Where I Live Now

Dearest of dear ones,

At long last, the promised update! Cutting right to the chase… I now live in Portland!

Some of you may be thinking, “Yeah, I know. You’ve been talking about this for years.” I talked a big game, folks, but I was never actually sure it would happen.

It’s been a little more than a week since Portland-Sara morphed from an idea into a reality, so thinking about it still gives me a swoop in the stomach and a tingle in the neck. This is not bad or good; it’s change. It’s a decision made. 

This year has been heavy with decisions, heavy with change. 

Heavy with miles traveled (over 7,000), with months lacking a proper job (6), with states traversed (17), with moments of heart-stopping uncertainty (lots), and of pure, glistening joy (countless). 

The first half of the year was so heavy I didn’t know how I’d bear it. There were times (days, weeks, months) when crying seemed my main occupation, when I could not fathom moving through the next day.  

The second half of the year found me the lightest I’ve ever been. The most grateful. The most awestruck. The most surrendered.

2017: a year of metaphorical and literal journey.  

Mid-December 2016, I was sobbing in my bedroom, yelling at God, “Why won’t you help me?!” This was a low point. Following my cancer treatment, I had rediscovered Spirit, embraced Presence, found a church I loved. (The Gathering in St. Louis, I don’t have enough words to express…) I was nourished. Then, with all of those things very much in my grasp, anxiety and darkness ate up the light. A dark night of the soul is what they call it. I managed to maintain a somewhat normal exterior, but the darkness was so deep, you guys, so why-am-I-on-this-earth-anymore deep. But that’s a story for another time. 

Back to how I ended up in Portland.

In November 2016, two years post-treatment, when I’d expected to have a clear CT scan, be named officially cancer-free and ready to move on with whatever would come next, instead the scan was ambiguous. Some tiny thing that hadn’t been evident before had appeared; and there was the lingering bronchitis, the recurring pain in my ribs. Just before Thanksgiving, following a surreally crazy test involving a nearly empty room in the deepest basement of the cancer center — Nuclear Medicine — and a kind, careful nurse injecting a radioactive substance from a small metal vial into a vein in the delicate gooseflesh of my inner elbow, the potentiality that my cancer had spread to bone was dispensed with. But still, there would be three months more waiting to see if the new spot on the scan was Something, or just a glitch. (To save you the stress I endured, it was apparently a glitch. Huzzah!) But, there I was just a tad over a year ago, yelling at the Universe for help.

Two days after that December night of forsaken-feeling anger, I was given 30 days to move out of my apartment, where I’d lived for nearly six years. 

Less than two hours after that, in a casual conversation, an angel of a friend offered me a place to stay for a couple of months, just to get me through my next scan. I ended up living there for six months — a safe, quiet place with dogs to love, and calm, solid support close at hand. The friend wouldn’t let me pay rent.

I guess Providence had heard my shouts.

That friend’s generosity allowed me to save money for a move to Portland where my biggest family cluster lives. But I was never sure the move was right. I was frozen. I was crying. I was saving up. For something.

Another tearful, prayerful night, it became clear that I needed three things: quiet, family, time. Now, to make these things happen…

In February, I got the all-clear from my doctor. “Sara, it’s time to go live your life now.”

In April, I hit a new low and, with a lot of help, got a handle on my depression. 

In May, I gave notice on the most lucrative job I’ve ever had, working for a boss and with a team I respected immensely.

In July, I worked my last day at UMSL, repacked my 10 x 10 storage unit, filled my car with what I thought I’d need for up to six months (the ridiculous-long estimate; I expected to be on the road only through October at the very latest), said goodbye to my St. Louis beloveds, and started driving.

I promised many of you updates along the way and I did manage to post some pictures and captions, but the longer I waited to write to you, the more experiences built up, and the harder it seemed to tell all the stories. So, finally here are some details. I hope once I get caught up, I’ll be better at staying in touch!

July/August — Nearly six weeks in Arlington, VA with my brother, Jason, sister-in-law, Susan, and brand new nephew, James. So many beautiful, home-cooked meals; being part of a family, baby-duty (wonderful baby-duty!) and all; regular writing dates with my brother (who happens also to be working on a book manuscript); getting to know my sister-in-law, becoming true friends; a magical week on the beach in North Carolina’s Outer Banks, swimming in the ocean; so much reading. I never wanted to leave.

