Tumult and Joy

I don’t understand this life right now.

This morning I am walking and walking at 1000 acres with Cynthia and the dog. And then we get lost. Every trail is a riverbed and every culdesac is a homeless person’s tent. The beautiful cottonwoods are telegraphs from my youth in Montana. The smell of home and childhood. I am breathing breathing breathing through the waiting. Turning my cell phone ringer up so I don’t miss TerriSue’s call. Trying to understand the joy of the osprey who has just snatched a trout from the Sandy river. Trying to care. Trying not to feel like the trout.

I am thinking about each moment. Reminding myself to stay here with my feet. Walking. The feel of the orange backpack, a gentle close presence. Water sloshing in the bottle.

If it is bad news. If it is news that includes metastases. Growth. Reaching tumors finding secret places. Then I will ride this pony. I try to remind myself that i will not be snatched from the surface of the earth upon hearing it. I try to remind myself that this is riding the rapids. It is life. There is always a next thing. More chemo. More life.

She does not call.

We become more lost and find ourselves back near the river and the osprey who has since gone to bed.

Turn around again.

Finally we emerge from the woods. onto the bigger trail. onto the road.

she does not call.

We return to the road and I sit in the truck. It is 11:30. She said she would call in the morning. Cynthia asks if i would like privacy. I say no.

Privacy at this point would seem so self-conscious.

I call.

-TerriSue this is val garrison.

-Oh Val! (this is not a person with bad news.) Has Dr. Lycette called you?

-no.

-Oh, well let me see if i can get permission to tell you the results.

after a long hold she comes back on the line.

-It’s really excellent results. Dr. Lycette says considerable improvement.

She then goes through each of the four target sites.

The big one 1) has gone from 9.8cm x 9.5cm to 4.5cm x 7cm.

2) One nodule from 2.2 x 2.8 to .1 x .8

3) One nodule from 1.3 to GONE

4) Last nodule form 1.2 to .9

She tells me to celebrate. I hang up the phone and look at Cynthia. Tell her. She jumps out of the truck and screams and dances on the Exit 18 off ramp. Tuley watches curiously from the window, tail wagging.

I realize I haven’t prepared for this. No one ever prepares for relief. For joy. For the idea that this could get better.

I don’t feel caught up. Don’t understand the reality. Have not fully been down the road to facing my mortality.

We go to Bridgeport and have a celebratory lunch.

When I come home there is an email about my friend and co-worker Hazel. Who was diagnosed with cancer just after me. Hers had metastasized to her brain and lungs and bones. It’s only been a month. We were going to be chemo buddies. I was telling her chemo wasn’t so bad. She slept through her first one last week.

She died this morning.

This morning. This very same morning they are telling me that my cancer is leaving. At least in part. And this is what i don’t understand. what does that mean? is there significance in this timing?

It was so fast. How does cancer do that? what is the actual mechanism of death? what stops the heart? i will tell you that we did not have the same kind of cancer.

i was supposed to go out and videotape her eulogy. next month. she wanted to have the final word. she was not thinking that she would live.

So i am still here.

Here. Not knowing still. But there is more room now in my chest. In my mind. More room. and i believe it is because of these people in my life. people sending their love and energy, substance out into the ether and into my chest. it changes molecules. and now this cancer is smaller. it is less.

Thank you. truly. thank you for being creatures on this planet who would turn your love and energy toward someone else for the purpose of continuation. the mutual life. i am so honored to be tethered to this. to be saved. even just this once. even for just this moment.

And Hazel is somewhere else. on an adventure of her own. And I will miss her. She organized a care-basket for me even after her own diagnosis. that kind of person. Thank you Hazel. you are good beyond words.