my particular experience. I don't say this in a ploy to get pity; no, this is a result of my own curmudgeonly ways and general satisfaction in the narrow and deep way of friendship. Though I don't normally recommend following Polonius' advice, a broken clock is right twice a day, and his parting blessing to Laertes has been my unofficial motto: "Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar./Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,/Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel" (Hamlet 1.3). Growing up, I was the kind of kid who'd have just a handful of friends with whom I would do almost everything. Expanding my circle of friendship has always been difficult for me, and I took that tendency from my adolescence into my adulthood. This isn't to say that I felt friendless or that those who consider me a friend wouldn't get the same response from me. I simply mean that I feel as though much of my life's story is staged with a minimal cast. That is why I say that the outpouring of support took me by surprise. Well, less-so with Gayle: Anyone who's spent more than a handful of minutes with her knows she's an exceptional woman on every level. That people are flooding her sundry inboxes with well-wishes, expressions of comfort, and ideas for how to cope isn't really a surprise to me. It was how much support I have received that is the real impetus for today's post. (That and, selfishly, it's a way for me to cope.) I haven't been teaching as long as Gayle--I've only thirteen years under my gently expanding belt--and my school has smaller class sizes. For that and other reasons, I have not taught nearly as many students as she has, nor have I as many close working relationships (remember: I'm pretty curmudgeonly and I get stressed out being in highly social events). So the number of people who have reached out to me came as a surprise. Maybe it shouldn't. Blame it on my dysthymia, but I have a really hard time believing people when they offer help (or compliments, for that matter). I chalk it up to politeness, social expectation, or good intentions and don't expect anything beyond that. And I'm not saying that I believe people are lying to me, either; it's one of the ways that the wires in my brain are crossed. It takes active work on my part to believe others when they say they want to help. And following up with the actual asking is also an exercise in guilt, as if I'm inconveniencing others by utilizing their services and I ought to feel badly about it. All of this is a very roundabout way of trying to say that though I struggle to keep up with the well-wishes and words of support, they aren't going unheard or unappreciated. A "like" or a "love" to your comments on whatever social media platform we happen to connect on is a heartfelt expression--small though it may be--of our genuine appreciation. The amount of people who have offered help (some in the most endearingly belligerent ways) has been humbling and helpful. We are grateful to all of you who are reaching out to us and doing your best, in the digital way common to our century, to help us along. We need it. Though it's lacking the personal touch, please take this short post as our response to your outreach: Thank you. We feel your love and your support. As Sebastian says in Twelfth Night, "I can no other answer make but thanks,/And thanks; and ever thanks." "How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?" --E.M. Forster, Aspects of a Novel
"But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve/For daws to peck at." --Iago, Othello Writing has long been a refuge for me. It's a place where I have control, where the gentle pushing of tiny letters has led to large changes in my mind. It's a regulated form of telepathy, transmitting my thoughts to someone else's mind. There's a kind of magic to it, and I retreat into that magic when reality gets too real. But there's no escaping into words that will serve my turn: I'm emotionally and mentally reeling as I try to come to grips with this prologue into a new, personal horror. My wife, Gayle, was diagnosed with breast cancer yesterday. And, since I best process what I feel by seeing what I say, I'm documenting this moment. Or, at least, I'm going to try. I'm on uncertain ground here, and it's hard not to feel so out of sorts that my words fail to work. So…I'll try. Background: Gayle and I met twenty-one years ago this upcoming Thanksgiving. I suppose we technically met earlier, as we shared two classes at our high school where we were both juniors, but I didn't really talk to her until the day before Thanksgiving Break. We happened to be in the art room at the same time. I asked her what she was doing for the break. I asked for her number, scrawling it on the back of a piece of illustration board. Just like that, I had found the other part of my soul. Despite a few hiccups along the way, there was never really anything to prevent our coming together. I served my mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; she was still around when I got back. Four months after my return--sixteen years ago last week--we married. I have not regretted or second-guessed that decision once. It was as natural a choice as breathing; she and I were parted for only our first sixteen years. Then we found each other again. We've spent more time of our lives with each other than without. We struggled the way most newly weds do: Little money, strains of schedules between two people and four responsibilities (work and school for both of us). We were pretty happy, for the most part. Gayle got a good job at the school where she still works; soon enough, she was expecting. Then she miscarried on the Fourth of July, in a Port-a-Potty next to the parade route. I assumed, with all the naivete of my age, that we had hit our big Life Crisis™. It was earlier than anticipated--she was only twenty-three at the time--but this would be our big hardship. I watched with the sort of mute agony that a husband has as his wife suffers in a way that he can neither understand nor alleviate. Time passed. Another pregnancy. This one ended up being more challenging than the first: We learned that our little boy had hypoplastic right heart