Resilience

Each year spring in Syracuse teaches the lessons of resilience. Compared to Richmond, Virginia, where we lived for many years and where spring just happened in one day or one weekend, Syracuse springs are gargantuan efforts that take weeks to unfold. Our infamous winters in Siberacuse are rough, and while most of us just bundle up and jump into it, nature takes a wicked beating. Things are frozen, covered with pounds of snow, salt and dirt, bent over by strong winds and broken by ice storms and blizzards. The persistence gray of the sky can make you feel less than optimistic. Its hard to believe that anything can come back from this. When the thaw does come, which if eventually does, it leaves behind a barren landscape of mud, dead grass and leafless trees. Very gloomy.

But, then finally spring sneaks in. Subtly at first. You may notice the occasional crocus, a few buds on the trees, the grass turning greener. The leaves on the trees stay in an emergent state so long that it creates interested veils of chartreuse green and orange-red that hang in the air for a week or so. And then one day you notice (like today) that spring is finally fully here. Leaves on all the trees, gardens teaming with spring flowers, grass six inches high and needing a mow. Add three days straight of sunshine and you can't help but feel good.

In the dead of winter it is hard to believe that

this is possible. Resilience is an amazing thing.

We experience it in our own bodies as well. Hair grows back, sunburns fade, scrapes and bruises heal, bones mend, the headache of the hangover fades. . .minor miracles every day.

These past weeks I have seen the miracle of resilience play out in Andrew. As you might have surmised from my last post, things have been rough. Round number 3 of chemo in conjunction with the final radiation treatments really knocked him down. Down as far as I've seen so far. Yes it was great that he could do his treatment at home, but that also meant that I got to see first hand and hourly what the treatment was doing to him. By the time I took him back to the doctor's to get the chemo pump removed (an amazingly small apparatus that fit in a fanny pack-- one of our few comic reliefs was making jokes about him looking like an 1980s tourist) he could barely walk and could talk but sure didn't want to. The nurse that checked him in was perky and kept trying to engage Andrew in witty banter. He never said a word back to her and just fixed her with a murderous stare instead.

In that time period we shifted from him being able to eat anything he wanted, to just soft foods, to blended liquids, to clear liquids, to nothing. It just hurt too damn much to put anything down his throat. The acid reflux was killing him also, so not only did it hurt going down it hurt coming back up. Once again I thank God or whoever for the Fox Soccer channel and his conversations with his brother Neil (made the trip from Sweden to be with us) who provided the only diversions he could handle and got him through the bad days.

But then by a week later, you could see the signs of spring. He started to be able to drink Ensure, and then eat yogurt. Mushy food was back on the menu and by the weekend he was able to eat a hamburger with great relish. The tee shirt and sweat pants were

replaced by button downs and jeans, faced was shaved, hair cut. He began making excursions out to walk the dogs, then to school, then started driving, then started socializing. He ventured out to student crits, the annual S.U. Fashion show, and my faculty's end of year party. And when he started agonizing about which tie to wear to the fashion show and insisted that the buttons on his waistcoat HAD to be changed out from blue to chartreuse green in time to wear it that night --- yep, I knew-- he's back to normal! As sure as the leaves on the trees and flowers in full bloom, spring was here. Although I would have had a hard time believing it possible ten days ago, he's back in full form.

So, I'm going to hold my knowledge and understanding of his resilience in the forefront of my brain as we enter the final round of chemo on Monday.

If cancer is the earthquake or hurricane that enters your life unexpectedly, the treatment is the like the mudslide or tornado that happens in its wake, creating a perfect storm of destruction. Both disease and treatment pound on you from all sides. Its our resilience---of body and mind-- that cures us. And that happens every day, right?