Part 9. Living Fearlessly in Ireland

I’ve been to Ireland. Yes, I know most of you know that. What does Ireland have to do with this odyssey of mine and how does the experience inform who I am? It seemed appropriate to transition back to this blog with something about my experience with Ireland.

The week before I left two things happened. One, I had an appointment with my oncologist and my cancer marker had gone up. What does that mean? Either the new pill I’m taking isn’t working or it hasn’t started to work yet. I meet with her again next week to find out which is the case. Needless to say, I was bummed, and with that feeling, with that bit of news, my mind can choose to go to all kinds of fearful “what if” scenarios, if allowed. When you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, a tweak of the back in yoga, which can be “mildly irritating" to a practitioner of yoga, becomes “petrifying” to the person living with cancer. Is it just a tweak or does it mean something entirely different? Is that pressure in my head tension, or could it possibly be something…more? Every feeling in the body gets run through an additional system of interpretation. It can be exhausting. My doctor said, “Don’t worry about it, go enjoy yourself in Ireland.” The prospect of being 4,500 miles from home and some minor tweak becoming more and more painful was a little scary; the trauma of last year still fresh in my mind. Maybe I should stay home.

The second thing happened during a meditation one morning a few days after my appointment. Sometimes I write during meditations; sometimes there can be somewhat of a dialogue; and often I don’t know exactly what is written until I attempt to read it afterwards. The writing usually isn’t too legible (I’m reminded of my second grade teacher who gave me the only “D” I ever got and it was in handwriting. Left handers were so unappreciated!)  The part that mattered most to me was the very end of the passage. It read:

    “You’re in our hands. We’ve got you,” (loving, assuredly said by Other.)

    “I choose to live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly, for however long I’m here - the length of time is in Your hands,” (I wrote in response.)

I felt…comforted, loved, and heard. I also had a motto to hold onto should fear think it might want to jump in my suitcase and come along with me on my trip for the next 2 1/2 weeks…I choose to live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly! 

Well, fear did make the trip and chose to climb out of the suitcase the Sunday morning my mom and I were to get on the plane to Ireland. At her kitchen table I was sipping tea while reading my book. Casually, unconsciously, I stroked my neck with my right hand and felt something. Mid sentence I froze; stroked my neck again. The lymph node in my neck was enlarged. My stomach knotted and I wanted to vomit with the anxiety. Do I have a virus or has cancer spread to my lymph node? There’s that “system of interpretation” kicking in again. Fear was so happy to be dancing on the kitchen table while I fretted and worried about being so far from home. Maybe I should cancel the trip? Mom would understand. What if this turns into something major? What will I do being so far from home? I reminded myself of the motto I was choosing to live by - I live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly. There are hospitals in Ireland. I’m going on this trip. 

Man O' War

Our tour group arrived in Ireland on Monday, boarded a bus, and began the process of making new acquaintances. The first stop on the itinerary was to eat a traditional Irish breakfast at a 400 hundred year old tavern outside of Dublin called the Man O' War. Meanwhile, I was still thinking about my lymph node. It had swollen to the point it was noticeable in the mirror. “It could be a long two weeks,” I thought to myself. Fortunately, I remembered that I had brought my essential oils, and for the next five days, used two of them. After a couple of days, the lymph node returned to normal. Was it due to the oils? Who knows? Who cares! My sense of the situation was that it was the Universe giving me a chance to choose love over fear, which I did; to practice living fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly.

Had I given into fear by canceling the trip, I would have missed out on the preciousness of being with my mom.

Every morning I would turn to her after I had brushed on my eyebrows, “Are you ready for your eyebrows?” She would turn to me, “Yes!” I hunched down to see them as she is shorter now with her almost eighty-six years of living and brushed hers on, too. I couldn’t help but notice the arch of her brows mirrored mine.

Roof Top bar at the Guinness Storehouse

Slowly walking in the rain together, she doesn't walk fast anymore, huddled under our tiny travel umbrellas, avoiding puddles and dips in the cement, as we made our way to a museum. "I'm just following your shoes!" she chuckled. She was a trooper, willing to go wherever I wanted.

Sharing a Guinness when neither of us drinks dark beer.

Witnessing a shoving match between two young women on the public bus in Dublin. Again she was willing to try the bus at my suggestion. We got off and hailed a cab back to our hotel. Out of harm’s way, we laughed as we replayed the profanity laced dialogue we had overheard; all due to a struggle over a seat on the bus. We subsequently found out one doesn’t sit upstairs on a public bus in Dublin!

