Angels and Demons

O.K. this one is going out to all you caretakers out there.

You know who you are --the ones that have at some time or still are taking care of someone. And I put this post out there not for a pat on the back because I now officially am one, but to voice my appreciation and to claim my bond with all those others out there doing this wacky, tiring and some-times heart wrenching job.

So this is for everybody who has:

1. Had to stand by and watch a loved one in pain and discomfort and felt like you couldn't do anything about it.

2. Held heads while puking, hands while sleeping, kissed feverish cheeks, brushed hair back from sweating foreheads. Fetched endless numbers of pills, glasses of water, ginger ale, chicken soup, pillows and blankets. Tried to coax someone to eat. . .just a few bites.

3. Watched a once perfectly able person not be able to put his/her socks on, walk to the bathroom, negotiate steps, or sit up for too long.

4. Endured the sharp word and the burst of temper for the smallest reason that comes from the illness but is aimed smack dab at you.

5. Held your tears, fears and temper in until you thought you would burst, letting them out only when you are out of sight walking the dog, in the basement moving the laundry into the dryer, or pretending you are taking a long hot bath.

6. Kept on doing 1-5 although you would love to take a vacation and often fantasize about handing over this whole gig to someone else.

7. Felt no guilt about using all available means to take the edge off, maintain perspective, and keep yourself whole during this experience - whether that be chocolate, red wine, cheezy novels, bad t.v., mindless internet surfing, shopping, excessive exercise, or excessive coach potato-dom.

8. Tried not to spend too much time wondering why - because these things never do make sense.

9. Now has the benefit of understanding what really is important and what is not.

10. Called on God, Buddha, Mohammed, Mother Teresa, Blessed Virgin Mary, Gandhi, Dr. Phil, the Great Oz, Oprah, the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and any body else who might be available to just stop this nonsense. . .

We all do these things not just because we have to, but out of love. . . and its a process that make you understand what that word REALLY means.

My father's sister Nell, who was a jewel of a person, fought a battle with skin cancer nearly all her adult life. When she was 79 going on 80 the cancer had finally totally metastasized and she knew it was taking her down. She grabbed both my hands hard one day while I was visiting her, looked me straight in the eye, and with the greatest intensity she could muster said to me "The most important thing in life is love. . .that's really all there is." It sounded overly profound at the time and remember thinking that the cancer was probably making her a little wacky.

But now I have to admit that I think I know what she was talking about.

Yep, now I think she was right. . .

We are fam-i- ly! or radar lounge. . .

O.K. O.K. - I know! Its been a while. . . sorry. My father always tells me "We'll I always assume that no news is good news." (his gentle way of telling me there's been too much time between phone calls). And for the most part that is true here.

Today we reached a significant milestone --- the last day of radiation. 33 sessions since we started, now finished. Even if we wanted to we wouldn't be able to do this again. It just doesn't work that way. I'd say the timing on this event was just about perfect. Andrew

is at the point where I don't think he could take anymore. His chest and back looks like that of an overzealous Spring Break tanner. Dark dark red brown to almost purple. The throat is really sore and food is having a hard time going down. Yesterday was a liquid only supper and

today was a liquid only day --- and even that hurts a lot. We are stocked up with Ensure in all flavors and that can go in by mouth or feeding tube, so we are prepared to wade through this. (The feeding tube WILL BE the absolutely last resort. . . I can tell you that.)

The doctor says the cooking goes on for two weeks after the treatment stops. Kind of like baking a cake. So who know what next week might feel like. Next week also brings another round of chemo -- and I guess that is not great news in and of itself, but there is good news in this story. The doc says he can do this round and the last round at home!

I can not tell you how happy that makes us, particularly Andrew, who has grown to absolutely loath that time in the hospital no matter how nice the staff is. He went to his doctor's office visit after the last stint with a list a mile long of his complaints: food sucks, smell of food sucks, people wake you up all the time, people ask you stupid questions all the time, sound of shoes in the corridor is excruciating, bad t.v. channels, and most importantly really bad lighting! After he made the demand that only I would be allowed to take out his garbage, Dr. G threw his hands up and said "No problem - we can make this work at home." So Monday a.m. we go down to the doctor's office and they'll hook him up, and in an hour or so they'll fix him up with a backpack of sorts and we'll go home. I'm not sure what happens after that, but we'll find out.

