cows

After a rough morning, I found this:
http://www.lightstalking.com/cows
So I feel better now.

vancouver in a day

It’s quiet. It’s 9:00. The automatic sliding doors open and close, open and close as tired passengers float in and silently sit. I’m in the ferry terminal waiting room. Taking the time to write and think about the events of the last twenty-four hours. Where’s the ferry? I thought I would miss it, or it would be really close anyway. Two hours prior, breaking off a conversation with Mike, Damian’s dad, “I really have to go. I have to catch a ferry“. I’m a ferry person. Mike would understand, and if he didn’t, it didn’t matter anyway. I needed to catch the ferry. It was the last of the night. Missing a ferry is like watching your home float away without you. And I didn’t want to be stranded or homeless tonight. Still, I couldn’t completely shake the homeless feeling today, walking around with my toothbrush and an extra pair of underwear in my pocket.

I take a sip of my cafe mocha I got from the coffee shop across the street a few minutes ago. The purchase, really an excuse to waste time. The sweetness of the chocolate hitting first, before the bitterness of the coffee settles in. I savour the first sip. Gulp the second. I had to run for the bus earlier, happy to catch it, transferring effortlessly to the skytrain, delivered downtown in minutes. Without a watch I worried a bit about the time, finally asking someone at the bus stop. Looking up, a second later and noticing a large clock on a tower, towering. It was 8:00, I was cutting it close. If the bus came now, I might make it. The big arm of the tower clock creeps forward, six minutes pass. Finally, a bus. I note as I board the absence of the word EXPRESS. But it does indicate a destination - Horseshoe Bay. I board crossing my fingers that I would arrive in time. Nervous as we weave slowly through a seemingly endless tangle of affluent neighbourhoods in West Vancouver. I was sitting near the front. I overheard the driver say he was early, that it was 8:43. How close were we to Horseshoe Bay? I couldn’t tell. We rounded another corner, and through the trees I saw Horseshoe Bay shining in the distance. Lights from the tiny community glittering smudges reflected off the water. I bought my ticket. What? 9:35 sailing?! That seemed like forever far away. I was tired, I wanted to be home. I thought the ferry was at 9:00, I hadn’t even bothered to check before leaving Damian’s house.

The last twenty-four hours had been busy. Ferry, bus, skytrain, bus. A night out, a concert. A night away, a bed in a room, in a house of memories. The next day, driving. Vancouver-New West-Richmond-Vancouver-New West-Vancouver. Shopping, lunch with Mom. Bus, skytrain, bus, ferry – in reverse.

It’s Damian’s birthday today, and so Damian, Happy Birthday. I’m happy I got to see you for a few minutes. I hope you had a good day, ‘cause I think you deserve it. And also, I’m happy we’re friends and that we never have to talk about pedicures or jewellery – except for maybe the occasional conversation about watches. And that’s all I have to say, because the rest doesn’t seem to fit well into words right now.

I’m on the ferry now as we rumble across the straight in darkness. The tea water in my mug shuddering as we bounce on along the surface of the ocean towards home. It’s only been a day but I miss my David, my Leuk and Mins too of course. Vancouver, a welcome break from the doldrum of Nanaimo, but I look forward to home.

the elephant sleeps

We stayed home. The elephant slept. Actually I locked him in the spare bedroom. But he contently napped. I checked on him.

David spent the weekend in the attic, and by Sunday night, we had light in the kitchen. Glorious beautiful light, from the little pots in the ceiling that had only just recently been holes that let the dry cracking attic darkness filter into the kitchen. We taped them up in the summer to stop the hot gusts of splintered attic air dust from infiltrating down. The old kitchen floor, now illuminated, yellowed linoleum, curling slightly at the edges, begging to be torn out, looks worse than ever before. One step at a time.



