A Collection of Days

Last night I dreamed we were in a large apartment complex in the desert. It reminded me of the place where we took our last hike when we were out there in February. Between the buildings in the complex, between a back building and a front one, there was a large unlandscaped area. We were on our way to pick up Laura. As I headed out between the two buildings there was a big black puma coming through a small wash. It was large, it's coat was glossy, and it was walking toward me. I got in the car and told you. You said, "There's a puma? Where?" But then I woke up.

So much has happened these last couple of weeks. Dad has been in the convalescent facility until this afternoon. I have gone there almost every day over these two months. Carmi and Nonong have been there twelve hours a day but during the nights they are gone, and Dad gets up and falls. He forgets he's gone to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He forgets what time of day it is. He'll fall asleep at 7 pm, wake at 9, and wonder where his breakfast is. He's had two falls, neither of which were documented by the staff in incident reports until we pushed it. Carmi and Nonong will be doing 24-hour shifts for at least the next couple of weeks. If Dad settles down and gets off the Vampire Schedule, we'll be able to go back to 12-hour shifts.

Quincy has been in the house for much of the last two months. He has a growth on his paw and we're hoping it will heal over and get a hard paw-like skin on it. That seems to be taking too much time. We put all kinds of bandages on it and make booties out of my collection of unmatched socks but after each time we think he's healed, it opens up and starts to bleed again. It seems to be getting larger, and our neighbor, the vet tech, says it will need to be removed. Oh, boy! More vet bills. We need a vet in the family.

Kyle was able to wrangle a new phone for you from Sprint. It arrived today and you spent several hours figuring out how to use every little function it has. You should be sitting pretty; it's the latest and the greatest.

You have reached the point where you are starting to dread your chemo days. You look forward to every other Tuesday with trepidation. You are starting to get neuropathy in your hands and feet. You reached into the freezer at the grocery store to get some ice cream and were greeted by shooting needle-like pain in your fingers. It has been getting better within a few days after your chemo treatments but lingers a bit longer each time. You are more sensitive to both heat and cold now. The doctor says that sometimes people get neuropathy permanently after chemo.

Tomorrow at work two things will happen: 1)the K teachers will meet with the district literacy coach who will euphemistically ask us why our kids are so low and 2) we will finally find out who our new principal will be. It's crazy hair day at school. But every day is crazy kid day.

Wednesday, April 8

This has been a difficult last few days. I have felt uncomfortable and criticized. You have said things to me that make me feel you think I am a bad person. It harkens back to feelings I used to get, particularly from my stepfather. I would be cruising along through life, and then from out of nowhere he would start in on me. "That girl is so rude. She's so stuck-up. She blahblahblah....." And I get this horrible deja vu feeling that I am bad and I just don't know it. You (and my SF) are letting me in on this very special secret. Don't I know? Isn't it obvious? How can I not see it? It is becoming clear to me that you are feeling very insecure. As was my SF; he just didn't have a good excuse for it like cancer. You have made comments to the effect that you think I act inappropriately with Laura's boyfriend and that the network of friends I have might be attempts to replace you. I admit to having some degree of 'anticipatory grief'. I admit to being terrified of what I will feel when you are gone. I admit to being confused about our future. I admit that there are times when I'm not so strong. I fear loneliness. I always have. I wish I didn't. You say that when you are gone, I can 'replace' you. I wish it were that easy. My therapist says that men do that all the time. I see that. Bob, at church, lost Pat in June after 52 years of marriage and incredible closeness, constant togetherness. He met another woman on the cruise he took to scatter her ashes. He's now on another cruise to scatter the rest of Pat's ashes, and this new woman will be helping him. I just couldn't do that. I couldn't replicate the intimacy I need in a marriage like that. Too much, too fast. It would be a recipe for disaster for me.

Easter Dinner was lovely and we had two guests. I like small dinner gatherings. They are comfortable. Again, I didn't feel I had to put on any appearances. The food (hot chicken salad, corn pudding, green salad and lemon chess pie) all turned out remarkably well. Yep, I was cooking from scratch, a rare and satisfying event. You were quite impressed and complimented me a lot on the meal. Everything turned out perfectly, and all of us were extremely happy with the food. Flowers from the massive bulbs on our front walkway made the table look beautiful.

