When the last paving stone had been laid in place, edges flush to its neighbor, the woman sighed deeply and carefully stood up, wincing as the pain of bending over for hours clutched at her lower back. Turning, she gazed back along the new, long, curving path that now stretched from her home’s back door to the metal gate in the fence. Although the adobe stones looked dull in the fading afternoon light, still covered with mud and sand from her work, she imagined them clean and gleaming, fresh from the hose, begging visitors to trod them lightly and easily. Now, when the frequent rains turned the lawn into a soupy swamp of slippery grass and mud, no longer would the woman run haphazardly through that treacherous landscape to open the gate for visitors; instead, she could step regally along the path, shoes safe from ruin, and welcome friends with grace.
Her labor had included: 156 paving stones; 9 hours and 22 minutes of digging and lifting and bending; 6 very large glasses of iced tea; and 2 stops, once for lunch, and later, for a snack. (The much-needed shower would come next.) But in reward for her steady commitment, the new walkway lay before her, permanent evidence of a dream and a plan fulfilled.
Productivity does not imply permanency; nor is it necessarily a physical act. Yet the most meaningful production involves a tangible, lasting result. Unlike washing the dishes, (a necessary productive activity, but not very satisfying), there is something quite special about spinning an idea into a physical reality that permanently changes the world around you.
The construction of that simple walkway, accomplished on an otherwise empty day in late May several years ago, symbolized the start of a journey of productivity for me that continues to this day. Amazed that I – alone! – could actually effect a change in my little corner of the world, I became emboldened in other areas of my life. Finances? I methodically paid down credit cards that had haunted me with their insulting interest rates and painful payments. Love life? I accepted a marriage proposal and entered into a blended family arrangement that brought new energy and stability to all of us. Education? I tired of pedaling through a lifetime of sporadic classes that led nowhere, and committed to a bachelor’s degree program that enabled me to teach others.
Last night, I followed the stone walkway along the yard to the gate, trying to picture the backyard as it had once looked. I could not. As the walkway has forever changed the appearance of my yard, so productivity has changed the world around me. I am no longer the person I was. As I continue to create new paths in my life, the truth is this: My soul yearns for acknowledgment, for recognition, for irrefutable proof that it has existed – and productivity is the answer.Miss Muffy McRich-bitch is flashing a ring,
Some Tiffany’s bling,
A glittering, eye-catching fabulous thing.
She’s so-o-o-o special.
Damn.
If I had a ring,
A Tiffany’s thing,
A sparkling, exclusive
Ding-a-ling-ling,
I’d keep it a secret.
And smile real big when I see Miss Muffy.
Homeless, shuffling, crazy man,
Six degrees of separation.
Manifest of my own madness
shoved beneath the mask,
the lies, the smiles.
I’m good, thanks.
Cantilevered joy
that threatens to unbalance
And leave me
haunted, shuffling, and crazy too.
I, too, sing America.
I sing America, because in the worst economic downturn that I have ever known,
that I have ever felt,
that throttles my Present
and endangers my Future,
(What retirement? What leisure? What me-time ahead?),
I still sense a reason,
a needed remonstration,
a deserved slap at the collective fat smirk of consumer-driven complacent entitlement,
the final grade on a badly written essay that once earned an “A”.
I cry, then celebrate—
for there is hope.
I sing America, because my limitations in the Land of Opportunity are only in my mind,
in the gaze of others,
in the imprinting of my youth,
in the words of the Ancients.
(I’m old now? What me-time ahead?)
No matter that—
I sense an urgency,
a compulsion,
an unlooked-for answer to the quest for life’s purpose,
a double-thick Kleenex
held out temptingly for my consideration.
I despair, then yearn--
for there is hope.
I sing America, because anyone could open a chocolate bar and find a Golden Ticket,
regardless of age.
Despite the obstacles,
beyond the trials,
(the lessons we have failed to learn, presented once again),
possibilities abound.
In the murky light of fading youth
the Road Less Taken beckons.
Is it eccentricity? Or
unexpected, now elected, free-to-be-me time?
I tippy-toe, then leap--
for there is hope.
I, too, sing America.
In the spring of 1999, my children raced excitedly upstairs on Father’s Day to wake their daddy for breakfast – and found that they couldn’t. My 39 year-old- husband had passed away during the night. Left with three small children, I was now a young widow and, as a well-meaning friend put it, “a woman with lots of baggage”. Although I scoffed outwardly, I ruefully acknowledged that my chances of finding love again might, indeed, be slim. After all, a new man must be able to share love with not just me, but also with the hearts of three, very fragile, little girls. It would be a special man, indeed, who had arms large enough to embrace my brood.