Over a glass of wine at dinner, sharing words, feelings, and thoughts from what life was like for both of us living in our family forty years ago.

Strolling the gardens at Powerscourt arm in arm admiring the scenery. When we would get to the steps I would walk down them first, right in front of her, so if she fell, it would be on me. I didn’t think she would fall, but having me there gave her more confidence.

I gladly was her eyes and ears on the trip. She didn’t have to remember the way from the lobby to our room. She had me. I reminded myself that, often, when Wes drives and I’m the passenger, I don’t remember the way we got to our destination either. She wears two hearing aids, I was her interpreter.

Gardens at Dromoland Castle

In my fifty-six years of sharing this Earth with her there has never been a time where we had two weeks of just the two of us - no husbands, children, or siblings. We parted six days ago and I miss her still, but I get to always have, as a part of me, our time together. Fear didn’t win. It was relegated to a compartment in my suitcase, forgotten, probably tucked under the dirty laundry somewhere, withering for lack of attention. Instead, joy and love jumped out of the suitcase every morning wondering where and how they were going to get to play that day! Boy did we get to have an adventure!

I lived and continue to live, fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly! 

I am so darn lucky!!

Part 8. Happy Hours, Picnics, and Team Meetings

The other day I found myself irritated with Wes. The infraction? He was standing at the sink, blocking access to the garbage. He was in the way, and I had something I wanted to throw away. Yes, he was emptying the dishwasher, or putting dishes away, or probably washing something in the sink; but really, I needed to throw away a wrapper, and he was in the way. On some level it was probably good to be irritated because it said we were back to normal. But, another part of me quickly realized the ridiculousness of being irritated as I found myself reflecting on what we went through last summer; the intimacy that came from being in the trenches together as we dealt with my condition. It was us in this little world we had created finding joy, love, and connection wherever we could.

We had what we called “Happy Hour” back then. When I couldn’t do anything but lay face down on the ottoman he would bring me my lemon water and join me. Joining me meant he laid down next to the ottoman, face-up, one leg crossed over the other bent knee. We could look at each other this way. I sipping lemon water from my Starbucks reusable plastic tumbler; he chatting with me. By his side was his Starbuck’s mug with the Paris logo, acquired from one of our trips to our favorite city. Ironically, the coffee being sipped was Peet’s. The conversation didn’t need to be heavy. It may have been as simple as a need to water the plants outside because the weather was hot, a return phone call that should be made, or what groceries needed to be purchased. When my water was done, Happy Hour was over; his coffee was probably cold because it is hard to drink hot coffee lying on your back. 

One day we had a picnic in our backyard. Fifteen feet from our back door we spread out a blanket. A plate, crackers and almond butter rounded out our spontaneous picnic. We laid there and talked, making almond butter crackers for one another. He did most of the making. and maybe most of the talking. I don’t remember the conversation, and yet, it is one of our fondest memories from last summer. Today, when we feel like a snack, and reach for the crackers and almond butter, one of us will always comment on that picnic, "Remember when we..." . 

During those few weeks that were difficult for me to walk I developed a routine when I needed to go to the bathroom. On the return trip from the bathroom to the family room, I would make a pit stop to the landing of our upstairs. We live in a tri-level house, which means, half way between the family room and our bathroom is a set of stairs, seven steps take you downstairs; seven take you upstairs. I would climb the seven steps and rest face down on the carpet, legs dangling down the stairs. This position was relieving to my back and gave me the rest I needed for the last short leg of the return to the ottoman. Wes would always join me there. I was reminded that we called them our "Team Meetings". Again, the conversation wasn’t deep; it was the connection, the closeness, his caring that felt incredibly intimate. Sometimes nothing might be said…in the quiet, darkness of the middle of the night, he might just lie there letting me know I wasn’t alone.

Today when I look at that spot it is our dog Toby who usually lies there, and occasionally, our other dog Ruby will join him. Dogs or humans, the carpet on the landing at the top of our steps has served an important, therapeutic function for some of us Meyers.

Every night I fell asleep to Wes rubbing the top of my head. He would keep massaging it until he could hear my rhythmic breathing. Whether I was awake or asleep he told me he always said, “I love you, Renee.” before he fell asleep. I heard him more than he realized, and sometimes, I still hear him. “I love you, Wes.” I would respond to myself. I knew if I said it out loud, he would want to keep rubbing my head. I wanted him to be able to go to sleep!