Now ordinarily I'd be a wreck having him at home alone with me having to go to work (at least every now and then!), but another angel is coming to help us through this one, and that angel is my brother-in-law Neil. And I might add he's coming all the way from Sweden to do this!! Neil is one of the few folks that I think Andrew could bare to have staying with us while he is home having chemo, and I am so grateful that he is making this trip. He will be bringing with him the intimate understanding and love he his for his big brother along with the healing and calming influence of his ongoing yogic practice. . . You will be able to tell which house is ours because it will be glowing with good energy. . . and I know this is going to help!

Now I guess one sad thing about leaving the radiation therapy behind us, is leaving all the diverse folks we've met at the treatment center. . . and it's kind of sad to think, we will probably never know how their stories work out.

I know I will continue to worry about Gary (who Andrew refers to as "my guy") someone I emotionally attached myself to (although Gary does know it) one of the first days we were there.

Gary is no bigger than a pint size beer bottle (as my Grandmother Jessie would say). I tower over him at 5' - 4" and I'd guess he weighs no more than 80 pounds. A scraggly beard covers up most of his face and and oversized coke bottle glasses and a worn baseball cap covers the rest.

His daily attire is a flannel shirt--at least 3 sizes too big that hangs to his knees --and jean's blown out at the knees. I swear that when he stands next to Andrew he only comes up to his waist. I noticed right away that Gary always comes by himself, by taxi, and seemed to have no family to support him --- so I've been keeping my eye on him since day one.

And then one day this weird serendipitous event happened: The Trio arrived.

The Trio is an extended family of husband (patient), his wife, and his sister (the names eluded me on this group). Husband and wife are from the North Country somewhere, sister lives locally. Since it such a long way to drive they have to stay at the Ronald McDonald House during the week to come to treatment. He's the guy I mentioned in an earlier post that has the softball size tumor on his leg that they are trying to shrink before surgery -- the guy that kept asking Andrew how he had so much energy. We would talk to the Trio everyday, and by the time they finished treatment we were sharing books, recipes and small talk with them.

But the first day the Trio came in, Gary was also there. The sister says to Gary, "Is that you Gary?" Come to find out the brother and sister are Gary's cousins, except they haven't seen each other in about 20 years. Now one would never guess this because Gary's cousin is the exact opposite of him -- he's tall, he's heavy and he's got a really big face that you can see all of. . . But poof -- just like that! Gary suddenly has family and a mini-reunion of sorts now takes place every day. "How about so and so?" one of asks the other. "Oh, he got divorced and got the cancer -- not doing too well." One day the big cousin looks over mischeviously at little Gary and says "You want to go at it?" Little cousin says back (without hesitating a second) "If that's the way it needs to be. . . ." and then adds " You know what they say the bigger they are the harder they fall." The big guys zips him right back "and the smaller they are the farther they fly." Now this David and Goliath exchange just set the whole waiting room into hysterics for some reason, and I was still laughing when Andrew arrived back from treatment--- who was very disappointed his missed the action. The big guy finished his therapy about two weeks ago, and since then Andrew shakes Gary's hand everyday and asks how he's doing as if to fill in for the vacancy left by the big cousin--Today, Andrew's last day, they shook hands and Andrew wished him good luck. Gary said "You know they didn't think that I was going to make, but I think i am." It it's an interesting band of brothers here. . .

And sisters also --- there was one group of three women who came in for a while--- a deaf older woman, her daughter and her interpreter. . .they sat in a corner and had marvelous laughing and conversation of fluid signing and spoken sentences at the same time-- obviously only they could get the jokes. .