But life went on, and the years slipped by one by one. Reluctantly, I began to believe my friend had been right after all; for even as I began to carve out a new life as a single parent,carefully accepting dinner and movie dates, (and even one or two blind dates), love eluded me. Some of these men touched my heart, and others smiled on my children, but in the end, there was no one I seriously considered for romance. And then came Hurricane Jeanne.
That Monday morning in September 2004, as the remnant winds departed and left my yard a disaster, a man appeared at the far end of my street. Walking slowly, he made his way from house to house, chatting with my neighbors, and offering to help lift branches or clear driveways. When he finally reached my house, his blue, blue eyes crinkling warmly at me, I found myself grinning like an idiot and not minding it one bit. Inexplicably, my heart recognized a new friend.
And what a friend he was! From that very first day, Forrest slipped into our world effortlessly, spending hours with the girls and lending a hand with everyday household projects and needs. His ready laughter and incredibly kind smiles charmed the girls and brought him their trust, and his gentle ways brought a new peace into our days. Glad of his presence, but leery of involvement, I continued to go out on the occasional date with this man or that man. However, as week after week slid by, I found myself looking forward more to an after-date phone call with Forrest than the date! We’d often take long, unhurried walks around the neighborhood in the evenings and talk about nothing and everything. He had become my best friend, a special someone that I began to confide in, and counsel with, and laugh or cry with – but still, just a friend. One day, he brought his own children by, a boy and a girl. How ridiculously thrilled I was to see his daughter and my youngest, both the same age, become grand buddies! In time, all 5 of our children met and got along well.
At Christmas-time that year, the girls and I drove to Chicago to visit my family. It’s a long and boring road-trip, and winter weather makes it perilous. I never enjoy the drive, and now, bare hours into the journey, I had the gnawing feeling that something important had been left behind. Three cups of coffee and 400 miles later, I had to face the truth: It was not a ‘someThing’ I was missing, but a someOne named Forrest. Incredibly, somewhere among the crazy schedules of 5 teenagers and the evening walks fixing the world and sharing dreams, Forrest had managed that embrace big enough to hold us all. Love had slipped into my life so quietly that I never saw it coming.
October 1st of this year marked our 4th wedding anniversary. For me, it’s also a celebration of my second amazing chance at love. Forrest and I both home-office, and together we juggle the demands of a large family and bills with loud complaints and secret smiles and prayers of thanksgiving. Our children live in harmony for the most part, and fight like blood siblings the rest of the time. It doesn’t get much better than this. One thing’s for sure - they’re no longer “my baggage” – they’re ours!
Clarity is light
penetrating sluggish thought
Rainbow of the Mind
When the phone call comes, the news is so unexpected and terrible that I literally forget to breathe. After endless, agonizing seconds, I finally manage to gasp, “Dad? I don’t understand. What did you say?”
His words hit me like a sucker punch. Cancer. Esophageal…Pancreatic… Not long, maybe a year…
I cannot get there fast enough. When he opens the door, he smiles, but that only makes me feel worse. Cancer.
Later, cradling a cup of coffee that I do not want, we sit together at the familiar old dining room table. Dad patiently explains his diagnosis in colorful, awful detail, and I press my lips together in a hard grimace, holding back my tears. Finally it is my turn.
“Dad” I begin woodenly, “Have you researched the types of cancer you have? I mean, have you looked them up on say, the Internet? Or at the library?”
He just stares at me. Finally he says, “I expect I’ll get to that in awhile…perhaps.” At that I fall silent, unable to voice my disbelief at this calm acceptance of impending doom. Isn’t he even curious? I glance out the wide bay window set into the dining room wall at a frozen February lawn and feel my world shrink to a small patch of brown grass I see lit by a lazy sun.
“Do you feel okay?” I ask, without looking at him. “I suppose so,” he answers noncommittally. “Just the usual aches and pains of getting old.”
I nod dully and turn back to study his profile, trying to think of something to say.
My dad Ken is 80 years old. That’s old, I guess, but his parents lived well into their 90s, so – he’s not THAT old. Dad grew up in an obscure little farm town in North Dakota named Cando. Can’t do Nothin’ in Cando! In the winters, snowdrifts piled so deep and high against the tall brick houses that a child could easily sled right from his second story window to the sidewalk before trudging down the road to school. In the sweaty hot summers, most kids helped in the fields and then played until dusk when real dinner bells would ring out to call them home to supper.
“Um, Dad?” My voice sounds surprisingly normal. “Did your doctor recommend any chemo or radiation? Or…anything? What did he suggest?”
His reply genuinely startles me. “Oh, we talked a little about chemo, but when I told him I’d rather just let the disease take its course, well, he didn’t disagree. All that stuff would take so much out of me.”