Later on, in the summer, when I was experiencing edema in my right leg, (another post some other time) I would lay across his lap so he could do a lymphatic massage on my leg. We had heard a song in yin yoga we liked by Paul Cardall called, "Life and Death". Whenever he massaged my leg, we would have Paul Cardall’s music on. I could only listen as I was facing away from the TV. Wes was able to watch. Here is the video from that time. Today we hear it and are reminded of last August...another moment of beauty, another moment of light that we found in the darkness of our circumstance.

Synchronistically, every time I sit down to write one of these posts a Paul Cardall song always plays on my Pandora station. (Right now, as I sit editing this post the day after I wrote the previous sentence, Paul Cardall's "Sweet Escape" is playing.)

Intimacy, connection, beauty, light. In an ironic sort of way, I can miss those times we had together. There are so many gifts that have come from my odyssey with cancer, and the intimacy it afforded Wes and I is one. Sadly, it took cancer for me to understand, to feel the depth of his love for me. Happily, cancer has given me this gift of understanding; to feel the love he has for me while I am alive; AND it has cracked opened my heart to be able to feel deeper levels of love in all aspects of my life. I love you, Wes…deeply, joyfully, unconditionally.

Part 7. In the Land of the Living

What did living look like?

On the outside, “living” didn’t look much different than “existing”. It was the conversation I was having with myself on the inside, with every action I took, that was different. For example, my energy level might have had me want to drop a shirt I was changing out of onto the floor. Instead, I would look at it, look at a hanger, and say to myself, “People who live hang up their shirts." I would reach for the hanger, "By my hanging up this shirt I am saying to the Universe, 'I choose to live.' ” When I would think twice about showering because, “who is really going to see me; I’m not going anywhere.” I would say instead, “People who live shower. By taking a shower, I am saying to the Universe, 'I choose to live.' ” “People who live put a dish in the dishwasher. By putting this dish in the dishwasher, I am saying, 'I choose to live.' ” Hanging up a shirt, showering, loading the dishwasher; mundane tasks that became intentions to live. 

Matt had said, “If you can’t do anything but lay on a couch you can still fight for your right to live…do a mantra.”

“I am happy, I am healthy, I am abundant, I am free.” Lying on the couch, brushing my teeth, or soaking up the sun on a patio chair, I would repeat that mantra over and over to myself. “I am happy, I am healthy, I am abundant, I am free.” “I am happy, I am healthy, I am abundant, I am free.” 

 He also said, “If you can’t do anything but lay on a couch, bless everyone you see on television.” 

www.warriorsworld.net

 The NBA playoffs were on, and my family and I were watching the games on TV. I would follow a player down the court saying, “May you be blessed with stamina.” To another player, “May you be blessed with confidence.” To the refs, “May you be blessed with objectivity.”Someone shooting a free throw, "May you be blessed.” Basketball games move quickly, “Oops, I missed that player, “May you be blessed!” “Oh, I think I already blessed that player, well he gets another one!” During a time out, to the grown man with the beer belly sitting behind the announcer's table wearing an official NBA team jersey, “May you be blessed with good health!” Dramas were easier than sporting events; they moved much slower and with less people on the screen. When I left the house I blessed people driving by in cars, walking the corridors of the hospital, buying produce at our local grocery store. Every time I blessed someone else I was getting out of my own "sad" story and serving the world in the only way available to me; by putting good energy, good intentions out there. In return, I benefited as my heart is/was the recipient of everything I say…whether to myself or others.

I had three goals back then, and, when accomplished, I would feel like I was in the Land of the Living again…getting off the pain medications, relearning to walk, and driving a car. The pain meds kept me from the later. At the height of the pain, I was taking 110 milligrams of Oxycontin/Oxycodone in a 24 hour period. I tried morphine once for one day; actually, one dose. Wes had to rub the top of my head for about an hour straight to keep me grounded. If he hadn’t, I think I would still be flying around the ethers. I don’t like my consciousness being messed with. During my call with Matt I expressed this sentiment about my consciousness. He matter-of-factly said, “Well, then set the intention that the pain meds effect the pain and leave your consciousness alone.” “Oh, I can do that?” I did set the intention and it helped.

I was worried at the time that coming off the pain meds would be difficult. I was fortunate; I had an easier time than many people I've known or heard about. Was it perhaps because I wasn't on the meds long enough; the dosage wasn't high enough; or perhaps it was because of the intention I had set? My hands would shake in the mornings, but I kept reducing the amounts, gradually, until I was down to 1/2 of one Oxycodone pill, about 2 1/2 mg. That one was the hardest to give up because it was like oil on rusty equipment. My body moved easier with it. There were a couple days where I thought about that 1/2 pill knowing how much better I would feel with it, but somehow I found the wherewithal to leave it alone. I have a lot of compassion for people who find themselves addicted; I had a taste of a world that can be easier to live in than the one we do.  