August — Back to St. Louis for quarterly medical tests (all clear); reconnecting with people I love love love; catching up on last to-do’s before heading west.

September — Chicago for several days with my dear, old friend Sarah (and her Brian and family) in her new city. Biking on the lake, museums, food, long walks and lingering conversation — some of my very favorite things. Ann Arbor to visit Ellie and Dave, two of the kindest people I know; welcome like welcome was born to be. Detroit to mourn my darling Auntie Cathy with my uncle and grandmother. Back to Chicago with Sarah and clan for one restorative night and morning before pressing on.

September/October/ November— Denver/Boulder. The sunlight! So much connection with family. Long conversations and walks with my Auntie Mia, getting to know the daily life of my cousins. Stepping into a family unit ready for me to join right in. Cooking, relaxing, reading; long trips to libraries and bookstores; mornings spent reading, afternoons spent walking; seeing my grandmother almost every day, joining her for seven Fridays of her ladies’ prayer group. When I arrived in Denver, I thought I’d stay a week or two; I finally packed up and left after eight. Good God, this time was a gift. A pearl of hope, clarity, and intention growing layer by layer by layer.

October also saw a quick side trip from Denver to Tulsa to reconnect with home. With my beloved high school best friend, Tara, I saw Ryan Adams at the Cain’s Ballroom; reconnected with Wendy and Johnny, Nate, Shane, my brother Adam and his wife, Gina; sat quietly at my mom’s grave; and then visited Lynette, a librarian I worked with for one year, nearly twenty years ago and whose voice stayed with me longer than she’d ever imagined.

November/December — I planned to go through California after Colorado — LA, San Clemente, Oakland, San Francisco — but was called to Portland early to help out with a family injury. Not the injury, but the call to Portland was right on time. I was ready to settle for a while — a while meaning through New Year’s. By this point, I wasn’t sure Portland was for me. I thought I’d go back to Arlington/D.C. to live with my brother and his charmed little family or, more likely, to Denver, land of the shining-est sun where my spirit glowed so bright. But then, following a hike during a long-anticipated side trip to Vashon Island in the Puget Sound to visit one of my dearest college friends, Leila, and her partner, Ellen… click, click, click, like the perfect tumbling of a clock’s gears, the Pacific Northwest grabbed me, a Portland job fell into place, and I decided it’s time to stop, to stay.

So, on January 2nd, I start my new job — 30 hours per week, leaving ample time to pursue my writing, and with medical benefits — as assistant to the Columbia District superintendent for the Oregon-Idaho Conference of the United Methodist Church, a progressive religious community that is, I believe, on the cusp of exciting change. (Yvi, you might not remember, but you’re the one who suggested to me, so many months ago, over lunch, a Conference job!) I’ll be renting a lovely room in my cousin Alexis’s family’s home — nestled among stunning pines and holly bushes bigger than you’ve ever seen — and joining the Alexis-Nathan-Finnegan-Wilder household as full-time Auntie Sara. 

Who ever could’ve imagined, on that cold, miserable moving day last January… 

—

On my travels, in a little indie bookstore in Ann Arbor, I found two beautiful art prints made, I didn’t know at the time, by a painter in Portland, OR. This is what they say:

“Everything changes. Nothing is Lost.”

and

“It is well with my soul.”

Yes. And amen.

Sending so much love and peace and gratitude. I promise to be in touch again soon.

Xoxox,
Sara

2014 November 16 - A Dream or Another Life (Lotsa Update)

Hi again,

I suppose it'll soon be time to stop sending updates this way. That we'll all go on somehow and this time will start to fade. That's what people tell me. I'm thinking about other ways to keep writing about this experience, because I don't think I'll be through it for a long, long time, but eventually the Lotsa website updates will stop. I'll keep you posted.

For now though, I thought you might like to know how things have been going. A couple of updates ago, before I had my good-news test results, I wrote that my counselor at the cancer center had warned me that the period immediately following treatment, following the all-clear, can be very difficult for some. I also wrote about feeling like this tiny creature on a endless shore watching the tidal wave of regular life coming to take me down. This did not look like a surf-able wave. When it hit, it didn't feel like one either. I've been on my knees gasping for a couple of weeks now. It's been rough.