Laura had to come into town today to have her dog's teeth worked on. She and I spent time together. I told her you thought I was being inappropriate with Kyle. I wanted to know if she thought that way too. She was shocked. She said she and he love the way I am with them, that he feels welcome, accepted and liked by me, that I am not the least bit inappropriate. On the other hand, he doesn't feel very comfy with you.

You have told me that having cancer is making you feel 'less than'. You feel less than a whole person, less of a man, less of a human, less capable of being who you want to be. I feel like you are watching me. Yet, I understand how you must be feeling. I can begin to put myself in your place and feel your sense of powerlessness. But after all these years. And all we've been through. And I've been faithful to you the entire time, even when we were separated, even when I was disgusted and furious with you. I mentioned your distrust at the Good Wives' Club. They could understand. I was able to reach a new level of safety with them last night. One good thing that came out of it was that they reminded me that there is significant evidence that chemo causes personality changes. One person said her husband is 'short', meaning impatient, now compared to before he started chemo. You, too, are being short. At dinner you told me you want to go over our expenses again. You just can't understand where the money is going. I told you we've already been over this, that I have the taxes to do. I don't want to go over the monthlies. I can tell you where the expenses are. Then you said I was ruining dinner. You wanted to write it down and that was that. This is just one example of your shortness but more importantly, of your insistence lately that we do everything your way. And when I have tried to disagree, you tell me I am being unreasonable, difficult, I am ruining a 'happy' situation. You even called me a bitch once. The GWC reminded me that chemo can interfere with moods and that a lot of cancer patients suffer from depression. In light of the possible effects of this new chemo, I think you need to call your doc for a meds adjustment.

Spring Break, Week 1

The bike ride on your birthday was more than perfect. I was reminded of how superior our spring and summer route to Manhattan and Hermosa Beaches is to the winter route that barely goes beyond Marina del Rey. The comparison, in fact, is pitiful. Upon reaching Manhattan Beach, we enter a different world, a world of beach communities where sun, sand, piers, surfboards, and wide-windowed houses dominate the landscape. There the focus is on being one with the beach. It's Spring Break, the place is teeming with people intent on spending their time enjoying the ocean. I so marveled at the forgotten beauty of this ride that I felt compelled to call Beth and apologize for taking her on such a poor imitation of it when she was here. She must come back down so we can do the real thing. I can't let her miss out on this beachride experience. It will remind her of our days on Balboa Island. Laura rode with us and complained of her ass being sore. She was visibly uncomfortable, especially on the ride home. We stopped in Manhattan Beach and ate at Wahoo's. It's ambiance leaves much to be desired. The food is okay but was way too heavy on the cilantro. They need to slap a little sour cream on that stuff. Low fat is good but taste is imperative. Later in the day, I noticed that the back of Laura's hands had gotten sunburned. That poor child! She got my mother's complexion but not her distaste for the sun. The backs of her calves were also burnt. She was glad to get back on the road to the desert that evening. She did, however, stay for dinner before she left.

Tuesday was chemo day. We went to the oncology center and I learned how they hook you up. Since you had to stay for two hours for one type of chemo before you got your pack of 5FU to take home, I was able to go across the street to see Dad at the health care center. Gotta love that name 5FU. That's what I'd like to say to cancer. FU.

The oncological center is a feast for the eyes. Someone sure got it right. If you have to have cancer and chemo, then let's make a place that's aesthetically pleasing. And it made my eyes happy! If eyes could sing, mine would have sung 'Vissi d'Arte' from Tosca. The walls are filled with the most beautiful paintings, sculptures and collages. Large leather recliners where when you sit to get your infusions you face floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that look west to the ocean. They have pillows and blankets, and the atmosphere is intensely serene. You slept through much of your treatment, and Jose came in for his treatment near the end of yours so you two were able to talk.

We went home with you hooked up to your fanny pack of 5FU and who knows what else. You were to wear it for 46 hours and disconnect it when it starts beeping on Thursday morning. What I noticed was how soon the fatigue set in. You began to nap that afternoon and fell asleep in front of the TV somewhat early. Afraid that a dog or a wife might jostle your pack and sending toxic chemicals spewing all over our bed, you went alone to sleep in the middle bedroom. Again you felt slightly headachy and mildly nauseous. You chose not to do much exercise during those days but managed to function, running errands and taking care of small tasks around the house and at Dad's condo.