syndrome, a kind of cardiovascular disease that was life-threatening. The time for our firstborn's birth arrived, and in a rush of circumstances, he arrived. The process was unorthodox: Gayle pushed for about seven and a half minutes, which caused immense tearing. They spent over ninety minutes stitching her back up after it was all over. Our little one was in the hospital for ten days or so, all the while Gayle had to overcome the pain of a rapid delivery. Again I had to watch as my wife suffered a pain I had no way to balm. I can still remember seeing her crawl from the bedroom to the bathroom because it was too painful for her to walk. Despite some close calls, our little guy made it through the difficult times thanks to divine intervention and medical competency. He's okay now--running on thirteen and a half years of half-hearted furor--and, for the nonce, we're not worried about him. But there were some times, my friends…some dark times. And I can't tell you how much it hurts me to see my wife cry, nor how many times I've had to see it. The dawn of 2020 was a good one: We got to go to California with my school for a class studying Harry Potter and visit Universal Studios as a part of that. She came with me, holding my hand and helping me through the stress and strain of being a teacher on an extended field-trip. As she always does, she garnered fans in the form of my students, laughing with them and helping them and radiating the goodness that she sheds like the sun shines. "Lady Dowdle" is as much a part of their experience as the memories of the rides. But the teeth of this hellish year bared themselves early for my family: By the end of January, my grandmother had passed away. While not an uncommon thing for a ninety-three year old, it was the opening act to the personal and national tragedies that were about to occur. While February passed with relative ease, we all know what happened by mid-March. Shifting to crisis schooling and working exclusively online is very much not the reason that she and I teach. By the end of May, her frustration at teaching was so high that she honestly considered quitting. I had to watch, unable to act, as she suffered. The chaos of pandemic and the mounting strains of a populace unwilling to confront its reality were heightened for us because our son is high-risk. As I told my students during the last days that we met in person this past spring, "Half-hearted kids don't get to survive pandemics." Thankfully, this has not been the case for us. But the longer the pandemic stretches, the greater chance those words come true. Our own response to the pandemic has been one of isolation. We found ways to get out--always in outdoor areas, where we were less likely to bump into anyone else--and try to give our boys (we have a total of three now) some semblance of happiness. But our family has been sacrificing a lot--refusing to let friends over, not allowing the children to go anywhere else, even avoiding going to their grandparents' homes for the entirety of the summer--to minimize our risk. This has added to our personal frustration as we see people flout the rules and requests, deny the threat, and live unmolested lives. Add to that the strain of us both being teachers, both of us taking larger protections than the rest of our colleagues, and the overall difficulties of maintaining strength for our online-only boys, and you'll get a glimpse of the cracks that have been slowly spreading throughout the foundation of our lives. Then this past week: Gayle and I celebrated our sixteenth anniversary by getting curbside delivery of some hamburgers and sitting in the mostly-empty parking lot of a movie theater--a pale imitation of a dinner and a date--and professed our love for each other. Meanwhile, her remaining grandfather continues to slip closer and closer to the end--the doctors don't believe he'll make it to Thanksgiving--and her remaining grandmother recently suffered a small heart attack. Then, on Monday of this week--two days from when I write this but two lifetimes back--we learned that her sister has been diagnosed with thyroid cancer. We were all stunned. Yes, there were some indications that this might be the case, but it was still a shock. Gayle even confessed how odd it was that she couldn't even bring herself to cry for her sister--she was just too numb. Then yesterday came, perhaps the worst day that I've had since finding out about my son's heart condition. I was on a call with the special education department and a parent, trying to figure out how to help a struggling student in my class. I had been on the call for over half an hour as I'd driven myself and the boys home from school (my actual school, in my case; the boys are distance learning while at their grandma's house). I was in the bedroom, waiting for the call to end so that I could get cleaned up (as one does when coming home in this COVID-ravaged world), when an insistent knock came on the door. I walked over, unlocked it, and Gayle practically fell into the room, sobbing out, "It's breast cancer." I told the people on the call I had to go and hung up immediately. For a long time we stood in the room, our boys like curious flies buzzing about us, sometimes dipping in for a hug before retreating. Particularly our youngest, who's only seven, it was clear that they didn't really know what was happening. When my oldest asked what was wrong, I whispered the horrible news. He immediately joined the orbit of hugs. After a few minutes like that, Gayle croaked out that there was an appointment set for the next day and would I be able to make it? She asked because that's her way, but there wasn't any way that I would miss it. I assure her that I would, then sent a text message to one of my co-teachers and a good friend. "I need help," I typed. "Call asap." To his credit, he did. I didn't manage to get out the news very smoothly. Lots of stutters, lots of disbelieving ums. As soon as he understood what was wrong, he told me not to worry and that he would handle my classes for the next couple of days. I have to admit, even as I think about that terrible moment, having that sort of instant help moves me to tears. (Lots of things are moving me to tears