There is a sense that I should be celebrating (and special thanks to those of you who have felt the excitement for me when I couldn't), but what I think I've actually been doing is feeling the enormity of emotional response, emotional trauma, that I had to hold at bay while I went through treatment. During those months, I just had to take the next step and then the next and next until I made it out. I think it'll be a while before I really catch my breath.

As of this weekend, my pets are home.

That sentence has to stand alone; it feels like it means something bigger than the simple reality that the amazing people (Wendy & Johnny and Jen T) who took such good care of them have passed Elgin and Leo back to me. It's hard to explain how normalizing their presence in my apartment is. I feel in a time warp. Today is a snowy Sunday spent with my pets. It's like I've jumped back to last winter/spring, like the summer was a dream or another life. Whoa, I just realized that this whole thing began with a trip to the ER on May 17th... Tomorrow is November 17th. Six months. I'm not going to add an "(only)" before that, but I see the ghost of it.

Tomorrow I return to work on campus.

Another stand-alone sentence. I've been working part time from home since just after my second chemo, and I'm only cleared to work reduced hours until I get more strength back, but still, this is back in my office. Regular. Normal.

For some reason, the Wizard of Oz movie has come to mind over and over through the course of this time - different characters and scenes. Here's where I am now. Remember when Dorothy is imprisoned by the Wicked Witch and Judy Garland is on screen, all tear-stained and helpless? "I'm frightened, Auntie Em. I'm frightened!" And then... The serenity on Dorothy's face when she realizes how to get home? When she closes her eyes and starts clicking her heels together. She knows she's ok then. She knows that all will be well. I am both of those Dorothys right now. Caught somewhere in the middle.

I just tried to write a paragraph ending this chain of updates and thanking you, but I can't do it yet. Knowing you're there, even quietly and at a distance still means too much. Through all of this, I've pictured you as this stunning small crowd of people who've got my back. I guess I want to keep that image for a while longer. I hope you don't mind. I think I still need you.

Love and more love,

Sara

2014 November 5 - The Water is Calm (Lotsa Update)

Hello again,

I thought I'd share a little more about how things are going, since my last update was just a quick note to get the word out about my clear scan and bloodwork.

When I got the news last Friday, I had just left a counseling appointment at the cancer center, and pulled up at a parking meter to run a quick errand in the Central West End. My phone rang and I saw that it was my oncologist's main nurse line. This was it. I answered; the reply came, slow and deliberate.

"Sara, this is Deb."

"Hi, Deb."

"Are you ready for this?"

"I don't know if I'm ready for this," my voice was a kind of whine.

"You are," Deb said, and I could hear her smiling. "It says, 'Tell her the scan is perfect and the CA-125 is within normal range too' exclamation mark, exclamation mark!"

This is where my exact memory of the conversation fails. I know Deb said that we still need to be vigilant but this was good news, and that she saw the results and knew she couldn't make me wait through the weekend to hear. She said something about it being a great Halloween treat and that I should go and have a wonderful weekend.

I sat at the meter for a good twenty minutes, making phone calls and sending texts before I got back into somewhat-normal mode and finished my errand. I was very close to Bissinger's (chocolate shop) and decided I deserved a decaf mocha. (I guess some people celebrate with champagne; chocolate and whipped cream for me.) As the super-nice guy was making my drink, he started chatting, asked me how Halloween was treating me. I smiled dazedly and said, "This is a really good day." When he looked up, I blurted, "I've been having chemo for the last five months and I just found out my scan is clear, like half an hour ago." He said how great that was and congratulations, and murmured something I couldn't quite hear to a coworker. When he handed me my drink, he said, "Thanks for sticking around a while!" (He didn't mean in the store.) I'm not the type to hug a stranger, but it almost happened. Then he asked me to wait a minute and the coworker he'd spoken to earlier passed me a pound of assorted chocolates. As I walked out, I heard the barista say to his friends, "She just got through chemo and..."

