And the days roll slowly by...
When I first wrote about Phyllis and my dad's cancer, I thought I'd write about the journey, maybe once a week, once every two weeks. But as the days blurred one into the other, I found less and less time to write and my energy waned. And here I am, more than six months later, finally finding time to post a blog. I should say I made time to post.
Phyllis and my dad are progressing in their treatment. My dad is still receiving chemo. The mass on his lung has gotten smaller, but the chemo leaves him weak. Phyllis is battling an infection, having to undergo surgery to "evacuate" the wound. She did complete her external radiations before the surgery. She'll be moving on to the next stage of her treatment--internal radiation--on Friday. After three of these, she'll progress to the last stage--her final three chemos--and should be completely done in November. In the midst of Phyllis and my dad's treatment, we've also had to deal with my mom's health issues in July. We had planned on starting on a vacation in November. Now, as the month draws nearer and as Phyllis continues on the bumpy road called recovery, we realize the vacation will have to be put on hold.
I had such an out-of-body experience the day of Phyllis's surgery in April. It was when I thought the cancer had spread based on the surgeon's reaction and the "grit" in her lymph nodes that he removed. Thank God that wasn't the case. It was diagnosed as Stage IA uterine cancer. She's had to undergo the treatment because it was also diagnosed as "high grade" and the cells can be aggressive. So, they're treating it aggressively. On the morning of her surgery, though, I was convinced it was the worst-case scenario. I happened to be in the hallway outside the surgery waiting area. I looked down at the huge picture windows they have at the hospital. And I see the sun is shining. I'm thinking, this isn't right. It should be dark and storming with rain pelting the glass relentlessly. In other words, I didn't understand why the world had not just stopped on its axis for everyone else. Because it sure had for me and for Phyllis's family that day.
Since her diagnosis, we've had a lot of "moments." Moments when Phyllis would look at me with tears in her eyes and say that this was too much for me. Every time she has said that, I've told her, "No, I love you and you would be doing the same for me, wouldn't you?" I've also reminded her of the characters of Eleanor and Daphne in my book Survived by Her Longtime Companion. There is a scene in the book where Daphne says, "I don't want to be a burden to you, Ellie. Ever." Eleanor tells her, "I'd never think of you as a burden. You're my heartbeat." I was speaking those words to Phyllis when I wrote that well over a year ago. I just didn't see this in our future. How could I?
Life for us will never be the same. Anyone who's had cancer or is a partner or a loved one of someone with cancer knows what I'm talking about. Little things that meant so much before now seem trivial. We've simplified our lives as much as possible because again, we know what matters and it's not possessions or a bigger house. It's our love. It's not that we didn't know this before. It's that this experience has hammered it home. We've grown even closer, something neither of us thought was possible.
During this journey, of course we've encountered others who are undergoing treatment. We've been amazed at the immediate camaraderie and connection to the point where Phyllis will talk with someone and they instantly share what's going on, what kind of cancer they had, how many radiation treatments they've undergone, how many are remaining. We've also encountered complete strangers stopping us at restaurants to either say that they've battled cancer or someone they love had and "God bless you. You're in my prayers." These are memories that will stay with us forever.
Throughout these six months, my writing has pretty much come to a standstill. It's only been recently that the spark has returned, albeit a little each day. Flashes of scenes and dialogue are popping into my head at unanticipated times... just as they used to. Today, when we were driving to Phyllis's appointment, she asked if I was upset with her. I think it was because I was quiet. I said, "No. Just thinking about my writing." When we were moving to our home from the condo two weeks ago, she threatened to lock me in the den and post Buddy at the door so I'll write. I wouldn't put it past her, and I know Buddy would have her back.
Sometimes, I've not been sure how I'm dealing with everything. Then I think about my faith, my love for Phyllis, and my love of my dad and my mom... of my family. I realize I have two choices: to put one foot in front of the other and keep on walking or to curl up into a fetal position and suck my thumb. I've chosen to keep on walking, but believe me, I've had many moments of allowing myself a good cry.
