Beagles and Bluebirds

This is a picture of our back yard.

See the gazebo back there in our neighbor's yard? This morning, Vicky came rushing out into the kitchen: "David, come quick!" she said.

I rushed back to the bedroom with her and she pointed out the window with a big secret smile on her face. Look out there at the gazebo!

I looked. There were three deer trying to squeeze their way under the gazebo, for some unfathomable reason. Beautiful day with the sun shining down, and they're trying to get into the shade.

I'm glad I've got the wife who, when she sees such a thing, doesn't just say, 'Huh,' to herself and go on with her day. I'm glad I've got the wife that thinks it's a big deal, enough to call people over to see: "Can you believe it? Deer under the gazebo! And look at all the bluebirds flying around the yard. Things are really hopping out there!"

As I was writing this, she tiptoed back into the kitchen, put her finger to her lips and said, "David, come -- hurry!"

This time she laughed under her breath as she pointed up at the rain gutter. I looked, and there was a bluebird tail poking into view. The rest of the bird was obscured by the gutter, which the bluebird was very diligently trying to clean out. Leaves and dried pine needles were flying off the edge of the gutter with abandon. I said, "Good little bird. Just keep moving around the house. That way I won't have to get up there and clean the gutters myself."

Vicky smiled again and posed with balled up fists and flexed arms: "They're just such husky birds. No flitting about for them."

The other day I was walking home from the bus and passed a house with two beagles in the backyard. They saw me and started setting it up, one in particular was howling to break your heart. I wished so badly that Vicky was there with me at that moment. Because then I would have been able to look over at her and see her face beaming with pleasure as she watched those two little dogs.

In parting, may I offer a two-second video I took Wednesday night when she came back from chemo:

Celebrations Potpourri

One

Last night was our first tri-weekly Pre-Chemo Dinner!

Everyone was there except our distant son far away in the land of New York, whom we missed very much. The food was fantastic: fruit bowl extraordinaire from the G and D, honey cake from D and B, a lovely salad from Parker, and teriyaki chicken cooked on the grille.

Vicky loved it all. She kept raving about how good it tasted.

Here we are listening to Parker's latest tracks he's mixed and composed. Sterling stuff. B compared his voice and musical sensibility to Brandon Flowers, and everyone else said, "Of course! That's what it reminds me of!"

Two

When Vicky went to church on Sunday in her new fire engine red dress, long black knit sweater, lovely scarf, red hat and black shoes, one of the ladies said, "Why, you look like you stepped right out of a fashion magazine!"

Three

The other day, a lady at Intermountain Healthcare spent a lovely time with Vicky helping her try on wigs and showing her various ways to do up her head. Here's a montage.

My favorite is the one that makes her look like Billy Idol.

Funny thing. She took three wigs home to try out, and she hasn't worn any of them out in public. She likes the clean look that a scarf/hat combination gives, and I'll have to admit -- while the wigs are very beautiful and fun on her, she looks especially sharp with the scarves and hats.

Four

It is really funny to hear Vicky go on about food. Very rarely does she have anything that tastes good, so she eats very little, which makes her hungry, so food is constantly on her mind. She ponders how a bowl of oatmeal with raisins might taste, or wonders if she should try eggs again, or philosophizes on the reasons other chemo patients like chocolate and she doesn't or bemoans the fact that ice cream just doesn't have the same zing that it used to.

But most of all, she fantasizes about...

Walnut Shrimp!

When I call every day to check up on her, she often will bring it up. And this afternoon, she actually called me, and told me I was meeting her at China Platter for... ta da da dah! Walnut Shrimp!

It was a wonderful evening and she enjoyed it oh, so much. 

Two fortunes this time:

Vicky's: Good fortune is coming your way.

Mine: A previous misfortune will soon turn to your good luck. 

They're going up on the fridge.

Treatment Two

There is distant music, just out of earshot, that's been thrumming on the wind since the grandfather clock in the dining room gave over its last happy Saturday second into a more somber Sunday morning. It is now the week of Vicky's next treatment, and that carries with it hope and not a little melancholy.

She has been so bright and active, starting innumerable projects last week, shiny and thankful and so present and loving to everyone she sees. Yet she knows what's next, what needs to be done. There is something deeply heroic about the clear-eyed way she faces this. There is a determined set to her shoulders and steel in her step that awakens the most tender feelings. It's not just a visit to the clinic: it is a primal, important, vast part of life, and I find myself catching my breath to see the grace she carries to it.

Shopping Spree

I'm sitting here listening to First Aid Kit playing Simon and Garfunkel's America. Our beagle Lexi is sprawled sleeping on the day bed beside the desk. It's cold outside and the sky is darkening with the end of the day, but here in the office it is warm, the shades are drawn, and a single lamp casts a warm light on my desk.

In the next room, Vicky is sleeping, blankets mounded high over her. Thirty minutes ago, we returned from a day out on the town. This is Vicky walking to the car...

We set out to buy her a single nice dress, one that she could feel pretty in as she went out into the world. But the prices were good, and I kept seeing dresses that might look nice. Each time I held one up, she looked at me shyly and said, "Really? We've already got one." But I was serious, and we walked out with four absolutely stunning dresses that Vicky loves.

"Now, shoes," I said. Vicky peered at me as if to decipher whether I had taken leave of my senses. 

"Shoes," I said again. 

"But I have shoes."

"To go with these new dresses? Look at the ones on your feet. They're bedraggled. You can't wear a new dress with bedraggled shoes."

She peered at me again, a curious smile on her face. "I've just never seen you this way before. You're usually so - I don't know - careful."