And then the other couple, two older women who I imagine as life time partners; one had a tube in her throat and spoke as people with throat tubes do. She walked out of the treatment room one day holding her radiation mask like a trophy over her head ----the last day of treatment. Their shared joy was palpable and inspiring. They walked out together hand in hand. I couldn't help but tear up.

And then there was the little girl and her mother. Her about 8 years old, bald as a cue ball, with an intravenous flow of something hooked up to her, carted around in her own Hello Kitty backpack. She scrunched down in the chair beside me and demanded of her mom "I want some water." Her mother definitely answered "NO way!" and I was kind of stunned about the idea of her denying this kid anything. "No way" she said, "You're only going to throw it back up!" Then mom looked at me and reported that the kid had drank a whole bottle of ginger ale last night and sure enough threw it all up, and that doctor says that her thirst is typical indication of a tumor in her brain, but they scanned her and there was not tumor in her brain, and that this was the first time they were doing treatment on her that she actually still had a tumor in her body. (I didn't want to ask how many other instances there might have been) This all in one breathe, just tumbling out on top me, in such a nonchalant way. I was fascinated and horrified at the same time. "I want this thing out!!!" demanded the kid about her IV. "I'll make you a deal" the Mom said, " You can get that out if you are a good girl and let them give you the radiation treatment with no fuss." I breathed a big sigh of relief when Andrew came back and we got the hell out of there. . .Wow! "I met those guys before," Andrew told me, "They are rough." I nodded. . "Oh yeah!"

These are just some of the many folks we have met on this leg of the journey and are leaving behind, --- some of the many, who like us came everyday for their regular does of poison laced with hope. We may never see any of them again, or know their fates or outcomes, but we are bonded to these folks by our shared understanding of this particular place, this particular time and this particular circumstance. . . like the cousins who met each other again after twenty years, we are some weird kind of family. . . and I am sure if we see any of them 20 years from now--- just like Gary, we WILL be able to recognize them. . .

Andrew keeps humming that tune from the movie Crazy Heart. . ."I used to be somebody, now I am somebody else." I think that's true for all of us.

He's sitting beside me as I write this and just ask me to add this postscript: "Please tell everyone thanks, who has sent thoughts and messages my way---especially those that I haven't had a chance to get back to yet. . ." In case I've never posted it--his email is ahavenhand@yahoo.com---still checks it every day. . .

Halfway There

I believe we are officially halfway there. Radiation treatments over halfway done (only nine left after today). Chemo, two out of four visits to the hospital, done. Halfway is all of the ambivalent place that its designed to be. The glass hall full or half empty discussion comes to mind this week and our mixed emotions characterize our being at this place.

We are thrilled that we have made it to this point, but also understand what still lays in front of us. We are happy, but we are cautious and tired. Things are beginning to hurt, sting, be sore, and hair is (just slightly so far) beginning to fall out. Tempers are shorter. We are still in good spirits, but are more subdued and are giving ourselves more breaks. Just sitting around not saying anything is o.k. Quiet time is richer and more precious than ever. . . and that's probably why its taken me awhile to sit down and make this entry.

Andrew is good. All of you who know him, know that his is strong in body and character --and that is serving him well. Every time we go to radiation we meet this couple from Watertown, who travels all the way here for therapy. The Mr. has a tumor on his calf the size of a baseball that he is grappling with. He always says to Andrew, "How do you do it? How do you have so much energy!" He does seem some days to be the most lively patient in the room.

While he was in the hospital for four days, he still had to go down to the basement for radiation every day. The first day he insisted that he would walk and not go in a wheelchair. All the nurses were flummoxed. "Do we let him walk?" They decided as a group it would be o.k. but that someone had to walk with him just in case. This was the first time any of their patients had done that. He walked every day to radiation. During his first chemo visit he had surgery to get his port and feeding tube installed so he couldn't walk, but I know that from now on being able to walk to radiation while he's in the hospital will be a marker of sorts. . .