What? Is this my Dad? Just giving up? I can’t believe it! Back in Cando, when young Ken made up his mind to become a lawyer, he fought the odds then. Tough weather conditions made for tough people, “get your dukes up” kind of people. The small-town boy earned a law degree, moved halfway across the country, and ended up in Chicago raising a family and living a nice life. He was intelligent, and aggressive, and maybe a little cocky, too. Who is this passive man before me now?
I am suddenly flooded by a fierce urge to grab his shoulders and shake him out of an obvious voodoo-doctor-induced trance of acceptance. The feeling is so intense that, instead, I set my coffee down and pull on my jacket. I head outside and find that brown spot of dead grass, where I stand huddled against the cold, cold wind. My face feels raw where the icy breeze scrapes across my tear-soaked cheeks, so I lift my hands to my face in an effort to warm them. But it doesn’t help. They just keep hurting. Cancer. I cannot think.
Will winter ever end?
My self-pity disgusts me. Of course the winter will end, it always does. Spring will come. Time will go on. I am suddenly reminded of a saying I read somewhere: “Time takes things away from us if we don’t fight to keep them.” If we don’t fight…
My heart pounding, I hurry back into the house and embrace my dad in a long, hard hug. “I’ll be back next week, and we’ll talk some more,” I promise (threaten?), and then I’m gone.
The following Sunday, I arrive at Dad’s house a little before 9 in the morning. For countless hours over short days and long nights I have neglected all else to research his cancer on the Internet. I’ve followed link after link to examine both traditional and alternative therapies. I have sounded out scientific terms and struggled to understand complex experimental treatments. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I've skimmed through blogs written by cancer survivors, looking for evidence of certain hope. When my eyes finally ache from staring too long at the computer screen, I have taken brisk walks to the local library, where I pull out complicated medical texts from the reference section and examine them closely for additional clarity. On two occasions, I have visited clinics, where I am offered educated opinions on courses of action. I am obsessed. I am a Cancer Warrior.
When Dad opens the door, I lean in to give him a quick kiss before brushing past him to the dining room. At the table, I spread out the papers and reports gathered over the past week. Dad watches from the doorway, his expression unreadable. When I am done, I look up at him. “Sit down for a minute, okay?” I try not to plead. Reluctantly, he parks himself at the end of the table and folds his hands in front of him.
I take a deep breath and start talking. “Dad, I’ve been doing some reading. Actually, I’ve been doing a lot of investigation, Dad, and I thought I’d tell you about what I’ve found out.” I pause to gauge his reaction, but he simply waits for me to continue. I rush on. “Dad, there are so many options available for you to consider when it comes to cancer treatment. I’ve read a lot about lethal forms of cancer this week – and yours is bad - but you don’t have to just sit down and die, Dad.” I am very enthusiastic now. “There was a man named James O’Connor – he went by 'Rhio' – who was diagnosed with another deadly form of cancer called mesothelioma in 2001 and given about a year to live – like you. Dad, doctors told him to just basically give up and take a cruise with his wife and then come home and die! But he not only refused their advice – he actually survived 6 years longer than they said he would by taking control of his own destiny!”
Dad glances up at me briefly before his gaze drifts back down to his folded hands. I stumble on determinedly.
“Listen, I’m not talking about just the conventional approach to cancer treatments. You know, the chemo and radiation. Rhio checked into nutritional therapies – you could do that! – and reviewed alternative treatments, and talked to experts, and just educated himself to the point where he beat his prognosis! And Dad, he wasn’t the only person to be told he was going to die, who made up his mind to live. Here, Dad, I’ve made a list of the people I talked to, and the websites you can look at…”
My voice trails off into a painful silence. Is he even listening? I cannot tell. Slowly, I sit down in my chair and begin to weep. At this, he lifts his head and sighs quietly, reaching out a hand for the papers. “Well, it all sounds very…interesting. Thank you. I’ll certainly have to take a look at this”, he says politely.
Six years later, on another February morning, I sit quietly in my kitchen with a second cup of coffee, lost in thought. Outside, a brisk breeze scatters leaves across a winter-weary lawn, and squirrels skitter back and forth, searching for forgotten horse chestnuts beneath a bright sun. It is 4 years since the cancer took my dad. Too soon. Although I no longer despair over his decision to simply wait for death, there are times – and this is one of them – that I miss him so much that it hurts.
But the war against cancer continues, and I, Cancer Warrior, stand ready to do battle. I have learned how to question the experts; to defy the absolutes; to explore the possibilities; to welcome the absurd; and to open my mind to the sheer beauty of the journey we call life.
If the phone call comes for me, I will try not to be afraid. I will welcome the chance for a miracle, and reach out to everyone and everything for help. For this I believe: There is a part of us all that can rise to the challenge of a search – and a diagnosis of cancer might be a very good place to begin.
