The New Normal

Last Wednesday, Vicky received her fourth treatment. Fourth out of six. Two-thirds done.

That night, I expected her to crash. Instead, I came into the kitchen to see this...

Hard to keep a good woman down. 

But then, the expected and inevitable crash came the next day...

Then, I started hearing things from her that she had never said before. When I came into the bedroom to check up on her, she said, "David, is this ever going to end?"

Then yesterday: "I'm really afraid that this is the new normal, that I'm always going to be tired." This after a Saturday in and out of bed, trying to start projects, but just not having the fortitude to get very far on them. 

Finally, yesterday evening around sunset, I said, "I'm taking you for a ride. You've been cooped up in this house too long."

"But..."

"And all you have to do is sit in the front seat and look out at the beautiful world."

"But..."

I shepherded her out the door.

We drove up Skyline drive high up onto the mountain, then parked at an overlook with a spectacular view of the sun setting over the Great Salt Lake and the mountains beyond. And then, when she finally realized that she had someone there who loved her and was listening, she began to talk...

She said that she was really starting to wonder if this was the new normal, that this time of pain and nausea and dashed ambitions and aborted attempts at getting something done was really her new reality, and that maybe she just needed to get used to the notion.

I said, "You're already past the half-way mark. Two more treatments, then your surgery, and you'll be on the upslope."

"That's just it," she said, tears dripping off her cheeks. "I'm just not that sure anymore that maybe it won't be back."

We sat in silence, watching the Westering sun.

"Look at the people we know who've been through this," she said. "They're not the same. Some are gone, others are diminished, not many are completely whole, the cancer forever behind them."

She said that she lays there, worrying about the yard and the trees that need spraying and the broken swamp cooler on the roof and the weeds coming up in the garden and the porch steps that need pouring and, if it was last year, she would have just gotten busy and knocked down all those problems one at a time until they were gone, but now, she tries and finds that's she's too tired. And the problems loom larger.

I said, "Well guess what? That's why you married me. I get to take care of the problems while you can't."

Then I told her about something that my Mom said. She had just been through a several years of struggle with arrhythmias, being tired and drawn and out of breath. Then the doctor discovered the problem with her pacemaker, and suddenly her heart was strong and beating when it should, and she could walk and breathe and stride out into the world and be a part of it again. She said, "I realized that I had come to believe that being sick and tired was the new normal for me, and it was like being reborn when I realized that it wasn't, that I still had some vitality in me, and that life could still be bright and energetic and beautiful."

I said, "That's going to be the way with you, too, Vicky."

By now the sun was down, and we drove slowly home, making plans for next Wednesday, when she'd be out of the worst of the the chemo crash, and we could stroll around the yard and categorize what needed to be done. She said, "It is so nice to have somebody to talk to."

At the end of the night I showed her a TED talk I love by Guy Winch called, "Why we all need to practice emotional first aid." He is an identical twin, and has always been close to his brother. A while back, his brother contracted Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and had visible tumors all over his body. Here's a picture of him in the middle of his chemotherapy:

Dr. Winch said that, rather than play doleful scenarios over and over in his mind about his brother's future, he decided to practice emotional first aid on himself, to interrupt that sad recording and think of happy things, of a happy future. 

Within a week, his outlook completely changed, he was more resourceful, and a better encouragement to his brother. 

His brother completely recovered. The chemo eradicated all traces of the cancer from his body. Here is a recent picture of the two of them.

When the video was over, Vicky was awash in tears. 

Sometimes things start knocking around in your own head, start reverberating around in there in unnatural ways. And sometimes all it takes is taking a drive to see the sunset, having a talk with someone who loves you and having a really good cry. 

And then you realize that the world will take a few more turns, and then you'll be back out in the sunshine once again.

Two Hats

Right before church today, Julie, one of Vicky's friends from the ward called. She wanted Vicky to bring an extra hat to church.

It was the sweetest show of solidarity. They sat together in Sacrament meeting with those hats cocked at jaunty angles, and I'm simply positive that all the other women in that meeting were jealous.

Here are some pictures of them...

This chemo cycle has been by far the hardest for Vicky. Only the last two or three days has she felt much up to anything. But today, the sun came out and melted the last of the snow, and there was a warm breeze, and we went for a lovely Forced March with the dogs. We went over to the church and threw Mobi's ball for him for a long time, sitting on the warm grass and watching the sun set over the Great Salt Lake.

Vicky said, "You know, this warm weather gives me hope."