Both the radiation and oncology crew are charmed by his accent (of course)so that is in part why he gets away with such things. The radiation crew decided that they wanted Andrew to teach them "English." He quickly obliged by spending part of the day writing a list of English expressions, with their translations, and their phonetic pronunciation. You can hear the strains of " and Bob's your uncle" and "Is thou fettling well" now wafting across the Radiation Therapy floor. . .

Making comparisions is hard not to do. Comparing Andrew with other patients we see. Comparing me with other support people I see. Comparing one day with another. Comparing one hospital stay with another.

This second hospital stay was very different in many ways. First he did not have surgery which really knocked him out the first time and put him bed and in hospital gowns for most of the stay. This time he was determined to wear his own clothes and every day he had his jeans and t-shirt on. (T-shirt slightly modified to fit the tubes going to the chemo port that is in his shoulder). This time he was more determined to get out and about and I would find him sitting on the window sill in the corridor and not always in his room.

Food and food smells went down well at first, but at the end the hospital food grew to be abhorrent and I was bringing him things from the cafeteria and home to entice him.

The changes in his reactions to sound and light were perhaps the most dramatic. He has insisted on each hospital stay that we bring a table lamp from home. "Hospital lighting is awful" he complained when he first found you he'd have to go in. The warm subdued light from that lamp by his bed was about all he could handle by day four. Same for sound. The noise of the nurses and shoes in the hallway became unbearable and he asked me not to text message him because he found the ping of his phone grating. Rustling of newspapers, volume on t.v., furniture leg screeches, the repetitive drip of the I.V. machine --- all almost too much to bear by day four. Rapid movement on movies became too much to watch and caused headaches. The slow motion of black and white movies on AMC became the standard T.V. fare and then nothing at all --- eyes closed, no moving, going into the zone of just passing time.

The incessant drip of the I.V marked the time like the tick of a clock. On Saturday, Day 3, Andrew figured out that the drip was going to slow to let him get out of the hospital by Sunday night. He asked the nurses to see about speeding it up, and they obliged him. By the evening of Day 3 he was up to speed and on schedule for an evening departure. By 6 p.m. Sunday he was counting the milliliters left in the bag and computing the time in minutes until it would be done. His Ukranian nurse, Nada (who speaks five languages) kept coming in to check and and took his impatience and grumpiness in stride. She did everything she could to facilitate him walking out the door as fast as he could, and when the drip finally died she had him ready to go in ten minutes.

We jumped in the car, and I felt like I was breaking someone out of jail. There was a shared feeling of elation of leaving the hospital in the rear view mirror. When we arrived home, I had the fire set in the fireplace, Fox soccer channel tuned in and the home made beef stew he requested all ready for him. The dogs were excited to see him, but calmed down quickly as if they new he couldn't take much more than that. We all settled down to our usual places, and fell into a comfortable silence (without the staccato ping, ping, ping of little drops) and the lovely everydayness of being home. . .

My Father's House

Today Andrew returned to the hospital for his second 96 hour round of chemo. He checked in after his radiation treatment and at 8 p.m. this evening he was hooked up to the bag and rolling. Three hours down, 93 left to go. Socks are pale green with white dots. . and he looks good!

This was exactly what my friend Carla said when we visited him this evening. Carla and her husband Paul traveled all the way from Baltimore to help us out with this round. Our dogs are ecstatic as they are receiving lots of love, treats and big walks from Carla while Paul's been busy in the kitchen since he arrived and already whipped a marvelous veggie lasagne that was waiting for us when we got back from the hospital.

"He looks great." Carla said as we were headed to the elevators leaving the oncology ward, but she was also crying. "It's hard to see that (Andrew hooked up), it makes it so real." I knew exactly what she was feeling and the last time I was in exactly that same shape when I left him there for the first time. I hugged her and said "I know." But I wasn't crying this time so I guess that means I'm getting used to this strange routine. Is that weird? I not sure. . .