With one goal down, my attention turned to the business of relearning to walk.  I began physical therapy twice a week with Laura Clever, my most awesomest (I know that is not a word) PT. Laura explained that part of my pain, and part of my problem with walking was caused by two months of inactivity. The inactivity caused the fascia in the groin, hip, and leg areas to cement in place. “Move it or Lose it” is the saying as fascia, the collagen fibers that encase our entire body, need to be able to slide between the muscles, nerves, bones, and organs. That ability depends on movement; the inability causes pain as the fascia becomes "sticky." I began daily exercises and walking. A lap around our backyard was 117 steps. I did that the first day. Day two I did two laps, day three, three laps and so on. As I got up to double digits I would do some in the morning, some at night, pausing in between laps to rest my leg. I then ventured out to our neighborhood. At first our cul-de-sac, then the others, and finally I ventured out to many of the paths I took before the proverbial s__t hit the fan. Within two months a Fitbit indicated I would do in excess of 11,000 steps in a day. There would be a setback a few months later (August 2015), but fast forward to May of 2016. I went on a walk the other day and thought, “I wonder if I can run?” I’m sure the cars driving by were wondering, "Why is that middle-aged woman who is running so slowly, barely moving at all, smiling so brightly!" 

Two goals down, one to go, and I would be in the Land of the Living again! Do you remember the excitement/trepidation of being 16 and opening the driver door of the car for your first drive without your parents? The heart beats fast, a slight smile on the face as you slide onto the driver’s seat; a glance at the ignition, the key gets shoved in and turned to the right; the motor starts up. The right hand lets go of the key and joins the left on the steering wheel. The head looks up, followed by a deep breath, an exhale, and another smile. Another quick glance down so that the correct gear is selected, “D,” and the car begins to move forward. There’s that smile again. “I’m really getting to do this...Drive on my own...Freedom!” I got to feel that again after forty years, the first time I took myself for a drive last summer. I was smiling and I was crying. I was back! If the cars driving by noticed, I'm sure they were wondering, "Why is that middle-aged woman who is driving so slowly, barely moving at all, smiling and crying so brightly?"

Part 6. A Choice to Live

The birds were pissing me off. That lovely, sweet call they chirp to one another announcing the emergence of a glorious, new day was pissing me off. Friends going out to lunch pissed me off, too. The cloudy Seattle winter days had left us and were increasingly being replaced by bright, sunny days. People up here are very happy when that happens. Friends clad in their short sleeved shirts, sandals, and sunglasses; discovered again after a six month hibernation; chatting over a bite to eat, laughing; it all pissed me off. “Happy” and “fun” seemed so far from what I was capable of experiencing, and it was incredibly painful to witness it in others. Those were the thoughts I was having the morning I ultimately chose to live, May 8, 2015.

There are two people I attribute to saving my life. The first is Matt Kahn, a spiritual teacher and highly-attuned empathetic healer who happens to live in Seattle. Matt emits the most loving, calm energy. He’s hilarious, and the concepts he teaches are easily incorporated into everyday life.  I have known Matt for three years, and over the course of those three years his popularity has grown tremendously. His monthly gatherings now sell out, his YouTube videos draw over 100,00 views, and he has written a best seller, “Whatever Arises, Love That.” I don’t know whether he does one on one sessions anymore, but in 2015, booking a session was a year out. In my desperation with my situation, I sent an email wondering if there was any way I could get an appointment with him. Unbeknownst to me, synchronistic forces involving a dear friend, Mike, and Matt’s partner, Julie, were conspiring, and I received an email back stating I had an appointment with him in 3 days, May 8, 2015.

Matt and I had a Skype call that lasted about an hour. What did Matt do or say that would make me want to live again? Here are a few of the things he said that impacted me profoundly.

“You are standing in line to the afterlife and it isn’t your time…I know the feeling of someone who's in the gravitational pull of death. I also know the gravity of someone who is deciding to die, is fast tracking it and it’s not their time. That’s where you are at. You are choosing to deteriorate, to die. You got to such a place of frustration that you were choosing death as a way to get out of it.”

He was right. Stated so obviously, he was right.