I said, "How so?"

"You know -- that spring will come, and that everything will be okay."

Truly and simply said.

The Prodigal Dog

Last night, I took our two beagles Lexi and Mobi for a hike up on the mountain above our house. I've taken Mobi on these hikes for years and enjoy his company very, very much. He is the perfect companion: he wanders free and happy across those hills, yet, when I stop to rest, he comes close and lets me know that he is happy we're there together.

Lexi is entirely a different matter. When she's on the leash, she's pulling on it like the minotaur on a mission, and when we're up on the mountain and she's off leash, I have the dickens of a time catching her when we get back to the road. With Lexi in tow, I come back from those hikes quite the opposite of refreshed.

But I take her for one reason. Vicky loves that little dog, and has since the moment she brought Lexi home from the pound six months ago. And she wants that little dog to be healthy and happy.

So -- up the mountain we go.

Last night was a dark one. I love wandering free beneath the dark sky, off trail and without constraints, listening to the wind whistling through the grasses and the slight jingling of the dog's collars. We were quite far up on the mountain when I realized that I only heard one dog jingling. I figure I'd learned how to manage Lexi: sit and wait until she comes around, then wait patiently for a good deal longer until she comes close enough for me to snag her collar.

So Mobi and I waited. And waited. For much longer than we are accustomed. No Lexi. I whistled, and shouted, peering out over the mountain from whence we came, squinting to try to make out a tiny brown and white form skipping between the sagebrush. Nothing.

It was clear that even Mobi didn't know her whereabouts. Retrieving is not his strong suit, but even he made little forays out into the darkness as if trying to look for her.

I tried to put out of my mind the possibility that she was truly lost, wandering across the grasses, calling, whistling, but in truth, I was beside myself. How could I go home again with one beagle and one empty leash? How could I stand before Victoria and tell her that I'd lost that little dog? How could I break her heart like that, with all that she is trying so bravely to deal with?

But in the end, that's what we did, Mobi and I; we walked home, calling and whistling and straining to look. I had a tiny hope that Lexi maybe had preceded us, and would be waiting at home with a befuddled Vicky with many questions. As we started down the mountain though, I looked out over the valley with its hundreds and thousands of homes, and saw how very far away and insignificant our home was, and couldn't muster much hope that a little beagle could navigate the maze.

And sure enough, when we got home -- no Lexi.

Vicky has such grace. Even after the awful, terrible week of sickness and fatigue she's had, she took the news with equanimity. She started when I told her, and asked a few clarifying questions, then, without a trace of recrimination, she simply started making plans for how we would look for Lexi. We got in the truck, and began retracing our steps -- down the long road to the trailhead, stop and yell and whistle up the dark trail, then backtrack along to the dirt rugged pipeline road, driving slowly with the windows down and the cold streaming into the cab, calling and whistling until our voices were sore and mouths tired from whistling.

And no dog.

We found ourselves back at the house, sitting in the darkened living room with the front porch light on, watching out the front window, hoping beyond hope that our little dog hadn't been found by a coyote, and that she would have the intelligence and presence of mind to find her way back.

We sat and watched and talked quietly for an eternity. We talked about all those stories when pets made long journeys to find their masters. We wondered if The Incredible Journey had any basis in truth, but again, we found great comfort in the fact that my father's dog Putter came all the way from Logan Canyon to find his home again.

"But then again," Vicky said, "Maybe she won't make it back." And her lip trembled.

Then Vicky started from her seat. "Look!" She pointed out the window.

There, wandering from the street into the pool of light was a little brown and white dog. Our little prodigal dog. We threw the door open and there never was such a welcome.

Turns out -- they do come back.


We lost our daughter Genny when she was 14 years old. It wasn't really all at once, but friends and life choices slowly took her away from us, and for years we were beside ourselves, praying and hoping and thinking about how we could bring her back. She would dip back into our lives, like Forrest Gump's Jenny, but then she would be gone again, and the gnawing uncertainty would begin afresh.

What parent hasn't waited in that darkened living room, looking out the window, hoping their child will step into that pool of light?

Last week, I sat with my 31-year-old daughter Genny in her sacrament meeting, surrounded by her two boys, and watched the way she smiled and loved those children, and thought about the wonderful way she has been with Vicky, calling her and giving her thoughtful gifts, being there completely for her. Our prodigal daughter, now a beautiful, poised, accomplished woman.

Turns out -- they do come back.