Travis Haugen's Blog - Posts Tagged "love"
Who Is Candy?
Candy Haugen is my niece. She brought me back to the family. Not that there was a problem between the family and myself, but my lifestyle over the years limited contact to a few monthly phone calls and a yearly visit or two, until Candy wielded her unique brand of magic on me.
There is a photo of her holding Carl and Murphy (better known as the Comedy Team), on the Pictures page of the author site. That photo was taken at my brother’s house in Athabasca around Easter of 2018, about six weeks after Candy completed chemotherapy treatment.
In early 2017, Candy was diagnosed with stage 3 Colin Cancer. That year for Candy, was a year I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. After the initial shock-wave, she assessed the situation and dug her heels in for the fight, armed with the positive outlook and the vigor and common sense that has propelled her through most of her eventful life.
Radiation was first, to shrink the tumor to a reasonable size. Then came the surgery, to remove the tumor and a good chunk of her large intestine. She was left with a stoma bag, giving her innards time to properly heal. Then came the wait. She knew what was coming. Chemo. But not yet. She had six months of recovery to endure before beginning that particular hell.
That’s where I came in. Around mid October of 2017, I made a trip out to visit my mom in Victoria. I was very close to my mom, and Ralph, my stepdad. She was near her time, we all knew that. Candy was there, along with her mom and dad, one of my three older brothers. We were all there to say goodbye.
I hadn’t talked much to Candy over the years, but through our conversations on the coast, we found we had a lot in common, and agreed, before returning to our respective homes, to keep in touch via texting.
We had lots to text about. My mom, Candy’s grandma, died a little over a week later. Ralph did a wonderful job during the last two years of her life to bring the world to Mom when she could no longer go to the world. She died peacefully at home with the family, the great grand kids, the grand kids, and the kids, all around her. There was no sadness, only love and gratitude for the opportunity to have had her in their lives. That circle of love continues.
About that time, Candy began chemotherapy. Eight rounds of treatment, two weeks apart. She would be in the doctor’s office for a couple of hours on chemical day while they pumped her with the lifesaving concoction. That was part one. Part two was a bag she dragged around with her for another forty-eight hours, a slow drip of a different kind.
Chemotherapy sneaks up on you. The first couple of sessions, no big deal. You feel sick for a while on chemical day, but you recover quickly, and everything seems normal. But each additional session weakens you, drains you of the energy that defines you, and the nausea stays with you longer and longer. And the tingling in the extremities begins, and your hair thins out, and the light feels like it is slowly fading from your eyes. How do I know? Because I would text, every day, and I would phone, and I would ask, and she would tell me.
I said tell me, not complain. Never once did I hear her complain, or feel sorry for herself, or give the least bit of a whimper, or ever show a sign of defeat.
Candy also suffers from severe migraines, and the chemicals used to treat her cancer are absolute triggers for migraine sufferers. She has endured migraines since she was a young girl. Brutal. But again, she managed them, never complaining while raising two fine sons on her own. She worked hard to advance her career, so she could give her sons, and herself, a better life.
At the fifth cycle of treatment, her parent’s new routine was to drive down to Edmonton from Athabasca on chemical day and pick up Candy and the Comedy Team, and take them back to Athabasca for the rest of the week.
On chemical day of the sixth cycle, I called her on the trip back to Athabasca. She was in the rear seat of her parent’s car, sick from that day’s chemo dose, weakened by eleven weeks of continuous assaults from the poison raging through her, irritated by her hands and feet in a state of continuous tingling and cramping, and in agony from a pounding migraine ascending on her as the weather took a turn for the worse. I didn’t ask her how she was, I knew. We small talked it for a few minutes, then she said to me, “UT (Uncle Travis), you sound so tired. Are you looking after yourself?”
What could I say to that? She’s going through her own personal hell in the back seat of that car, and she’s worried about me.
“Me?” I finally said to her. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just need to sleep a little. Only two more treatments to go.”
Only two more treatments to go. That’s NC (niece Candy), always the positive. That moment changed me. How could it not? More small talk, than I got off the phone with the feeling that I needed to say more. But what?
Turns out, I had already started something, something I have never done before, though I was hardly aware at the time that I was doing it. This is what I texted to her.
Sleep
Sleep my lovely niece
Rest your weary eyes
And with thy own strength
Heal yourself from within
And come the dawn, in the early light
Purge us all from the darkening night
For the essence of one
Is the essence of all
We stand below to catch you
If you fall
So soar above us, engage the fight
And sleep my lovely niece
Sleep
From that moment to now, I’m a new person. Candy has inspired me to be a better man, to live a better life, to dream a bigger dream. Her belief in me, her belief in my work, has spurred me on to complete the publication of SOUP. She has walked the pages with me, co-wrote seven of the songs with me, and taught me that every moment of life, good or bad, is ours to cherish. And best of all, she has taught me the meaning of family. The love and strength that comes from within that circle is everlasting.
That’s who Candy is.