I spent most of the weekend on the computer, escaping briefly to capture a few pictures in the morning light. The light dancing as it sparkled off the dew on the plants in the garden outside, me kneeled in the dirt in my pyjamas attempting to get a shot in focus, as close as possible. When I was done, I took my pyjama bottoms off in the basement to prevent tracking dirt though the house, reaching the top of the stairs, bottomless, as David emerged from the bedroom. He glances at me, away, and then back again, looking me up and down. In a slightly inquisitive tone: “What were you doing?”  I respond, “Taking pictures outside.” “Of yourself?” he says. “No, of plants.” “Oh, ok.” And he shuffles past, making a bee line to the coffee maker. He confirms again hours later – “You were wearing pants this morning? Outside?” “Yes,” I say “they got dirty”. “Oh, just checking, we have neighbours you know.” “I know, don’t worry I’m not that crazy girl.” Or at least I don’t think I am.

I promised Leuk a spa day, but didn’t carry through. No bath, no nails clipped. Leuky spa day – deferred . He did bounce around the beach in the rain, oblivious to the pouring rain. Chasing the ball deep into the lake. Alone in his bliss. Me, in mine. He probably liked that more than getting his toenails clipped anyway.

The other highlight. I found, or more accurately, re-found, two pennies. One in my winter jacket, now out of hiding, and one in the washing machine, shiny from its trip around and around and around. I put them both in the bathroom, set into the bottom lip of a picture frame, beside three others. The first in the row, all battered and bent, I found outside the hospital on the day of David’s transplant. I’ve been picking up pennies ever since, although with varying frequency. It’s always an exciting moment, to be walking down a busy street and spot a penny. Stop, bend down, pick it up, feel it in my hand. Look around, why didn’t anyone see this? Why didn’t anyone pick this up? I know the two I found this weekend were from some other time, and place, that I had slipped into my pocket to be remembered at some later date... A bit of luck, re-emerging when least expected.

I didn’t look at pictures from a year ago, I didn’t think about what happened, I didn’t listen to music or watch a video that might remind me. Like I said, the elephant slept. David looks good, he didn’t get my cold, and finally I’ve stopped coughing so we’re not cordoned into separate areas of the house, at least not forcibly.

I told David it was the best weekend ever. And I meant it. I guess that later date is now. Thanks, for the luck, pennies.

the elephant complains

Leukemia had two complaints last week.

One I received at work, in the morning. A phone call. Panic in the elephant’s trunk muffled voice: “I had an episode. I couldn’t see... it just lasted a moment. Everything was white. I’m scared.” This after a recent increase in comments about blurry vision, difficulty seeing.

No elephant eye doctors in Nanaimo. Arranged is an appointment at the VGH eye center. Scheduled for a few weeks from now, that’s good.

The second complaint, also in the morning. I was on my way out the door to work. From the bedroom: “I have stomach cramps. It’s intense. I don’t know if I can get up.”

We had fish and chips from a local greasy spoon for dinner the night before. Turns out the elephant just ate too many fries.

the table

We’re in the truck heading home from White Spot where we go for David’s favourite breakfast – eggs benedict. I have to admit, it’s finally grown on me too and I’ve stopped searching for that great secret breakfast spot in Nanaimo, at least for now. The dog is riding in the box, trying out his truck legs, bracing for the corners like he’s riding a boat on stormy waters. We finally admit he’s getting a bit too big for the cab of the truck. On most recent trips with Leuk ‘up front’ we’ve noticed that he’s adopted a new riding stance, back legs planted in the tiny extended cab, most of his body, his two big front paws, big nose, his long ears wedged between the two front seats, as if he’s positioned himself on an imaginary seat between us. Tongue hanging out and shifting his gaze from David to me to David and back to me, his nose dancing precariously close to the dashboard. The tiniest touch of the brakes sending him careening into the stereo console. He just doesn't tuck behind the seats like he used to.