The difference between our first check in at the hospital and and second was quite striking. The first time we were quiet and hesitant and wondering and tentative. Eyes wide open we were almost afraid to touch anything. This time Andrew strolled in his room and started moving around the furniture to suit him. "Could you help me move this bed over to the left," he asked the nurse as she was trying to take his vital signs. He tilted the bed up to the exact angle he wanted, rearranged the covers and pillows and then was out of the room in the next moment to see which end of the hall had the best views. Definitely we both were a little more comfortable with this.

Our relaxed state was surely a result of our knowing what to expect but also probably a residual from our trip to my father's house this past weekend. We both wanted to take the best advantage of our time before he had to go into the hospital again, particularly since he was feeling so good, and we agreed without much conversation that the best way to do that was by visiting my Dad who lives about three hours away from us in small town in the foothills of the Green Mountains.

We both love visiting my Dad and his house has become quite a refuge for us. This started years ago when when we would travel up from Virginia to visit both he and my Mom (divorced for 17 years, but still

both living in the same very small town.) My Mom, God rest her soul, was quite a planner, and would have a list of things we had to do with her which started the minute we walk through her door. My father, on the other hand, had and continues to have absolutely no expectations of our time. Its do whatever you want to do at Dad's house, on your own time and in your own way. No strings attached. Time at my father's house is down time. Real down time.

This is enhanced by three major features of

his home --- The house he grew up in that has been renovated by him to be the ultimate man cave --- 1. He has things in it that we really enjoy but we are far to cool to buy for ourselves (Lazy Boy

recliners, fuzzy blankets with animal pictures on them);

2.He has food in the refrigerator we enjoy but would never dream of buying or eating at home (sliced pepperoni, apple turnovers, an

d Klondike bars) and 3. he has many things that have not been available for sale since the 1970's but are cool and enjoyable and just plain weird (a turntable with vinyl records, two shelves of very tacky knick knacks).

The dogs love it because there is a big yard, and Andrew loves it because he can sit in a big chair and watch soccer with my Dad

for as long as he likes, usually with a big fire going in the fireplace. I love it because I don't really have to talk to anybody. My Dad and Andrew sit and chat and I sit and read, MY favorite

thing. Its the ultimate kick back place. It also helps that he doesn't have good internet connection and that the valley he lives in is on the edge of AT&T's coverage so our cell phones only marginally

work. No email or phone calls does wonders for the blood pressure!

The enjoyment of going to my Dad's has also been enhanced recently by our finding an authentic fish and chip shop in the next town over. Little Britain's fish and chips are totally up to par to any we've experienced in England, and make for the perfect bulk-it-up meal before chemotherapy treatment. Amazing crispy batter dipped fish, juicy and tender on the inside --- absolutely not health food, but just what the doctor ordered in this case.

We topped off with two strawberry Ta-Ta cupcakes (use your

imagination) from the Crazy Russian Girls bakery just around the

corner. Ah heaven!!!

So we were all pretty mellow and satiated when we got in the car to head back to the 'Cuse on Sunday. It was tough to leave. My Dad hugged Andrew good bye (Something he doesn't really do) and said, "I'm really glad you came, because its a lot better to see you in person and see how you are than to hear about it on the phone." While I guess that was in fact some kind of ending, it sure made for a nice beginning, of this, our fifth week on this journey! Day #29 is looking good. . .

Happy Anniversary

Monday, March 15 was our 8th Wedding Anniversary. Still newlyweds many tell us. . . but we've been through a lot in those eight years so its seems like a lot longer---good longer I mean. In actuality we HAVE known each other for over 25 years although we haven't been together that long. Our pasts have intersected many times (the only bar I was ever thrown out of was the Texas Wisconsin border in Richmond, VA and Andrew, who was a bartender there, is the guy who did that---but that's a longer story for another time). I'm sure that contributes to the feeling of longevity. But we both agree, regardless of the real time, we have been soul mates forever.

Our anniversary gift to each other was the fact that Andrew

is feeling well--- really well-- well enough to enjoy a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant, with a promise of a movie later this week, salsa dancing post-treatment and 4th of July in Seneca Rocks.