"Some men buy their wives convertibles when they're going through something like this. The least you can let me do is buy you a few dresses and some shoes."

At the shoe store, just for fun, we pulled down some boots and Vicky tried them on...

Fun to try, but she settled on some really cute dress shoes she knew she would wear. 

On the way home, Vicky was tired, but talkative:

"I don't think I've done such a thing ever in my life."

"Such what thing?"

"Buying so many clothes all at the same time, just for me."

Wow, that hit me. What have I been doing all these years that I've never done that for her? Granted, I have a veritable allergic reaction to even stepping foot into a clothing store, but look what I have missed: That look of unbelieving pleasure on her face, that dawning realization that she is worth enough to spend money on, that she has someone there who wants her to feel beautiful.

The last few weeks I've been feeling like a dizzy teenager that finds himself unbelievably holding hands with the prettiest girl in the school. This terrible thing she is fighting, instead of casting a pall over us, has made the air sharp and clear: Here's a lady that has stood at my side for over three decades, and I'm only now realizing what a lucky chump I am. 

A Perfect Head

Got a text at noon from Vicky. I thought it was an autocorrect problem, so I asked for clarification...

That is so like her. Just a matter-of-fact statement: "Hair falling out today."

I thought to myself: If there ever is a day that needs to be marked, celebrated -- acknowledged -- it is today. This woman is losing one of her great marks of beauty -- her natural blonde hair. Not a trace of gray in it, just rich brushstrokes of gold and flax, brilliant in the sun, soft in the lamplight.  

I wandered around City Creek, looking for something to mark the occasion. I read somewhere, and it rang true, that these milestones should come with prizes. Found myself in Nordstrom, wandering cluelessly through the women's department, completely out of my depth, but determined and desperate to buy her something nice and finding myself crying as I walked past the dresses and the purses and the perfume and the sales associates. 

So silly.

I finally found a couple of gifts, then headed over to Harmon's to buy a cake, then jumped on the bus.

When I got home, Parker was busy making dinner...

It was a lavish and decadent spread...

And we all were in heaven...

We were so honored to have Parker there. This whole occasion only came up this afternoon, and Parker immediately sensed the magnitude of it. He had a very important appointment with a fellow musician to do some song co-writing in the basement. He'd already had one appointment with the guy fall through, so this was a big deal. When he found out about Mom, he promptly canceled the appointment and spent the whole evening with her. Even cooked her dinner. 

And that was probably the happiest time of the day for her, eating the superb food that her son put before her, hearing his cheerful talk about the adventures he'd had acquiring the ingredients and his near-miss cooking the beans.  

In the meantime, members of the family from far and wide sent emails about Vicky and her great hair adventure. Here are just a few:

From Jane:

"As Grandpa used to say, "God only made a few perfect heads. On the rest he put hair." Vicky must have a perfect head.

From Sarah Jane:

Make sure to save a few strands for Mr. Ollivander. I'm sure he could make good use of them.

(Parker had to remind me that Mr. Ollivander was the wand-maker in Harry Potter. I had to agree with Sarah Jane that Vicky's hair certainly does have potent magic in it)

From David:

"Ellie and Brooke are excited to wear pink wigs in solidarity."

From Farrell:

"Stars will fall from the sky"

From Laura:

Vicky has such a wonderful nucleus of support, and this, we're sure, will make all the difference in the world.

From Laurel:

"Now?? Tonight??  I think I need more time to adjust!"

From Mom:

Instead of women the world over imitating the beauty and style of Vicky’s hair, they will find, since Vicky’s head is bald and she is the golden standard for hair, they will shave their heads also and then try, unsuccessfully, to compete with her on the way to dress them fashionably.

And this funny thing from Claire:

O' my darlin', O' my darlin'

O' my darlin' , Alopecia.

You are lost and gone forever,

Dreadful sorrow, Alopecia.

And then it was time. 

I will not lie. Vicky cried as if her heart would burst as I readied and clicked on the clippers. I thought my own heart would break.

And then, after the clippers made their first clean swath through her hair, she was ok. And when I was done, she was dying of curiosity to see it.

She indeed has a perfect head. And two adorable cow-licks right at her hairline. The other day, Farrell told me that Vicky was a classy lady. And looking at her with that chic buzz cut, I thought: That class had nothing to do with her hair. In fact, she's even classier than before.

I have never seen a more beautiful woman...

Butcher, Baker...

Baker...

Baked...

Carpenter...

Carpented...

She's also a...

Diplomat

Business Relationships Consultant

Medical Consultant

Chef

Fashion Designer

Financial Advisor

Music Critic

Import/Export Broker

Real Estate Expert

Chauffeur

Spiritual Leader

Electrician

Woodworking Artisan

Interior Designer

Best Friend.

Freeze Frame

I got home this afternoon and found Vicky, screwdriver in hand, taking apart the cabinets in the dining room.

What!????

She just shrugged and smiled.

By the end of the day, she had sawn a foot and a half off the bottoms and had them put back together...

This afternoon we sat on the living room couch. I was telling her about my day. Before I got very far, she told me to stop for a moment. She pushed me a couple of feet farther away from her, fluffed up a pillow, lay back, rested her crossed legs over my lap, sighed deeply, then said, with an innocent little smile: "OK. Continue."

We talked for quite a while, warm sun shining in the window, spilling out onto the floor and washing the new mantle with a brilliant white. Outside the Eastern windows, we could see the sunlight on our fence, bringing into sharp relief the crags and texture of the surface. Dust motes dipped and bobbed in the air. It was warm and quiet, except for Vicky's soft voice, asking questions, making observations.

Sometimes you wish you could freeze a moment in time, hold it there forever. This was one of them.