Sunday, March 15, 2015

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.




2 comments:

  1. Oh man. That's rough. One of the worst things in the world is feeling tired all the time. I know it well. That is some truly hopeful and profound insight from Grandma. Great post.

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  2. I can't even imagine how hard this is! Give Vicky my love!

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