Between the mocha and the news, I felt giddy for a little while. I came home and paced my kitchen, rubbing a hand back and forth over my mostly hairless head. God, how much I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to tell her so bad - the scan is clear, mom! She's been gone almost six years now, but it doesn't seem to matter much; when something big happens, she is still the person to tell. The only other thing I could think to do was get down on my knees and say thank you. That's what I was doing, just kneeling on the floor saying thank you over and over, when my Auntie Meg (one of my mom's two beloved sisters) called and, though I'd talked to her while I was at that parking meter, I paced the kitchen and gave her the blow-by-blow again. And then again.

I'd already made plans to have dinner at the home of some friends who live in the neighborhood. It was a lovely time and delicious home-cooked food and when I got home later, I was exhausted. Back on the phone with my Aunt that night, I made my way to stunned, then rapidly, to overwhelmed and sobbing. She stayed on the phone with me - as she has done many nights since all of this started - until I was ready to fall asleep.

You know the feeling you get during finals week, where you know you just have to get through and *then* you can crash? The adrenaline and the need to perform, to do what needs to be done, pushes you through. This was a major crash. It really did feel like there had been something pushing me to keep going and going through the treatments and the anxiety and all of it. My cousin Alexis explained it like this: there's been a bear chasing me for months; now that I can stop running, it makes sense I would crash hard. Saturday and Sunday, I could barely get out of bed and when I did, I thought maybe I shouldn't have. Monday, I worked my regular hours at home, but that is all I did.

First thing Tuesday morning, Shawnessey met me for my doctor appointment. We heard again that the tests were clear. The doctor talked about the toll the chemo has taken on my body, how I can expect to continue to feel quite fatigued for a while, explained that the shortness of breath I've been having is from chemo-induced anemia. He went on to say that this is when the mental recovery begins, that I need to take things slow, and that dealing with the emotional repercussions of everything that has happened since the diagnosis is a big and important task. His main advice was to be careful with myself and to take things as slowly as I can. He smiled and said, "You don't have to see me again for three months!" (At that point, I'll have bloodwork and an exam - no scan yet, unless there seems to be a reason for it.) Before I left, I got hugs from both the doctor and from Deb, the nurse who'd called with my results on Friday.

So, here I am, reeling. I just got off the phone with my brother, Jason, and, after I went through all of this and my concerns and the pressures and the what-will-happen-nexts, he said something like, "Well, the storm has passed now and the water is calm. It may still be foggy, but the water is calm." A wise fella.

When I'm anxious, I like to go for walks, but through most of this, I haven't had the strength to really do that in the way I want to - alone and for as long as I like. I'm still not up to a lot, but today when I woke up with a belly full of worry, I bundled up and went outside. I know that I've gotten to the important point of the walk when I stop staring furrowed-browed at the sidewalk just ahead of my feet and start looking up at the houses and trees and squirrels and sky. That's when I can really breathe. And that's what I'm hoping to find my way back to - a feeling not of just making my way down the path, but looking up to wonder at things and take some deep breaths too.

Thank you - again and always - for listening to me and helping me and sometimes carrying me. I can never say what it means to have your support.

Xoxo,

Sara

2014 October 29 - Fatigue and Music and a Garden (Lotsa Update)

Hey there,

I've been wanting to write to you all for days, but keep running out of steam before I get to it. Or maybe my mind has just been working on what to say? There are too many things...

I've had some ups and downs since I last wrote. It's still difficult for me to process just how physically exhausted I am. Generally, I have 3-5 good hours in me on most days and a little less than that on others. I think I've written before that people say the effects of chemo are cumulative. Amanda, my psychologist/therapist at the cancer center has confirmed what I'm feeling - that it's the exhaustion (fatigue) that people are referring to. I just feel worn out almost all of the time. Amanda says this is the norm and reminds me that this is not just the kind of tired that requires a nap and a good attitude, but that my body is recovering from a systemic assault. That word - systemic - comforts me, justifies what I'm feeling.