David pulls out of the White spot parking lot glancing at Leuk in the back through the rear view mirror. David hums and then starts singing “Baby dog, my baby dog.” I smile. He’d picked it up. For weeks I’ve been singing to the dog, to the tune of the Supremes “Baby Love”.  Changing the words to more aptly suit a song about a dog who digs holes and chews chunks of wood off the deck. “You’re singing my song.” “Yeah” he says “You influenced me”. I smile more. 

We weren't actually heading home... we were instead off to search for new tiles, a new table, new light fixtures. A new life? An attempt to fit everything into one day on the one weekend we decide to stay home. Decide not to surf, not to take a ferry. David nearly loses it in the tile store, barely hanging on as we wander with our heads tilted backward examining seemingly endless options dangling just out of reach from the ceiling of the lighting store. I had forgotten how much he hates the selection process. And added to that, my attempt to accomplish everything... what about the hallway, the kitchen, that space downstairs behind the door that we never go, and no one ever sees. The possibilities quickly multiplying faster than I can keep track of. I made a mental note to pick out only two options next time. "For the kitchen. Do you like this one or this one?" Done.

Nevertheless, we made decisions, made it throught the shopping day. My only hesitation, my only ‘bad’ thought of the day came when we found the table. A beautifully solid table, Canadian built, the right size, the right finish, the right feel. We've looked at a lot of tables, but never quite the right one. I loved it immediately, so did David. It would last for years. But my thought, the one I tried to push out of my head, tried to ignore... Who would be sitting around it in years? After the intense chemo and radiation David endured to be alive, it was going to be tough for us to have a family. Did we really need those extra leaves to make it bigger? Or what if my nightmare comes true... Would it be hard for me to move? To sell if David wasn’t there, if I had to leave Nanaimo? I fought hard and pushed the thoughts away, sweeping them into hiding under a dark corner of the carpet of my brain, wondering if David had them too. “Let’s take it” I said. “With two leaves.” We admit we won’t use them much, but David agrees. I asked him later if he was sure, "What if we only have one dinner at it?" "Then it will be the most beautiful dinner in the world" he replies. "That's what I wanted to hear" I say, "I think the same thing too."

so what now?



Huh? What now? food...? ball...?

 It's 9:30, I haven't had dinner. The house is a mess. I haven't unpacked my bag from our last weekend away, or my other bag from the weekend before. I feel like life is slipping by, slipping through my fingers like Tofino beach sand on a hot summer afternoon. It's cooler now. I feel like wearing slippers and curling up on the couch with the computer and the tv. I don't remember anything about last September. Was it nice? How was David? How was I? I know we weren't at home. I think maybe I didn't want to talk to anyone. I think maybe I felt lost. I think maybe I feel a little lost now too. Leuk is snoozing on the couch beside me. He's still wet from the lake, but he looks so comfy I let him stay. He got to go swimming today, I threw the ball for him in the backyard. He's a nice dog. The cat reminds me he exists too as he launches himself at the flat screen chasing a larger than life chicken across all 52 inches. These animals are great. David's sleeping in the spare room. I can't shake my cough and cold and don't want to worry about breathing on him as we share a bed. I wonder a lot these days. I'm not sure what's next. What should life be now? What should I do now? Is there a goal. Is it different than it was a year ago? or two years ago?

Mins reminding us how to lounge, relax and chill.

back to work

David started back to work last week. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Happy because it means we are one step closer to normal. Worried because it reminds me of the time that David got sick. What if he picks up a cold, the flu, can't shake it, gets sick again. What if he gets stressed, works too hard, get's tired, gets sick again. Technically he's only working 50% and so far, by my count he's actually closer to 100%. Preparing preparing preparing his lectures every night. But he looks ok. So I'm not worried yet.

