In Gladness

Jenny here. 

Two weeks ago today we were sitting in a dimly lit French restaurant in Brooklyn with old and new friends.  We had flown out that morning to attend the weekend wedding event of one of my college friends. 

 

I am going to start with the punch line tonight:  Travelling post-cancer is not the same as pre-cancer and despite my careful considerations of how we would be navigating travel to, from, and around NYC, plans are made to change AND in that change, change us.  Or in our case, sometimes in our stubbornness to NOT accept change, we still are changed, only through some self-inflicted suffering. 

The morning started off early, after just a 2 hour nap (we keep a late schedule, so it’s hard to change that for just a weekend!).  We were out the door around 4:00am, dogs walked, fridge stocked with food and beverage for the pet sitting friends, bags packed as light as possible. 

“Just take carry-on bags” we thought.  “It’s just a few days; it’s summer clothing, save the baggage fees”.  “We’ll get coffee when we get to the airport. We have done this before.”

4:04am. On our way to the car, running late, the extendable handle to the rolling carry-on bag snaps off.   It’s too late to stop and buy something else and too late to dig up another bag that would work.  So we were off, busted bag and all.

We decide to park in the airport lot instead of the further away shuttle lots thinking the walk is not far.  I mean, we have flown before, pre-cancer, and this is NO BIG DEAL.  We had talked about Uber-ing it from home, but decided not to do it.  So we parked.  Handicap spot, mind you.  It’s not THAT far.  Wil with cane, back pack, and insisting to carry said broken carry-on as we walked…and walked…and walked from the parking lot.  And then walked…and walked…and walked through to the TSA area.  The line was terribly long.  I asked Wil about seeing if we could do the shorter “needs assistance” line.  He proceeds to the long line, still dragging bags, until an older TSA worker actually insists, based on Wil’s haggard appearance, that we cut to the short line. 

Fearing a fall (or just plain extra exhaustion for him), I pick up the bag I am now cursing we didn’t check at the front door, hauling it through the airport.  

I was still un-caffeinated. 

I was angry. 

At the bag, at him, at me, at cancer, the universe, and nothing at all.  This is not how I saw this trip.  This is not how I saw us, ever.  What should have been an easy, done-it-all-before-morning, was turning out to be so so stressful.  And all I wanted in that moment was our old pre-cancer ease back.   For Wil to walk without pain and carry my bag. For me to just worry about stupid shit like picking a magazine for the flight. 

After we made it to our terminal, there was a Starbucks.  *Universe thank you!* And I began the task of waiting in line to grab us something for breakfast while Wil sat.  I had asked him about pre-boarding, so we would have more time to get him settled...he thought he might be OK.  There is often this divide between wanting him to try at everything and worrying it will all crumble.  Flying is hard when you are a big a tall guy, especially one with neuropathy and a cane.  Flying is hard on the short companion who sits next to the tall guy too.   Walking, sitting, getting settled.  Everything just takes more time now.  It happens, just at the small expense of bystander eye rolls and impatient looks.

Hailing a cab at your destination?  Should be easy too…except for the long hike to the area they allow you to hail one at LGA.  Carrying the broken suitcase. 

Nothing felt easy.

Side Note:  We would like to think of ourselves as generally honest, loving, smart, and kind people.  But we are bullheaded to a fault.  Both of us. I could go into more boring details, but each detail contains this truth:  Life is different now and we weren’t prepared to admit it or fully live in that reality.  So reality hit us squarely in the face and said "YES, be here too. Be glad. Live."

We arrived at our Brooklyn brownstone Airbnb find,  very tired.  But happy that there was a freshly made bed with a wide open window, breeze flowing in from the backyard garden.  And so I let go. Again. This. Is. Our. Life. And we're across the country. Something that two years ago was, forget easy, impossible. 

I will let some of the pictures tell you the rest of the weekend.  It was beautiful, each and every moment, from the Zen Buddhist ceremony, the gorgeous reception with good food and wine (and even better people),  hitting up the local bodega for breakfast finds, hipster coffee, the Transit Museum, an afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge Park, and watching the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline…sure, it was less walking than we would have done in years past (we did a lot of Uber to preserve Wil’s energy), but we also did quite a bit of post-cancer-living-it-up as best we could...making memories, outside a hospital, together.

And the best part?  We checked that effing broken bag on the way back, took the pre-board help, took our time, lived out the lesson we had learned, and proceeded in gladness and safety.  I think there will be more travel in our future, even if it looks different than before.  How could it not?  Acceptance is certainly not a destination, but instead a process of post cancer growth. Bring it on. We want to live some more. 

Much Love.