When I went into Amanda's office last week, I sat down and said, "I'm a mess." I'd been so anxious - about the scan and whether the chemo did all it was meant to do, but even more about the tidal wave of real life I can see coming at me. I'm this little weakling on the shore and the wall of who-I-was-before is barreling at me with a speed and force I can't control. Amanda told me that this time - the moving out of treatment and beginning to reintegrate into "regular" life while managing my own and other people's expectations for how quickly I "should" bounce back - is one of the hardest parts of coping with cancer and treatment. Many people find this transitional time as hard as the diagnosis/beginning of treatment; some find it harder. Another comfort - it's normal that facing and moving back toward what I used to do/know/be is terrifying.

Aside from all that intensity, you know from my last cooing tiny update about that wonderful wedding I attended, that I've had some good moments too.

The day after the wedding, I saw Ryan Adams perform at the Peabody Opera House. I bought the tickets months ago and, over the course of my chemo treatments, came to think of this concert as my big celebration. So many times, I thought, "After my last chemo, I get to go to the Ryan Adams show!" It was precisely the right number of days after treatment so that I was nearly certain I'd make it. (This hope was complicated by the fact that I missed two other concerts this summer because of cancer treatment issues.) I'm usually always listening to music - around the house, in the car - but since my diagnosis, all I've been drawn to is Ryan Adams's album Ashes & Fire; many of the songs resonate, but the one that has really hit me is "Lucky Now." Like I think of the Emily Dickinson reflecting pool by the cancer center as "my place" for this time, "Lucky Now" has become my song for grieving an old me and thinking about the future. Anyway, I really, really hoped he'd play my song at the show!

The day of the concert, I actually spent 45 minutes creating a twitter account just so I could maybe try to tweet a song request. I totally chickened out. I decided to put my request out to the Universe instead, sending hopeful thoughts throughout the day. So, I'm at the show and it's great and I'm excited and enjoying myself. The music is awesome; Ryan Adams is funny and charming. After the first four songs or so, I stopped my constant wishing for that one song and sunk into just having a good time. So many songs I knew, such a good vibe. Loved it. Then, maybe a little over halfway through, the band left the stage so only Ryan was there. I figured this was where he'd do a tiny acoustic set, maybe two or three songs, before the band came back. He's at the mic in the middle of this big, decorated, lit-up stage and he starts to strum and I think maybe... Abruptly, he stops playing and walks over to the very far edge where the stage juts just a bit into the crowd. The lights go down on the main stage and there he is standing alone in front of a single microphone all strung up with white twinkle lights. He starts to play and... it's what I hoped! When he's done, he goes back to the main stage, the band returns, and then they're rockin' again. One song. The one I wanted. And illuminated by twinkle lights. I know that wasn't just for me, but it sure felt like it. Magic.

I know some of you remember this classic line from the first episode of My So-Called Life: "You're so beautiful, it hurts to look at you." Last week, I met Shawnessey for a tour of the Botanical Garden. When I arrived, she was sitting out front with a wheelchair for me. Since I hadn't seen the garden before, she wanted me to experience the whole of it without getting too tired to enjoy it. The wheelchair was a blessing because, honestly, just getting myself ready and to the garden that day had worn me out. I willingly submitted to riding and was quiet for the first little while as Shawnessey pushed me down paths and I got used to this moment in my life. The moment when, after being alone and mostly quiet inside my apartment for days, I came out and took a seat and here was all of this wonder. (How is it that I'd never visited the garden before?) Something about me being in a wheelchair and that day feeling so... unabashedly, adolescently fresh brought tears to my eyes. This was a moment so beautiful, it hurt to look at it. I fell in love with the garden, but maybe also with an imagination of going back someday when things are in bloom, and I can feel the muscles in my legs as I walk and walk and walk.

I'm starting to feel more positive about not just the CT scan scheduled for Thursday, but the future. I'm excited to live more and write more and travel more and love people more. I want to have so many chances to be more of who I am. But I'm nervous too. Your peaceful vibes and prayers - always welcome - will be much appreciated on Thursday morning, and again on Tuesday morning when I talk to my doctor about the results. I'll fill you in as soon as I know anything.

For now, I'll thank the heavens for live music and and fall and hope and people just like you.

Xoxo,

Sara

2014 October 15 - Strokes of Certainty (Lotsa Update)

Hiya,

Well, I've had a few people check in over the last couple of days to see how I'm doing, so I know it's time to send an update. (Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the checking in!)

