act of imagination

“In the high heat of summer, things slow down a bit, and there is time to remember a few things you may have forgotten.”  ~ Brian Andreas

Hello, old friends from long ago.  It certainly has been a while.

I wasn’t sure if, or when, I might return to this space.  But I also couldn’t quite close the door and let it go, just in case the day should ever come when we’d reconnect and start anew. And now, here I am, with some time on my hands and a few mid-summer thoughts.

It’s tempting to take a detour here into a personal update, but that would be another post altogether.  And so, for now, a few quick health headlines will suffice.  A breast cancer diagnosis in April put me on a road no woman ever chooses to walk.  (And yet, as I discovered right away, this road is crowded with old and new friends, women who show up, hands extended in welcome, offering hope, kindness, advice, and companionship.) While having an MRI to assess the extent of my cancer, I lost consciousness, spent four days in the hospital for tests, and was found to have a hole in my heart that required repair (a PFO closure) before I could proceed with the breast  surgery.  The heart surgery had to be followed by a month of recovery and blood thinner medications.  And then the blood thinners had to be entirely out of my system before I could finally have the breast  surgery.

Two days before my lumpectomy on July 2, my dermatologist removed a dark spot on my leg.   A week later, I learned I had melanoma.  (Somehow, at that point, this diagnosis didn’t surprise me at all.) Because of the location – down low on my calf —  my surgeon was unable to suture the wide excision required for clear melanoma margins; I simply didn’t have any extra skin for him to stitch.  Nor did he think a skin graft would be successful.

He had no choice, he explained, but to leave me with a deep surgical wound, and that large wound would require me to stay off my feet, keep my leg elevated, and change the dressing every day for many weeks. And then the doctor put a kindly hand on my shoulder.  “I’m so sorry,” he said gently.  “This is going to be your summer. And it’s not going to be easy.”

And so it is that I find myself recovering from three difficult surgeries in three months. Yeah, it’s been a lot.

There’s some good news, too. My heart is now whole. The breast tumor is gone, my lymph nodes were clear (two were removed), and the final lab report confirms I don’t need chemo.  In three weeks I’ll begin radiation, followed by hormone treatment to help prevent a recurrence.  I’m stretching through the lingering referred pain from the lumpectomry, re-learning how to reach my left arm above my head and how to put on a shirt. The melanoma is gone. I’m awaiting results from one more biopsy and, going forward, I’ll have a full body scan every three months for the rest of my life.

But this last surgery has been hard to come back from. The wound on my left leg is deep, wide, raw, and painful.  For now, I spend much of the day lying on my back, with my leg propped up above my heart.  Tomorrow I’ll begin a series of weekly placenta graft treatments meant to encourage healing.  It will be a long road, a road I must travel by mostly staying put.

And so,  I do have time to remember a few things.

I am remembering. . .

That a chaise lounge on a screened porch is a good place to spend a summer day.

I’m remembering that my grandmother never needed reminding.  She spent her long-ago July afternoons stretched out in an old webbed lawn chair on her own small porch, ankles neatly crossed, size-five shoes always on her feet, a glass of sweet ice tea sweating on the table and a stack of McCall’s and Family Circle magazines at her side.  As I think of her in my mind’s eye, I’m remembering she was probably younger than I am now,.  I’m remembering that she seemed pretty old to me.  I’m remembering that I have no memory of ever seeing my grandmother barefoot.  I’m remembering she seemed content.

I’m remembering that reading a book with my head at the foot of the chaise, and my feet propped up on the back, makes me feel like a kid again.  I remember I usually had a band-aid on my leg when I was ten, too.

I’m remembering what it’s like to start a novel in the morning and to stay up late reading the last pages after everyone else has gone to sleep. I’m remembering what it’s like to have nothing else to do but read on a hot summer day. I’m remembering that if I have a book, I’m never bored.

I’m remembering what an empty day on the calendar looks and feels like.  I’m remembering how long an afternoon can be. I’m remembering what it’s like to have no place to go.

I’m remembering that I can turn down my own bed in the middle of the day and it will still feel like a special treat when I return to climb into it at night.

I’m remembering the sweet peace of sleeping alone in a quiet room with the windows opened wide.  I’m remembering the cozy comfort of  stuffed animals sent by far-away friends.  I’m remembering one doesn’t always need words to say, “I’m here.”

I’m remembering coffee in bed is lovely way to start a day.

I’m remembering how nice it is to let someone take care of me.

I’m remembering what it feels like to move very slowly, putting one foot in front of the other.  I’m remembering how to be gentle with myself.

I’m remembering that a gift of flowers arriving at the door feels like a miracle.  I’m remembering that a bouquet can last a long time if I cut the stems and change the water every day and pluck out each blossom as it passes.

I’m remembering no one will die if the kitchen floor isn’t vacuumed.

I’m remembering that the light in the sky changes every minute.  That clouds move from right to left. That I love watching birds take baths.  I’m remembering that to spend a day looking out the window is not time wasted, it is time marked and honored. I’m remembering how to be.

I’m remembering I can ask for what I need.

I’m remembering that people want to be helpful. I’m remembering that help comes in all sorts of offerings. I’m remembering how to receive.

I’m remembering that a hand-written letter or a funny card in the mail with my name on it can be the high point of a day.

I’m remembering that gift certificates for take-out food are the best presents.

And that friends who bring dinner, or fresh-picked blueberries, or a new pair of pruning shears are also bringing love.

I’m remembering the simple pleasure of eating meals off a tray.

I’m remembering that at any given moment I can do what works.  I can do what works for me.

I’m remembering I can leave my phone on silent even when I’m all alone. I can rest my mouth as well as my body.  I’m remembering there is a kind of soul quiet required for healing, and that I can claim that quiet for myself.

I’m remembering that taking care of a wound is a little bit like taking care of a baby.  Even when it’s not crying for attention,  it’s always there, to be thought of and changed and attended to with clean hands.

I’m remembering that my body wants to heal. And I’m remembering that my body will never go back to how it used to feel or look or be. I’m remembering that even so, I’m all right. I’m remembering it’s ok to feel what I feel.  And that grief for what’s lost is part of moving into what’s next.

I’m remembering that my body is on my side.  That my job right now is to take care of this body with the utmost kindness. And to let the people who love me take care of everything else.

I’m remembering that some situations are temporary.  I will not always have a wound on my leg or stitches under my arm. I’m remembering pain goes away. And I’m beginning to accept that some situations are here to stay.  I will always be a cancer survivor.  I’m remembering that tomorrow is not a guarantee. That today is a gift.

I’m remembering how much I love watching birds take baths.  And bees going about their business.  And afternoon light passing through flower petals.  And chipmunks who aren’t shy at all.

I’m remembering that I love the way petunias spill out of their pots, the way cucumber vines wrap their tiny tendrils around anything nearby, and the way nasturtiums slowly make their way up the rusty old trellis.  I’m remembering that things in nature just want to grow. I’m remembering the world can always astonish me with its beauty. And that all I ever have to do is look. I’m remembering the smell of the garden after rain, and the way robins sing at dusk, as if calling the darkness down.

I’m remembering that choosing to be happy here, now, is still a thing I can do for myself.

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