Dear Loved Ones,
Here are a few quotes from the last couple weeks: "Feeling crummy?" "Ah, I see you have a healthy chemo hangover!" "You're numbers are in the skids, but nothing we can't fix with a couple doses of good blood." [Yes, I'll confess a new appreciation for 'Twilight;' if I disappear look in Forks.]
Colin was laughing when I returned from a walk with a flat-footed march. I had to explain that since I can't always feel my feet, I'm sure of staying upright if I walk this way. I also described how the same thing happens to my hands which caused me to drop a jar of spaghetti sauce in aisle two last week. How can a three foot descent spread sauce in a 12 foot diameter and sound like a grenade explosion?
Many people ask how Colin and Danny are with all this. It's a complicated question; one that you should really ask them. From my perspective they are amazing. They are loving, supportive and constantly look our for my spirits as well as the everyday details. They have accompanied me to the grocery store and errands and appointments more than any self-respecting young male could imagine, and acted gallant all the while. Danny and I share precious moments, sometimes chatting, sometimes quiet (who? Danny!) in the hospital and home. He is responsible and steady and compassionate, and still grins when the mood strikes. Colin visits often from Bellingham and fills us with his insight and humor and wisdom. Their depth and loving kindness in the face of such worries are remarkable and make me very proud.
Then I'm asked, "and how's Jon?" Well, don't get me started. He's endured every hospital night with me crammed like pretzels in the hospital cots, he lets me cry or makes me laugh on the toughest days, his visitor name badges are stuck all over the 12th floor, as soon as they've checked me in each round the staff ask 'When's Jon coming?' He urges me on or gives me a boost or lets me lolly gag. I simply couldn't do it without him. It's been harder to get away and act normal, and often hard to remember life before November 5, but Jon continues to be a wonder and gift.
I'm now done with seven out of eight rounds of inpatient chemotherapy. I said a not so fond farewell to the last bag of adriamycin last Friday. [I wonder why it has to be neon orange and come in a dirt brown garbage bag? You can only imagine what a 24 hour infusion, along with mega amounts of other fluids and rescue drugs, can do to human cells. If you see a navel orange rolling down the Thriftway aisles, stop and say 'hello.']
My brother, who came for a wonderful visit, was curious about the experience of facing my own mortality. A great question for us all and one that I will confess to spending some time on lately. I have no good answer, but I will say that living on is still the most powerful, relevant and meaningful concept to me. There is some uncertainty about the near future that may include returning to work, undergoing a bone marrow transplant or spending some more quality time at the clinic. What is certain is that there will be some great summer adventures and a move to Lake Forest Park so we can finally be one household!
Your messages and love and blessings are ever present. Thank you with all my heart!
Love,
Lynn
PS - I am SO PROUD of the Room 22 students who showed great progress on their last report cards! Every single person in that class made gains to be applauded. THANK YOU Ms. Stewart for keeping everyone so well cared for!