I am so excited about how good he feels and I think our doctors share that sentiment. "I feel normal" he told me the other day, and I believe him as there are no indicators to make me think otherwise. He's not jogging around the block, but he's active---walking dogs, making fences (see pic), going to school, shopping (buying surprise flowers

for the wife), making dinner -- right now I can hear him outside deconstructing our back porch---but most importantly he's eating like a horse. (note the chocolate tower on the dessert plate) People comment on how good he looks, and they are not just being polite.

The weather is feeding our upbeat mood by turning sunny. All the snow has melted and the smell of spring is in the air. The trees are just starting to bud, and yes, even here in Syracuse (or Siberacuse) the flowers are pushing their heads up out of the ground.

I find that because he is doing so well I am feeling very happy and lighthearted (maybe also because its spring break). With help also from my music therapy (favorites on the iPod this week are Fleet Foxes "Your Protector," Anya Maria "Satellite Heart," and Coldplay "Cemeteries of London" and thank you Carla for that iTunes gift certificate---Can't wait to download!!!!) and my work outs with Frank (OMG) I am in a very good place. I realized that I was actually skipping down the

street the other day (which I attempted to self-document for this purpose, not so well, but you get it--cars driving by, people wondering who that person is skipping while waving her iPhone over her head).

I know Andrew is sharing my upbeat attitude. "Tempus f---ing Fugit" he just proclaimed with gusto to our friend Zeke and the most beautiful baby Thomas who wandered over to visit and watch the fence reconstruction. And this is not a forced enthusiasm. I can tell he really means it.

I am wondering is it endorphins kicking in or just this shared moment of crisis which seems to be putting everything into such acute focus and making the ordinary so extraordinary. Whatever, we are enjoying it.

Today at radiation, one of the patient's who has recently joined us in the waiting room on a regular basis (male, 50 ish), looked over at Andrew and said "Do you mind if I ask you what kind yours is." That's all it took for the cone of silence that keeps you separated from each other to fall away and for an open and poignant conversation about chances, diagnosis, fears, and determination to take its place.

It was stunning and powerful. Andrew touched that guy gently on the shoulder when we left and he told him "You'll be O.K." My brave and compassionate husband of 8 years and my soul mate of forever just being the person that he is. . .

We do know that this temporary blissful state is probably the calm before the storm but we are almost half way through radiation (zap # 12 of 33) and after next weeks hospital visit will be 1/2 way through chemo. Both Doctor G and H say just keep on eating and get ready to feel bad and next week when he goes in for the second round of chemo, that will probably be the turning point. So we know it is going to get tougher, but the 'tude is good, the socks are argyle and this week is a good one!

Week #3 (Close enough) - Talking to the Virgin Mary and Other Magical Thinking

Yes, folks that is a picture of Andrew washing his car this weekend. You can see our dog Moe's reaction, which echoes my own, "What the hell is he doing?" He slipped out the back door and started before I could say anything -- and since he feels good---what can I say.

"Its all about attitude!" he told me this morning as we getting ready for our first official once-a-week visit with our onconologist, Dr. G. Couldn't agree with him more.

We love Dr. G. and he'd been on vacation since our visit to him about a month ago, so we were looking forward to seeing him. Dr. G is young, hip, and one of the most empathetic and thorough of our many health care providers and we were anxious to hear what he'd have to say about where we are now. Andrew isn't doing any driving so I did the taxi driver thing and got us both to the office safely with Andrew only telling me how to drive once. (pretty good)

Then we both went into our waiting room

routines. Andrew reads a magazine and I watch the other people come and go, almost always couples, and speculate on which one of the couple is the sick one. I often only find out if I am right when they call them back to see the doctor (cause they always call only the patient by name). This of course is also a comparative study - me trying to imagine what we are going to look like in eight weeks. But, then of course, there is nobody else there wearing striped socks. . so it is hard to compare.