I do know this. With the dawn of each day, when I open my eyes and turn beside me... I say a prayer of thanks to God for blessing my life with Phyllis.
Phyllis and my dad are progressing in their treatment. My dad is still receiving chemo. The mass on his lung has gotten smaller, but the chemo leaves him weak. Phyllis is battling an infection, having to undergo surgery to "evacuate" the wound. She did complete her external radiations before the surgery. She'll be moving on to the next stage of her treatment--internal radiation--on Friday. After three of these, she'll progress to the last stage--her final three chemos--and should be completely done in November. In the midst of Phyllis and my dad's treatment, we've also had to deal with my mom's health issues in July. We had planned on starting on a vacation in November. Now, as the month draws nearer and as Phyllis continues on the bumpy road called recovery, we realize the vacation will have to be put on hold.
I had such an out-of-body experience the day of Phyllis's surgery in April. It was when I thought the cancer had spread based on the surgeon's reaction and the "grit" in her lymph nodes that he removed. Thank God that wasn't the case. It was diagnosed as Stage IA uterine cancer. She's had to undergo the treatment because it was also diagnosed as "high grade" and the cells can be aggressive. So, they're treating it aggressively. On the morning of her surgery, though, I was convinced it was the worst-case scenario. I happened to be in the hallway outside the surgery waiting area. I looked down at the huge picture windows they have at the hospital. And I see the sun is shining. I'm thinking, this isn't right. It should be dark and storming with rain pelting the glass relentlessly. In other words, I didn't understand why the world had not just stopped on its axis for everyone else. Because it sure had for me and for Phyllis's family that day.
Since her diagnosis, we've had a lot of "moments." Moments when Phyllis would look at me with tears in her eyes and say that this was too much for me. Every time she has said that, I've told her, "No, I love you and you would be doing the same for me, wouldn't you?" I've also reminded her of the characters of Eleanor and Daphne in my book Survived by Her Longtime Companion. There is a scene in the book where Daphne says, "I don't want to be a burden to you, Ellie. Ever." Eleanor tells her, "I'd never think of you as a burden. You're my heartbeat." I was speaking those words to Phyllis when I wrote that well over a year ago. I just didn't see this in our future. How could I?
Life for us will never be the same. Anyone who's had cancer or is a partner or a loved one of someone with cancer knows what I'm talking about. Little things that meant so much before now seem trivial. We've simplified our lives as much as possible because again, we know what matters and it's not possessions or a bigger house. It's our love. It's not that we didn't know this before. It's that this experience has hammered it home. We've grown even closer, something neither of us thought was possible.
During this journey, of course we've encountered others who are undergoing treatment. We've been amazed at the immediate camaraderie and connection to the point where Phyllis will talk with someone and they instantly share what's going on, what kind of cancer they had, how many radiation treatments they've undergone, how many are remaining. We've also encountered complete strangers stopping us at restaurants to either say that they've battled cancer or someone they love had and "God bless you. You're in my prayers." These are memories that will stay with us forever.
Throughout these six months, my writing has pretty much come to a standstill. It's only been recently that the spark has returned, albeit a little each day. Flashes of scenes and dialogue are popping into my head at unanticipated times... just as they used to. Today, when we were driving to Phyllis's appointment, she asked if I was upset with her. I think it was because I was quiet. I said, "No. Just thinking about my writing." When we were moving to our home from the condo two weeks ago, she threatened to lock me in the den and post Buddy at the door so I'll write. I wouldn't put it past her, and I know Buddy would have her back.
Sometimes, I've not been sure how I'm dealing with everything. Then I think about my faith, my love for Phyllis, and my love of my dad and my mom... of my family. I realize I have two choices: to put one foot in front of the other and keep on walking or to curl up into a fetal position and suck my thumb. I've chosen to keep on walking, but believe me, I've had many moments of allowing myself a good cry.
I do know this. With the dawn of each day, when I open my eyes and turn beside me... I say a prayer of thanks to God for blessing my life with Phyllis.
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