He talked about faith versus control. “At the end of the day you’re just someone who wants to change your experience. When you’re trying to make an experience different, change it, you’re not in reality, you’re in fantasy.” he said. Often Matt’s teachings incorporate “repeat-after-me”s to anchor in the teaching. He had me say: 

“I’m just someone who wants to change my experience, and even if it changes, there will be something else I want to change. And, just by admitting these words, I am waking up in consciousness. I fear change, and I’ve even tried to be in charge of it, but the one thing I’ve never done is be completely honest about my motivations; and through absolute honest confessions, allow the change that I can’t change, to change me for the better. What if I let this experience polish me instead of burdening or bludgeoning me? There is no escape so why not let this make me wiser than ever? Why not let this make me more honest than ever?”

“I don’t have to get my way in order to be happy. Just because I’m not getting my way doesn’t mean I stop living or wait to die.”

Until that moment it had never occurred to me that dying was a way I could still be in control. I never even knew I had been trying to control my experience, trying to get “my way”  as obvious as that is now. The image that kept coming to mind was of a little boy on the playground who picks up his ball and marches home because he doesn’t like the game everyone else wants to play.

He talked about hope versus faith and defined hope as “a yearning for a different circumstance while faith is what gets you through any circumstance. Giving up hope is letting go of attachment (to a different circumstance).”

Sitting with that concept was a big deal for me. I have never liked the word "hope" which is blasphemous in the world of cancer where the two words are intertwined. I get why hope is important. It’s better than believing you will die. Hope, to me though, still has disbelief and questioning woven within it, as in, “I hope I win the lottery”. In all the years I hoped to heal from cancer, with my singular focus on the outcome, wondering…Am I healed yet?…What is it going to take to heal?…What can I do next to heal?…Why haven’t I healed yet?…made me miss out on living. How many times was I preoccupied with my health and wasn’t present for my sons when they came home to visit? That realization alone makes me cry.  How did this preoccupation fuel my fear when the outcome wasn’t what I wanted? How did this singular focus flavor my life to the point I was frustrated at being alive? The attachment to a different circumstance caused so much suffering for me. Could I now let go and allow faith to guide me where it wanted to take me? Could I remove my relationship with cancer from the believe/hope/disbelieve spectrum entirely, and place it in the faith category, knowing whatever happened in the future was in my highest interest? Honestly, a year later hoping for a different circumstance still presents itself to me, but at least it isn’t running my life anymore. I am living.

Finally, another Matt repeat-after-me (bolded text):

“I cannot be defined by my circumstance, but only by how I choose to survive them. I will let every circumstance bring the best out of me.” He then said, “You do not give up on life, you give up your attachment to what you think it’s supposed to be. You do not fight the illness, but fight for your right to live. You’re not fighting for control.”

“I will live no matter the condition I am in.” "This will be in your highest good if you participate with it, harmonize with it." he said, "Lying around like road-kill isn’t participating. That’s what Love is, the will to live - the most badass force in existence!”“I will not allow this condition to prevent me from being who I was meant to be. I’m going to allow this experience to bring out my highest consciousness.”

"What if every experience that shows up is an experience I wanted to experience and overcome just for the joy of who I would become as a result?"

During the call I could feel the energy in my body begin to shift...a wilting flower, finally receiving water, begins to straighten and blossom again. I didn’t want the call to end. I had experienced the first moments of peace in months and I was afraid to be without him. After we hung up I noticed that the nausea I had been experiencing 24/7 the last two weeks was gone, and ultimately, never came back. I realized, symbolically, the nausea represented my inability to swallow, my inability to stomach my circumstance. Matt helped me see differently, and I was finding my way to acceptance of my circumstance as it was. I had made the choice to live. 

Part 5. Surrealism

Doctors have developed an ability to deliver news with the calmest of voices, (do they teach that in med school? Don’t you wonder what they are really thinking?) and my radiation oncologist, Dr. Taylor, is the best at this. He was gentle in his delivery of the need for radiation, and sooner rather than later. A tumor on L4 was pressing against the nerve that runs down my right leg. The other spot that needed radiation was on the top of my right hip. It was weight bearing. Though I could see how busy he was, he made me feel like he had set aside the entire day for me should I need time to process the news. Choosing whether to have radiation or not wasn’t a difficult decision, really. “OK.” Perhaps the reason for agreeing to radiate those two spots came from the space of wanting to die so, "who cares that my body will receive more radiation, just get me out of pain now.” Or, perhaps the reason came from a deeper desire to live. I don’t know…Maybe it was easy because it felt like there was no choice at all, really. “OK.”