right now.) There's a providence in the fall of a sparrow, and an unspoken love in the actions of a friend. It was the kind of support I needed in that moment, and I'm so grateful that he was there to provide it. We sank to the ground and I held my weeping wife, unable to stop her suffering. The physical pain of having the biopsy had laid her low for a couple of days, augmenting my own feeling of helplessness as I saw my wife's aching recovery. But that was nothing compared to the void of crushing uselessness that broke over me as I felt the utter lack of control over the situation sink in. I asked Gayle if she'd called her mom yet; she shook her head. "I came straight up to you," she said. I called Sherol, my mother-in-law, and delivered the devastating news that has been rattling around my head for the past handful of hours. She burst into tears, another daughter diagnosed within a day of each other. After hanging up with her, I got a text from my mom, asking about any results of Gayle's biopsy. I texted back, "She has cancer." The text failed to send. On my screen, a small exclamation mark stood next to the failed text, like some offensive scar to draw my attention to that new reality. I deleted the text and called my mom. It so happened that my mom was nearby running an errand. It took a couple of tries, but I managed to ask her if she could come over to my house right away. Naturally, she said she'd be right over. I called my dad. I got dressed. I hugged Gayle. I tweeted and Facebook posted the news. Then Gayle said something that is so quintessentially her. In this moment of her own absolute pain and despair, her own fear and the dawning prospect of her too-soon mortality, she said, "I need to call my mom. She's so upset. This is her greatest fear: Her own mom died from breast cancer. She always worried that it would happen to us." Even in her distress, she was more concerned about those she loved than for herself. I don't mean to valorize self-deprecation; it is, instead, indicative of how she shows her love for others, by helping them. It's the sort of thing that I wish I could learn from her--one of countless lessons. The doorbell rang shortly thereafter, with Gayle slumped against the bed and talking to her mom. I hurried downstairs as my boys let their grandmother into their home for the first time since before the pandemic. I fell into her arms and sobbed the heavy fear that has been my companion these past few hours: "I can't do it without her, Mom. I can't. I can't. She's my heart." My mother did what a mother does: She hugged and crooned and comforted with the best words she could, despite the fact that we had been so cautious and careful throughout the pandemic not to come in close contact with others. I don't say this to justify myself; sometimes, the need for a mother's hug is larger than any other need. She cheered up my boys, quietly sat by me on the stairs as I stared in mute shock into the middle-distance. She offered her encouragement and support, then took her leave. When I returned to Gayle, she said that she, too, needed a mother's hug. I warmed up some leftovers to get ourselves fed while Sherol and her husband made their way toward us. Once Gayle was done in the kitchen eating dinner, I slid upstairs and, in the privacy of my "Fortress of Solitude", felt my feeble heart crack. I sobbed into my hands, uttering some fractures of the most honest prayer I think I've ever prayed. I'm not saying that my son's dangers weren't large and life-changing. I'm not pretending that it wasn't hard or that I don't love my son. He is a part of me, too, and though he drives me crazy, I would go crazy without him. I don't know how I could handle the loss of him or any of my children. But a future without Gayle? That's a future without sunshine, without hope, without air. I'm sounding like my children are somehow lesser-than. No; it's just…different. To be without her is to be without part of me, as concrete as missing a limb. Thinking of that possibility, of living with some phantom pain from where she was…it's unbearable. I sat in my office--painted to look like the outside of a small English cottage, painted by Gayle as a symbol of her love for me and her indulgence of my obsessions--and filled my hands and my tissues with my tears. The hitching sobs eventually subsided, I cleaned my face, I returned to the family. Gayle's parents arrived shortly thereafter. Gayle got her mommy's hug. With her father's help, I gave her a priesthood blessing and got through it without choking up. But I couldn't bring myself to say "It's all going to be okay." Like Macbeth, that type of "amen" got stuck in my throat and I couldn't say it. Maybe it's because I didn't know if I could or should. Maybe it's because I don't know what it would do to my faith if I said it and it didn't come to pass. Whatever the case was, I did my best in that prayer. I asked for a blessing at the hands of my father-in-law, then assisted him in a similar action for my mother-in-law. They remained for a while--again, setting foot in our home for the first time since March--masked and anxious, offering what comfort they could. As is typical for me, after too much time with other adults (a neighbor had come by, masked, and asked after us while standing on our front porch a goodly distance away; that was draining for me), I retreated to my bedroom. I picked up my drumsticks and pounded away to some music, my mind awhirl and my hands going through the motions of their own accord. Gayle came into the room a few minutes later, after her parents had left. "I told them," she said, "that you needed to beat on something." "We've been using these coping mechanisms for so long that now they're just normal mechanisms," I said. "I don't know what to do to cope now." She just laughed a watery laugh. We laugh a lot, Gayle and I do. I love seeing her smile. The night's routine was normal (coping), and soon enough Gayle and I retired. We prayed. We slept. And now we have a new future to face. But at least we're facing it together. |
PurposeThis is where posts pertaining to my wife's fight against breast cancer are found. Archives
July 2021
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