"She sees love where anyone else would see weeds / All hope is found, here is everything he needs" --Five Iron Frenzy, "Dandelions"
I'm once again sitting in the waiting room of the same-day surgery at our nearby hospital, trying really hard to be confident and hopeful. We just watched The Empire Strikes Back, so I guess, in honor of Master Yoda's familiar instructions, I'm not trying to be confident, I'm failing at it. Gayle is moving forward with the chemotherapy treatment. Today marks the first step, as she has come back to her breast surgeon to get the chemotherapy port installed on her right side. (I wasn't aware of what that was--oncology hasn't been one of my areas of light study--so for the uninitiated, this is a surgically-implanted conduit that allows access for the oncologist to easily extract blood for testing and injecting the sundry toxins that comprise the treatment.) Her acres of gorgeous hair will be carefully cut off next week and sent to a wig-making company in California where they will do their best to keep some of what she has viable. Silver-lining this, Gayle pointed out that she has always wanted to have a Queen Elizabeth I wig so that she wouldn't have to sleep in curlers before every Renaissance Faire. Now she'll have that wish. And, of course, the dreaded and dreadful chemotherapy itself will begin next week. The end of the calendar year always means that the resumption of the school year is hard on its heels, so there are all sorts of conflicting feelings that are rushing through me right now. It's rather hard for us to focus on that, which is definitely a problem for me: I'm teaching my thirteenth Winterim, a three-week intensive course that my school offers. This year, I'm teaching a course on Dungeons & Dragons and tabletop role-playing games. I'm not particularly looking forward to it, though for no other reason that this upcoming trial is consuming any abilities I have to get excited about something. I'm normally ready for a Winterim, having been prepping it off and on throughout the year. This time, however, with COVID and cancer, I haven't been very engaged with what I need to do next. Every time I try to picture what the class will be like, I am left feeling empty and confused. How am I supposed to balance helping Gayle and doing my job? More than in November, when there were so many missed days of work, I can't offload my never-taught-before class to someone else and expect progress to happen. Not only that, but the students have only this one class--five hours a day--to do. Me missing one day is the equivalent of them missing an entire week worth of class during a normal day. Gayle is struggling with her own schedule, too. The school district she works for is wanting details about when she can come back to work, how long she'll be gone, and other things that we simply don't know. There are a lot of question marks in our immediate future, making every imaginary construction crack under the unknown. Because of this, I'm getting more and more enwrapped in my distractions. This is a common coping mechanism for me: If there's something outside of my control, the way I "don't worry about it" means "find something else to focus on". Today, for example, we needed to be at the same-day surgery office by 4:00pm. I spent the morning writing a bit in my current novel, reading, trying to get my 3D printer to work correctly, doing the dishes, and essentially finding anything that pulled my brain away from what was to come. While I'm confident that lots of people cope this way, it definitely made me feel like I was almost trivializing what was happening, not taking it serious enough. The difference between these surgeries is immense: The first was to remove the tumors, effectively making Gayle cancer-free. This one is to ensure that she stays that way. There's always a risk with anesthesia, surgeries, and the taking of medicines, which means that there's always a low-slung current of worry that eventually short circuits my brain. With everything that's gone on--both globally and within my family--it's hard to keep the empathy high. That isn't to say that I'm not doing my best to help Gayle feel comfortable and confident. Rather, until the day-of, I'm having a hard time remembering what's next. It sounds shallow and selfish, I know. Then again, if I keep dwelling on everything, I don't know how I'll be able to convince myself to get out of bed in the mornings… Anyway, the doctor has spoken with me and said that Gayle is doing fine and I can see her in the recovery room soon. I imagine we'll be getting home pretty late, if last time's experience is any guide. (It's kind of sad to say, but it seems like I have a routine now, one of seeing Gayle off to the OR, then sliding out to get myself something to eat, then rushing back to the hospital and eating in the parking lot, hoping that they don't call me with some sort of accident or emergency that unfolded, then sitting and typing away on my blue-keyboarded Surface until the surgeon comes in before having to wait again to see her.) Though we're not finished with this unwanted journey--not by a long shot--I'm feeling slightly better about what's going on. Or, at least I was, until I heard a story on the radio about an older couple who contracted COVID. While the husband survived, his wife did not, and the idea of a loved one slipping away while on the other side of a glass barrier was enough for me to fight back a rising well of panic. Sometimes, I guess, public radio isn't the best choice one can make. Well, I am hopeful, albeit cautiously so. I worry that hoping too much will jinx it--which is strange, since I'm not actually a very superstitious person--and there will be some new complication, some new bump in the road. I don't know where this road ends, but I'm praying that it goes well. My wife is just like the one described in the lyrics I posted at the top of the post: She sees so much beauty and hope in the weeds of this experience. She's scared, of course, and has spent plenty of time weeping. We both have. Nevertheless, she's choosing the harder pathway in the hope of having a better, longer future. She really is a remarkable woman, and is everything I need. Comments are closed.
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July 2021
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