The 10/7 treatment's tentacles seem to be longer than those of other treatments because usually by the Wednesday after (8 days), I go out and do some little thing - therapy or a quick trip to the store, something, but I'm still feeling crummy. Just so freaking tired and weak. I've been told over and over that the treatments are cumulative and particularly the fatigue is, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised, but man, I just feel beat beat beat down. I'm getting up and around enough to stay caught up on work, but that's pretty much the extent of it. Get out of bed. Work. Rest. Work. Rest. Go back to bed. It sucks, but I am hoping for a turnaround in the next couple of days. (And it is actually a relief to have some work to be responsible for - makes me feel not totally useless.)

With all of this resting, I've been watching a bunch of TV shows and movies, and characters with cancer just keep popping up. The other day, I watched no fewer than 7 different movie trailers before deciding on one that looked good. What was not in the trailer? Main plot line - cancer. The next day, watched another one and guess what? Cancer. The '90's family drama I didn't watch in the '90's, but am now totally sucked into - a whole season about cancer. Is this random?? Ugh. I don't know, but I watch them anyway. Earlier today, I actually found myself nodding and saying, "Totally," under my breath while watching one of the characters deal. Not sure what the use of all that info is to you... I feel crappy and am watching a lot of TV and thinking a lot about cancer. No big surprises there, I guess.

I said a while back that I'd tell it like it is, so...

I have a CT scan scheduled for a little more than two weeks from now. It is freaking me out. Everything about it. What it will be like the day of, whether everything will go ok. The 4 days I'll have to wait to hear what the scan shows. What if the scan says I'm ok for now? How do I figure out how to live like a normal human again? How can I take care of myself better so I might not have a recurrence or another cancer? What if the scan shows something bad and there is another snowball to ride down the hill? Scary stuff no matter what.

Before my last treatment, someone sent me this text: "The most important thing I can say is to have no fear through this situation. One thing is common to those who were healed: they believed first that they would be healed" (biblical context). Positive thinking, faith, the Secret. I think those things are important. Then, there are all the loved ones who have told me, over the last few months, about dreams or strokes of certainty they've had - visions of me with hair and smiling, with a partner, with a child. Multiple people, independently. And they're all so sure it's real and I *believe* them. And the newest one came last night to someone who I've grown to think of as something of a seer - me swinging on a trapeze and finding the faith to let go of what's behind me and grab onto the next bar. The understanding being that the cancer is behind me now and it's time to reach forward and grab my new life. Can you see what I mean? It's all scary, the good stuff and the bad.

I confessed recently to one of my closest confidantes that I'm afraid this disease has stolen some of my boldness. Those of you who've known me a while know that I've worked really hard for the last few years to shake off fear and be more bold - carefully cultivating in myself the kind of person who looks at the next trapeze bar and thinks, "Holy shit, that bar looks far away and I'm not sure if my hands are chalked up right, but here goes!" This whole cancer thing has set me back, but I really want to get there again.

That's all off in the distance, though, I suppose. This weekend there are things I want to do. Wonderful people I want to see getting married. A concert I've been holding out hope for months that I'll be able to attend. It's only Wednesday and things can shift quickly, so here's hoping I'll see some of you out in the world very soon. And maybe we can laugh some.

Thanks, more than I can ever say, for your continued thoughts and prayers and all kinds of other good stuff.

Love and more love,

Sara

2014 October 7 - Chemo #6, Ringing the Bell (Lotsa Update)

Well, friends, we've made it through the 6th chemo treatment! I still have the next 7-10 days of feeling bad, but the chemo infusions are done. I can hardly believe it.

Just a couple of quick and sleepy thoughts:

My dear friend, Mary, is with me from Tulsa. Her reverence and strong presence and calm are a gift. (I credit Something bigger for getting her here right now.)

Jen T came to visit the infusion center and I asked her for a poem. She recited "blessing the boats," by Lucille Clifton, and delivered it in the solid, clear, lovely way that she reads. It was the perfect poem for that moment. Please, for me, google and read it now.