We finally get called back, and A gets weighed

(only lost 2 pounds), blood pressure is lower (which is good)

and he's got no complaints except some blistering around the lips. Dr. G says this is normal and he's pleased about how good Andrew is looking and feeling (must be the socks). Unlike our hotshot surgeon in Rochester who should have told us all this, he explains in detail why surgery was not a good option (removal of voice box and the swallowing mechanism would have been required, yikes!!). Then he lays it on us. Because we are not doing surgery we have to do FOUR rounds of chemo instead of two; each 96 hours straight, each 30 days apart. And then we will redo all tests to see if the mission is accomplished sometime in June. I have to say that took us back a bit . . . but we took it in stride. There's no getting off the flight was you are flying across the ocean. . .you know what I mean. To quote my hub again, "Its all about attitude!"

Now, I myself am willing to rely on other kinds of support as well . . and as many different kinds as I can get. For example, once a day, while I'm walking my dogs I try to visit the Virgin Mary who lives around the corner from us. She has a stone house that I find very cool (actually she probably finds it most cool also in the winter, as I don't think she's got heat there). As a "recovering Catholic," as my friend Sandy and I used fondly call ourselves, I am well versed and trained in the art of magical thinking. Some may see her as just

a ceramic statue in a groovy hand made stone vault, but for me she's a link back to the strong religious background of my youth and the mystery of belief. Its a little hard to explain this about myself, since I haven't been to Mass in years or practiced Catholicism in decades, but this shrine has a strong pull on me. Its probably also the reason I collect rosary beads, which I never use as directed, but that I seem to need to have nonetheless. I have some that were my grandmother's, my mother's, some from Ireland, and some that I don't have a clue where they came from. I love how they feel, how they are worn through use, and what they project. Whenever I get on a plane I always take a set with me, and when my cousin's kid joined the Marines at age 17 (our only family member in the military) I gave up my beautiful ebony ones that were my grandfather's (blessed by Pope John 23) as I was sure that they would help protect him from harm. I will put a set in Andrew's suitcase the next time he goes to the hospital. He won't know they are there, but that's o.k. The beads emit the same feeling I get from the Virgin Mary. And so regardless that I might look like a wack job, I stop to talk to her on my daily turn around the block. . .Hey, it doesn't hurt. . .

Many of you have sent us your version of magical thinking. . . warm, good, positive energy; glowing light, prayers, hugs, best wishes, and jokes. We just want you to know that they are all working! With your support and a good word from the Blessed Virgin Mary around the corner we are sure to make it through this o.k. Chemo, Scheemo. . .it's all about attitude.

Love ya. . .

Week #2 - A return to normalcy

I've been teaching students for years about the emotional difference between something that's horizontal and something that's vertical, but its amazing to see that difference played out in Andrew's actions and demeanour. Having him up and out of hospital bed without any tubes hanging out of him, walking around in street clothes has made an amazing difference. Except for a little tiredness, and the fact that he isn't driving, things seem almost normal. We are all much happier. He's spending his day's talking to friends and family on the phone, and catching up on email and the Fox Soccer Channel. So expect to hear from him, if you already haven't. . .

He was even able to bear a whirlwind but intense visit by my Uncle Wade, Aunt Sandy and two of my cousin's kids on Tuesday. I had bought them tickets for a Syracuse game at Christmas time, thinking it would be a great idea to get them to come see us. Of course we didn't know then how our scenario would change. On the day of their visit, I arrived home to find the table set for dinner and our guests fixed up with drinks, sitting around talking about the differences between English and American Soccer. Wow, so normal. I kept looking for signs of fatigue or discomfort (because my aunt can be a little intense sometimes!) but they never materialized. . . He made it through a family visit without a blink --- now that's a test!

So this week we are just doing radiation every weekday at 11 a.m. That usually takes 15 to 30 minutes a visit -- not too bad. And two of those visits were cancelled this week bec

ause the super high tech amazing machine that they been using on him broke down (now that's a little unnerving--- Andrew likes to say the rubber band broke in it). This thing is a combo CAT scan and "radiater." The put him in and it takes pictures from over 50 different view points of the tumor, then they roll him out and calibrate it to just hit the tumor, and roll him back it for the radiation. Pretty amazing stuff (when its working. .. ) the machine should be back up and running today and we should be back on schedule for treatment. . .Except for this-- week 2 has been running pretty smooth-- for him.