Candy is doing fine. She has had re-connective surgery and has kicked her stoma bag to the curb. She grows stronger every day and is living every moment of her life. She has many years and many dreams ahead of her to fulfill. Yet I can’t help feeling, through it all, the life that was saved, was mine.
There is a photo of her holding Carl and Murphy (better known as the Comedy Team), on the Pictures page of the author site. That photo was taken at my brother’s house in Athabasca around Easter of 2018, about six weeks after Candy completed chemotherapy treatment.
In early 2017, Candy was diagnosed with stage 3 Colin Cancer. That year for Candy, was a year I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. After the initial shock-wave, she assessed the situation and dug her heels in for the fight, armed with the positive outlook and the vigor and common sense that has propelled her through most of her eventful life.
Radiation was first, to shrink the tumor to a reasonable size. Then came the surgery, to remove the tumor and a good chunk of her large intestine. She was left with a stoma bag, giving her innards time to properly heal. Then came the wait. She knew what was coming. Chemo. But not yet. She had six months of recovery to endure before beginning that particular hell.
That’s where I came in. Around mid October of 2017, I made a trip out to visit my mom in Victoria. I was very close to my mom, and Ralph, my stepdad. She was near her time, we all knew that. Candy was there, along with her mom and dad, one of my three older brothers. We were all there to say goodbye.
I hadn’t talked much to Candy over the years, but through our conversations on the coast, we found we had a lot in common, and agreed, before returning to our respective homes, to keep in touch via texting.
We had lots to text about. My mom, Candy’s grandma, died a little over a week later. Ralph did a wonderful job during the last two years of her life to bring the world to Mom when she could no longer go to the world. She died peacefully at home with the family, the great grand kids, the grand kids, and the kids, all around her. There was no sadness, only love and gratitude for the opportunity to have had her in their lives. That circle of love continues.
About that time, Candy began chemotherapy. Eight rounds of treatment, two weeks apart. She would be in the doctor’s office for a couple of hours on chemical day while they pumped her with the lifesaving concoction. That was part one. Part two was a bag she dragged around with her for another forty-eight hours, a slow drip of a different kind.
Chemotherapy sneaks up on you. The first couple of sessions, no big deal. You feel sick for a while on chemical day, but you recover quickly, and everything seems normal. But each additional session weakens you, drains you of the energy that defines you, and the nausea stays with you longer and longer. And the tingling in the extremities begins, and your hair thins out, and the light feels like it is slowly fading from your eyes. How do I know? Because I would text, every day, and I would phone, and I would ask, and she would tell me.
I said tell me, not complain. Never once did I hear her complain, or feel sorry for herself, or give the least bit of a whimper, or ever show a sign of defeat.
Candy also suffers from severe migraines, and the chemicals used to treat her cancer are absolute triggers for migraine sufferers. She has endured migraines since she was a young girl. Brutal. But again, she managed them, never complaining while raising two fine sons on her own. She worked hard to advance her career, so she could give her sons, and herself, a better life.
At the fifth cycle of treatment, her parent’s new routine was to drive down to Edmonton from Athabasca on chemical day and pick up Candy and the Comedy Team, and take them back to Athabasca for the rest of the week.
On chemical day of the sixth cycle, I called her on the trip back to Athabasca. She was in the rear seat of her parent’s car, sick from that day’s chemo dose, weakened by eleven weeks of continuous assaults from the poison raging through her, irritated by her hands and feet in a state of continuous tingling and cramping, and in agony from a pounding migraine ascending on her as the weather took a turn for the worse. I didn’t ask her how she was, I knew. We small talked it for a few minutes, then she said to me, “UT (Uncle Travis), you sound so tired. Are you looking after yourself?”
What could I say to that? She’s going through her own personal hell in the back seat of that car, and she’s worried about me.
“Me?” I finally said to her. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just need to sleep a little. Only two more treatments to go.”
Only two more treatments to go. That’s NC (niece Candy), always the positive. That moment changed me. How could it not? More small talk, than I got off the phone with the feeling that I needed to say more. But what?
Turns out, I had already started something, something I have never done before, though I was hardly aware at the time that I was doing it. This is what I texted to her.
Sleep
Sleep my lovely niece
Rest your weary eyes
And with thy own strength
Heal yourself from within
And come the dawn, in the early light
Purge us all from the darkening night
For the essence of one
Is the essence of all
We stand below to catch you
If you fall
So soar above us, engage the fight
And sleep my lovely niece
Sleep
From that moment to now, I’m a new person. Candy has inspired me to be a better man, to live a better life, to dream a bigger dream. Her belief in me, her belief in my work, has spurred me on to complete the publication of SOUP. She has walked the pages with me, co-wrote seven of the songs with me, and taught me that every moment of life, good or bad, is ours to cherish. And best of all, she has taught me the meaning of family. The love and strength that comes from within that circle is everlasting.
That’s who Candy is.
Candy is doing fine. She has had re-connective surgery and has kicked her stoma bag to the curb. She grows stronger every day and is living every moment of her life. She has many years and many dreams ahead of her to fulfill. Yet I can’t help feeling, through it all, the life that was saved, was mine.