Finally, Ringing the Bell is a rite of passage at the end of a chemo cycle. When I did it today, I was all drugged and sleepy and forgot the words of the quote I wanted to say, but got close enough... What I wanted to say: "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well."* What I said: "all will be well, and all will be well, and everything that matters will be well." Close enough, I guess. :)

Now, time to sleep.

Peace and love,

Sara

*from Julian of Norwich

blessing the boats

(at St. Mary’s)

may the tide

that is entering even now

the lip of our understanding

carry you out

beyond the face of fear

may you kiss

the wind then turn from it

certain that it will

love your back may you

open your eyes to water

water waving forever

and may you in your innocence

sail through this to that

Lucille Clifton (1936 - 2010)

2014 October 4 - Wide-Armed Into the Emptiness (Lotsa Update)

Hey friends,

I've been thinking about you a lot, imagining how busy life gets at the end of summer and, since so many of you are academics, the fall really kicks into busy mode. In comparison to all that, what I've been up to seems so slow-mo.

The aftermath of treatment number five went just about as expected. Kristi was a quiet wisp of a companion, taking care of me and my home, and spreading her calm energy around. After she left, I had a few more days of feeling bad (punctuated by lovely visits from Shawnessey and Jen). As I've come to expect, 10 days after treatment, the acute side effects had settled and I was left with just this vast fatigue. I'll take it! With fatigue, I can still go for occasional walks and shopping and work some, and even lunch out now and then. By this point in the cycle (end of the third week), I've even felt up to dropping in for a meeting at work.

On Tuesday (10/7), I have my 6th (and last scheduled) chemo treatment. I've spent the few weeks since #5 with my mind on what happens next, and thinking about that has me terrified into silence. The possibilities are stunning. This is stare-silently-at-the-wall/ceiling territory. I actually had a dream last week (after taking a long walk by myself, something I hadn't done yet on my own) that I was making my way down the sidewalk and it ended at this giant pool of darkness - not particularly scary dark, just dark. I wanted to keep walking on the sidewalk, but it didn't go on, so I leapt, wide-armed into the emptiness instead. There's a metaphor for ya. Yikes. Lots of uncertainty around here.

I have a CT scan scheduled for October 30th and the follow up with my doctor on November 4th to see what happens next. In whatever way you pray, please do that for me over this next month.

Right now, I'm sitting in one of my new favorite spots, though I can't take the credit for finding it.

A large part of my junior high English curriculum was memorization of poems; sometimes we had to write them out, punctuation and all, and sometimes we recited them for the class. I guess I was about fourteen when I had to memorize Emily Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers." It's become a sort of life-long touchstone for me - my poem. At 23, I got my first and only tattoo; it was inspired by that poem.

Last week, I had my regular appointment with my assigned counselor at the Cancer Center. (The Oncology Psychology program is endowed so current and former cancer patients get free therapy and other services - it's fantastic). I was trying to describe to my therapist this amorphous yearning I've been having - for something like home or comfort - and after looping around for a while, like you do in therapy, what fell out of my mouth was this, "I just want to know that someone bigger is handling things." Then, "I just want to know that someone bigger is handling things?" After 20 years of mostly skirting the issue, I was pleading to let myself really believe in God or a connected Universe, or Something bigger than just little, frightened me.

I left, sort of stunned and sad and meandery. I didn't want to go right back to my car and on with my day. I wanted to be outside in the sun, under the big sky. I wanted to take a deep breath. I couldn't seem to find a way out of the Cancer Center except into the exhaust-filled pick-up and drop-off area, so I asked the woman at the info desk if there was some way out to nature. She told me to go out the main exit and keep walking for about five minutes and I'd come to a pretty little pond.

It is a pretty little pond, but it's also a monument (designed by Maya Lin, I'm told). The first thing I saw when I walked up to the reflecting pool was that the center piece of the monument is my poem. There, in the metal that lines a circle set into the water, is the whole thing in a string. "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all; and sweetest in the gale is heard, and sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm; I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea, yet never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me. -Emily Dickinson."

Some people see my finding this place, with my poem, on that particular day, after making that particular plea, as a sign. I'm not sure what it is, friends, but the way the light shines through the letters sometimes makes it feel like it's something, and it makes me feel a little more peace while I sit and stare at the wall.

Sending love and hope and thanks to you.

Xo,

Sara