As I heard our combined footsteps down the long clinic corridor yesterday, the additional intermittent click of his cane in between, it struck me how different this walk was a year ago.
As we walked through sitting areas on our way to his oncologist's waiting room, I realized I now pay more attention to the surroundings, even as I sometimes try not to look too far into my mind's wondering about each person I see there. The gift: I don't solely think about Wil's life and death each second now.
If you want to see a truly diverse cross section of America, and a true community, visit a cancer center. Every face, age, health, ability. I was reminded that this disease doesn't discriminate and that when everything is stripped away...when you are melted down...we all just want the most simple things from this life. Period. And the hardest truth for most of us--there are no guarantees.
I felt very present with the reality that, at this particular moment, we have been so unlucky and lucky all at the same time. Every hurdle, tear, worry, complication...we are still moving. And that's more than I can and will ever be able to understand...how some are on the other side of the same cancer coin from us, for no particular reason at all.
Wil called "heads" 3 years ago and we're wobbling and landing. Luck of the call. Luck of the toss. Luck of all the factors in between.
Wil celebrated his Day +731 on October 9, 2016.
We hit the road to see one of my sisters, and her fam, who recently moved to the Ozarks area of Missouri.
Celebration mode.
With or without tests and labs yet, we still marked the day with appreciation. Two years in the making...every day, plus a leap day, accounted for in sweat, laughter, arguments, tears, and reverence for that spinning coin.
We arrived in Missouri early a.m. on the 9th, dogs in tow, having officially toasted in the next year of this journey with Coke Zero, trip snacks, and miles of road.
We enjoyed all the small town delights over the next few days: church, hayride, bonfire, nature...time with limited cell phone reception...and Ozark well water.
I grew up on well water. Cold. Crisp. Straight from the red handled pump that connected to underground aquifers. Up from MN ground. No filter. Naturally occurring. Life sustaining.
Being there in MO...Spending time with someone I have a deep shared past...playing with her little, our niece...the well water ran more than just ground deep...it was soul deep. Soul quenching.
We came back to Fort Worth last week and headed into all of Wil's anniversary tests, scans, blood work, PFT's, and all his baby immunizations (no live vaccinations ever again though). He was very happy that no BMA was on order this time around. (In fact, if things continue to look well he may never need one again).
I had been off work all week, enjoying much needed couch time with my little family, in between some private practice and the doctor appointments. Going to drive-in movies. Watching Sunday football. Finally putting up curtains...it was a great week because 99% of the time I don't get tired of this guy ;-)
This anniversary walk has been quiet this year by choice...maybe not Wil's, but certainly mine. Less exasperation. More normal. Normal. Yes. Just. Normal.
Yesterday we made the rounds at UTSW.
With Wil's mash up of anniversary tests, scans, blood work, etc complete last week, today was about visiting our cancer wells and hoping to get more fresh, sustaining news.
First we visited the BMT floor. Then clinic.
Side note: We love these people. Some we had not seen for 2 years. He's almost unrecognizable--upright, smiling. Hugs all around.
This day. EVERY day. Is a shared story. A shared victory. With these people. And no one understands the absolute miracle of the coin toss, the wonder, the hard work...like these friends. Mutual positive regard, all around.
The results were all in (other than the test to see what percentage he is of donor cells-- although based on the rest of his work up, it's unlikely that won't look great too), and...
All is WELL.
Counts continue to improve and, even if they aren't all in completely "normal" ranges, they are good. He won't even see his oncologist until April 2017. Six months.
It's still the days that count. Still the people in it that are our spring. And we count them all. Today Day +741. After a day yesterday that filled our souls to the brim.
Well. He is well. The aquifer, deep.
Much Love.
