Day #2 - Telling stories. . .

Day #2 started with snow. . .and snow. . .and snow and more snow. Syracuse University actually cancelled classes in the afternoon which says a lot, although its didn't seem that bad. Walked the dogs through the winter wonderland and then headed to the office to take care of a little business or at least pretend I was working.

When I finally arrived at the hospital around 1:30 I found an empty bed

with a note that said "Gone hiking, be back soon."

The nurses filled me in that he was in surgery having his chemo port put into his chest and his feeding tube put in the belly. (Just in case the snack kitchen does lose its appeal).

I hunkered down in the the sofa to wait -- drinking coffee, grading a few design history exams, and having a great e-chat with my brother in law in Sweden. About an hour later they wheeled

him in as he traded jokes with the two nurses. He was chipper but in a bit of pain from the surgery, so they administered a little morphine, which cut it and put him in the mode of telling me stories in a soft voice that I found very gentle and soothing.

I heard in detail about his day which include tales of his first radiation treatment, with the groovy mask, find ing out that this radiation doctor was a singer in a professional choral group; detailed descriptions of them shoving some kind of tube down his nose and his surgery that happened only under local anesthetic so he could hear the blow by blow ( and still enjoy telling the story), but best of all he relayed to me in details of a letter he wrote to an old classmate of his in Leeds who had authored a story about one his favorite teachers Patrick Oliver who had just died. I heard his letter line by line about this man he so loved and revered -- a guy who at their first meeting he believed to be a janitor (not his portfolio reviewer) because he was so dirty and straggly and pushing a broom in the studio -- who then shocked him when he sat down to start discussing his work with him. It was lovely to hear the stories of this man who feed him doses of passion for art, philosophy, Flan O'Brien and long nights drinking in the pub; who so obviously shaped my husband in so many ways. Andrew can tell a good story and I love listening to them, especially those about his days in art school at Cardiff and Leeds. I so wished I had a tape recorder.

We spent an hour or so in this special place of his memories and then I had to leave him to go take care of the dogs and let him sleep. It was hard to go with him all hooked up with the chemo bag dripping, but he was peaceful and smiling as his eyes drooped and he fell into a nice snooze.

And it still is snowing. . .