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On our way to our Airbnb, so tired:

 

Airbnb street, door, room window:

 

 

  

First meal:  Shake Shack...hello old friend!

 

Wedding Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transit Museum

 

 

 

 

Brooklyn Bridge Park 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bye NYC!

 

She thought

Jenny here.

It's Day +970.

Do you know what that means?  30 days until we hit 10 x 100 days.

Each day of the first 100 days post transplant (attempt number 2), felt like 10 years. And yet now, here we are approaching 1000 days.  Dare I say, there are a few days in a row we have lost count...and just loved and lived like regular people. 

Updates:  Wil has killed it in school lately. He worked his tail off spring semester and is now in summer session. Little by little he's chipping away at this new dream. Physically everything is pretty much status quo. I long for the day I can report his pain has lessened. But for now, we keep on going. He seems to learn to manage it. I let go a little more each day and let him. Truth be told he might say I'm a bit of a smother yet. But I swear it's out of love.  

We had a fun Memorial weekend just hanging out in Fort Worth--Coyote Drive-in, Water Gardens, home with the niece and nephew.. I had to work on the actual day, but even just a moment here or there to unwind is a welcomed change from say, 400-970 days ago!. 

 

 

For me, I've now started my journey into incorporating EMDR in my clinical practice. I love expanding and learning, and like Wil who had to push that aside, so did I during cancer. Having the energy and excitement to do something new?  I wasnt sure I'd get here again. 

I had an intensive first weekend of training in May, with many miles (years) to go yet for certification. But this approach really resonates with my soul. Tending to the emotional brain. Cleaning the wound. Letting the mind be and noticing it. I've often said chemo, and the likes of most medical intervention, doesn't actually heal anyone. It just wipes the slate clean to let the body have the chance to heal itself. Sets the stage for nature and body systems to repair. So you can imagine my soul shouting "yes" when I was smack dab in the middle of my training weekend and found that this concept is what carries one through, with gentle curiosity, the EMDR process.

We are meant to heal. We are meant for wholeness.  All we need is the right environment and people to assist in cleaning out the wound, to let the scab form. The body can do what it was designed to do.

It was a really tiring, but good weekend. And the Universe had me in mind when a fellow soul sister happened to enroll, without either of us knowing, in the same training!  I'd like to think it was not just coincidence, but more so another intervention, another kindness I needed. 

Tonight I'll keep it brief. I had been half asleep, setting my alarm, checking social media, when I opened up the ihadcancer.com 2016 top blogs post. And there, a few blogs in, was our little old page. As a caregiver who often has just wrote, shut the laptop, and kept running on fumes, with a blog full of edits that could be made (but won't because I've decided it is what it is and reflects that day), I was first surprised. And then, filled with warm emotions. I feel honored to have put down a few words that may have meant something to people outside our tribe.

And, Universe, the quote they picked?  Its based on experiences I've had with some treasured few along the way. The cleansers to my wounds...so my heart could begin to heal the way it was crafted.  

 

https://www.ihadcancer.com/h3-blog/01-03-2017/ihadcancer-blog-awards-of-2016

I know I've kept saying I would someday release some unpublished blog posts. There aren't dozens. But there are a few I didn't have the space for on here emotionally. 

I'm finding, lately, that these little fragments aren't so scary anymore.  If anything, they memorialize a time and place I remember but no longer live in. I see them, but I'm not carrying them all the time.  Below was what I scribbled when I learned Wil's first transplant didn't graft. 

Before I blogged it. There were these few words. 

Much love. 

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She Thought     9/19/2014 

She placed her cell phone, upside down, on the corner of her desk.  It was there, in black letters and bright screen, the news of the day.  She thought, if only I can hide my head away in this cube for 4 more hours.  Hide the sniffles as allergies, chuckle at a coworkers joke until the tears looked like joy.

On the way down the elevator, she breathed deeply and made idle chit chat.  She thought, if only I can make it out the door and slip into the darkness before I fall, tumbling apart.

She had done this many times before already, clouded, sticky contacts in her eyes, balancing the need for a speedy trip home with not getting pulled over for grief intoxicated driving.  A million thoughts rehearsed in her head.  No officer, I haven't been drinking.  I've just found another level to this grief maze.  I just need to get home. How do I get home from here?

But she had driven down "Interstate Unimaginable" many times since the diagnosis, thinking faster than the posted speed. And always made it back. 

She barely made it in the door, without dropping everything. She stood alone in the hall, like she had done 143 days already this year.  

And then she laid right there. In the entry, keys in the lock, dogs barking, heaving her breaths into the laminate floor. 

How does one manage when every day is a new adventure land of rare complications?

She thought. 

But this here?  She felt this. Deep as bone.