My other patient, our dog Sophie, who got bit by another dog, seems to be faring worse than he is. Every time her wound we begin to heal she would scratch it open again and

make it look far worse than it was originally. When Andrew came home from the hospital and saw it he almost had a heart attack. Since I had to go off to work, he was insistent that he would walk her to the vets (about 1/2 a mile away). This was our first major "discussion" about the limits of his activities. I felt like I was talking to my father who is 80 years old and who I can't seem to keep off his roof. (totally reconstructed his chimney by

himself two years ago. . .) We compromised in that I would drive him over and he would walk back. The anxiety was incredible, like letting your kid walk to school for the first time. My insistence on regular mobile updates, irritated him, but he did it. Dog and owner arrived home with no incident and neither seemed the worse for wear. It seemed to be much harder on me than them, actually. Mostly importantly after a third visit to the vet they FINALLY decided to put a damn bandage on the thing. (Now there's a brilliant idea!) So Sophie is now is sporting a dapper red bandage, which only partially bugs the hell out of her, and seems to be working. . .

I have to say the best part of this week (beside having Andrew upright and at home; well actually there are two best parts, #2 coming up in a minute) is that I haven't had to cook. Friends and neighbors have flooded our house with goodies (Amy's spiced beef and squash soup, Jen's chicken pot pie, Barre's chili, Jeff's macaroni and cheese. . . ooo la la). We are eating high on the hog and all I have to do is microwave. Thank you all for that. Its been delicious.

Second best, is my visits with my personal trainer, Frank. Now somewhere in this process I got the idea in my head that that in order for me to make it through this and be as much help as I can to Andrew I have to be strong and stay strong. . .experience has shown me that when I'm physically strong I'm stronger mentally and well, as far as I could see, there is no way this flabby ass, middle age body was going to make it through this one without some help. So its been a two prong attack to improve mind and body.

Mind through my iPod and Happy Light. I had forgotten how soothing it was to listen to music! The theme on the Pod is tunes that soothe. Now oddly for me that's a great range from Muse''s "Super Massive Black Hole" to the opera, but it sure does work. You see me walking around with the ear buds in all the time now, something very unusual for me as I generally really do like to hear where I'm going. So please send me suggestions for new tunes--any new

tunes. The Happy Light is a marvelous invention. 10,000 Lux of bright natural spectrum light designed to "lift the spirits, sharpen concentration, and improve energy levels." And i'll be damned if it doesn't. A must for the constant grey skies of Syracuse, New York.

But best of all is Frank. Frank is  totally solid. There's not one bit of him that isn't solid, including his personality and his heart. Frank can size you up in a second and he can tell that I have a mind that's totally willing, but a body that is somewhat lagging behind. This doesn't mean he goes easy on me, he doesn't, but he knows just where to go and when to stop. Well, almost when to stop. The other day just as we were getting to the final set of bicep curls, I could feel the wave of nausea and the flickering of my vision. "Holy Crap, I thought, "I'm going to either barf or faint on Frank!"--- neither acceptable in my mind. It was a dilemna, do I admit my weakness and stop, and just risk it and try to muscle on. Decision was made for me when the second wave came through that took me down to the seated position. "Frank, I think I'm going to have to take a break." He was great, took the weights out of my hand, gave me the sharp and knowing Frank evaluation look, and ran for the glucose tablets for me.

Five minutes later I was somewhat back to normal and had somehow manage not to vomit. A real achievement! Odd thing is that I can't wait to get back to it. I love this getting stronger thing. . .By week 8 of this journey I should be formidable!!!

So bye for now and love to all! thanks for all the support! It also makes us strong!

P.S. this is not me in the bathing suit (although I wish it was) but my ex student and friend Kate Oliver (triathlete extraordinaire) making a statement in Andrew's behalf. . . Love ya Kate!