Last week I drove to campus on his brithday and delivered a ballon to him while he was teaching. Before I opened the door to the class I paused to watch him through the window for a few seconds. I'm not sure how to decribe what I felt at that moment, peering through the tiny window on the door to his class. He looked confident, in charge, pacing in front of the class, with a slight touch of crazy professor in his mannerisms. I think I'm proud of him. I'm happy I paused to watch him. I open the door and when he sees me, uncomfortable in the back of the room, he stops talking mid-sentence. I see immediate panic on his face... a flash of fear, of what's wrong. We'd gotton so used to dealing with wrong, it's still sometimes our first response. Then he sees the balloon, his fear melting away, replaced by a smile. "That's cute", he says and approaches me. He's sincere. "I had to embarrass you a bit", I say. His students laugh. He introduces me and meets me half way up the stairs of the lecture hall. I meet him, half way down. I hand him the balloon. I say, "I've got to go". He says he'd kiss me if there wasn't a class full of students. More laughter. "Later", I say and disappear back out the door. As the door closes and I strart to walk away I hear the class erupt in laughter, I imagine that now he's got the ballon in his hand he's a bit awkward finding a place to tie it. He tells me later he tied it so that it floated directly in front of his face, between him and his students. "Oops that's not going to work", he says and I imagine him giggling a bit as he reties it.

The balloon.



This time of year brings back lots of memories of the time when he was getting sick, the time he was so tired, so very very exaushted and we ignored it, said it was because he was working too hard.

Working too hard doesn't give you leukemia does it?

48 hour marathon




Cresent Beach with the Heidts.

 

It was my birthday over the weekend, and David's on Friday. We went to Vancouver. It was nice. Really nice, and I relaxed. There's nothing better than a day with people I love, especially when I relax. The National concert on Friday night for David's birthday and then on Saturday, for mine, coffee and breakfast out, a walk on the beach, a cake with candles, singing rock band Beatles with my family until 3 am. A beautiful surprise gift of a lens that I only dreamed about, and David beside me. I couldn't have asked for anything more. A stark contrast to last year where I think I thought that birthdays had to be so special, so perfect - and I was in tears by the end of the night. And then this year, not expecting it. A perfect day. Thanks everyone.

what about after?

David and I sometimes talk about what would happen if he was gone. I don’t like these conversations but they help. We talk about selling the house, about finances, about where I’d go and what I’d do. About the possibility of me eventually being with someone else, and about how I hope that David could still be a part of my life if I ever get there. About how I’d never let him go.

I once told David he would have it ‘easier’ than me, he wouldn’t have to live without the person he loved, wouldn’t have to continue, wouldn’t have to move on, be lonely. Be alone. His response. “But you get to live. You get to have a life. For me it ends, it’s over.” His response making me feel guilty for thinking dying would be easier than life without him.

So now I try. Every time I see the ocean, walk in a forest, watch the sun rise, hear a storm pelt rain and wind at the house - every time I smile or laugh or play with the dog, I try to think about what he said. And I get it. I know what he means. These moments are life and it’s worth fighting for. And so I continue knowing that no matter what happens, I’ll be okay – that I will still get to have those moments. Still get to smile and maybe even laugh. I’m alive. And right now, as I watch him.... catch a wave on his surf board, bask in the sun, sip his coffee, get excited about science and research and teaching... I realize he is too, more than ever.

oregon surf

We went surfing. Like for real. And we left the country. David's doctor allowed it. Had a great weekend in Oceanside Oregon with the surf/paddle gang that we'd fallen so out of touch with over the last year. The weekend flew by, the surf sucked, the company was great. Then we headed south to camp for a week. The weather was horrible. We were rained out of our campsite on the first night. Leuk threw up in the tent. We almost packed up and went home. We really wanted, maybe needed sun. But there was a beach, a yurt to stay in, a dog that ate seaweed, and anything else that was washed up on the beach, and the possibility of new surf spots, so we persisted. In one final attempt to salvage the holiday, we drove south till it got sunny, had a beautiful lunch on a patio, ran through the sand dunes and surfed a jetty break (well David did anyway). We actually saw the sun, and it set for us on a deserted beach. A sucessful holiday.