Saying, “OK” started a chain reaction, similar to putting the key in the ignition of a car…or nowadays, pushing a button. Dr. Taylor went into drive. I met with the nurse who explained what was to happen; she had me sign release forms. I was then wheeled over to radiation therapy where they “map” you, a process where they figure out exactly where the radiation beams need to be focused. Simulating an actual radiation session, they discuss the best course of action as they look over your laid out torso. 

“Coming at the spot from this angle will minimize tissue damage…”

“If we go straight down from here it is best for…”

“We can bypass…”

Image Source: STF/AFP/Getty Images

Snippets of conversation and I understood the term "mapping". An image comes to mind of army personnel, generals, looking over a map of a battlefield, planning their strategy. Fortunately, I had a very good general on my side. Mapping also involves tattoos. I’ve never had one, but I can now boast of at least 1/2 dozen pin sized dots around my right hip and belly button. Hardly noticeable, I was glad for their permanence as they allowed the technicians to align me exactly to the equipment for maximum precision and accuracy in each treatment I was to receive. I’m usually not a stickler for perfection in others.

I then met with the scheduler. I was to have 10 treatments, the norm when it is bones being radiated. I was fortunate. Others we met in the waiting room were there everyday for five weeks, maybe six weeks, depending on their circumstance. I saw a young woman with  young children waiting with her. A tug on her sleeve, I imagined the child asking. “How long will we be Mommy?” My heart ached…at least my kids were grown. There was the crusty, gregarious older man who makes me smile thinking about him today. If you didn’t know the seriousness of his situation you might have thought he came there everyday because he enjoyed the coffee and meeting new people. We learned that the Costco parking lot in Kirkland used to be where he grew up. I imagined him playing baseball with friends in a field, bald spots in the grass where the bases were naturally formed from all of the base running. Now, today, the field has become the gas station, the bases have become gas pumps, the paths are the lines of cars waiting to fill up. There was always a partially solved jigsaw puzzle on the table in the waiting area should you want a diversion while you waited. It seemed like the ones who came in alone were apt to make their way over there.  My first appointment was scheduled for that day, 6:30 that night. If I didn’t know better I might have thought Dr. Taylor wanted to get me scheduled before I could change my mind. Rather, it was an indication of the urgency. From the time we met Dr. Taylor and reviewed the bone scan to my first radiation treatment being completed was nine hours. 

One of the benefits of having something taken away is that once you get it back, it’s never taken for granted again, or, at least, that  has been my experience throughout this odyssey. Walking was the first one. Everyday I pinch myself that I can walk. If it weren’t for the routine of going to the radiation treatments, I’m not sure I would have had as dramatic of a shift in awareness and appreciation with something as mundane as “walking”. When home I could hobble to the bathroom, hobble up to bed, hobble to a chair if the nausea allowed; all giving me the illusion of mobility. The distance from the car in the hospital parking lot to radiation oncology was too far, unmanageable, painful. I needed a wheel chair. 

Toby, Ruby, and me. Oregon Coast 9/14

We developed a routine. Wes pulled the car up to the entrance of the hospital, helped me out, and got back in the car. While he was parking I hobbled through the hospital doors over to the nearest available bench, sat, and waited. He walked in, always with a smile for me and the blue-vested volunteers. He would help me into a wheel chair, offered a “have a good day” to the volunteers, and off we would go to radiation oncology. The same path was traversed every time - straight away, turn right to the elevators, wheel the chair parallel with the up/down buttons. I would reach out and push the UP button and wait. Did you ever notice how it gets quiet waiting for an elevator? We listen for it as if we aren't sure its still going to be there....ahh, here it comes. Then, in the elevator we went, whirl the wheel chair 180 degrees to face the front. The doors closed, the elevator rose, it stopped, the doors opened. Forward, right turn, left turn, "hello's" to whomever we passed, weave around that person, "excuse us!", wait for the slower walkers, and onto the waiting room. Once there, he would turn the chair so I faced the entrance (my request) and he would engage the other patients, learning all about their lives, making their experience in the waiting room more…fun. Mostly, I was wondering how the hell I got here. I hiked the Grand Canyon in one day twenty years ago? I was still playing in a basketball league ten years ago? Doing Bikram Hot yoga five years ago? Running with my dogs on the Oregon Coast beaches eight months ago? And now, I can’t even walk the 25 yards from the waiting room to the radiation room? It was surreal.

I couldn’t take care of myself.