DRUNK BUT ALIVE

My undisciplined nature at once admired and resented Paul’s discipline. The day we were married he weighed 155 pounds. During our fifty + years together his weight varied only between 155 and 160. Every morning he weighed and if he was at 160 he curtailed his calories for the day.

He loved his bourbon and wine: one shot of bourbon (nursed for an hour) before dinner every night; one glass of wine with dinner. Without exception.

Not always without exception .  There was the regular meeting of long time friends who spent one night a week sharing a movie, snacks and wine. Those nights he had three or sometimes four glasses of wine.

Until that one night.

For over a year he had been holding death at bay. For over a year he had seen a steady decline. For over a year he had experienced a whittling down of his promised two years. That night one glass of wine led to a second, then to a third. Until he was free of his disciplined thought, free of his dread of dying, free of his normal inhibitions.

“You guys are my anchor,” he said with wavering voice. “It’s  all that keeps me going.”

Uneasy moments. Then to our car. “I’ll drive”, I said.

“You think I can’t drive? Well I can.”

The drive to our house, ten miles of a curvy narrow rural road, is demanding of any driver.  But he drove.  I sat erect, scared as he swerved at each curve, as he wandered out of his half of the road.

Not since my disastrous ‘getting saved’ religious experience had I believed in a god who would help if I asked. But not this night. This night I thought but dared not utter, ”God , let us get home in one piece and I’m yours.”

Without disaster we approached our last turn. Our mailbox. “I’ll check the mail,” he said. The side mirror smacked into the mailbox.  Then we came to our parking place. The side mirror again smacked into the post of the carport.

“Paul”, I said. “You’re drunk”

“So what?”  he said, “ If I am?  I’m not dead yet.”

TURKEY SUBS, WINE AND ANGELIC HARP MUSIC

That day during the second week in December was calmer and warmer than usual. The day we were due in Wake Forest Hospital for the routine bore into Paul’s spine for bone marrow to check the progression of the disease or the treatment. The routine we knew well.

We left early, drove our favored back roads through Floyd Virginia, Fancy Gap, Mt Airy North Carolina and our beloved Mt Pilot.

From the Food Lion, half way and with a nice restroom, we bought a turkey sub (to be shared) and two small bottles of red wine. Whether wine was permitted we never asked. We did not want to know. But in the event it was prohibited, I must confess, we concealed the bottles with drink covers.

Settled in two seats in the waiting area near the outpatient intake office we began our picnic. Barely had we taken our first bites and sips  when our ears were regaled with a harp quartet of holiday music. Sandwiches and wine in hand we went to the railing overlooking the floor below. Before our eyes were four lovely ladies, perched daintily on stools before their harps, pouring out angelic music.

Sodium laden sandwiches, forbidden wine and angelic harp music combined all the elements, not enough needed to alleviate all worry and pain, but it surely went a long way.

HOSPITAL SCHEDULE TRUMPS PATIENT NEED

Memories of the two years Paul battled his cancer appear randomly with no accounting of time sequence. They are like dreams with a time sequence of their own, unaware or uncaring of our need for order.  For the choppiness I apologize.  Thus another memory.

Nurses are too often robots. They enter the patient’s room on a computer schedule. Vital signs must be taken every six hours.  Every six hours even though it is the middle of the night and the patient is sleeping peacefully after hours of wakefulness.  Sleeping medication is given to an awakened patient.

Paul had his complaints; he voiced them with vigor for he was not prone to silent acceptance of anything that annoyed him. The staff passed off his bitching as unimportant because hospital procedure was what mattered.

Then came that Sunday morning.  That morning after our late night Scrabble Game.  The sun was just peeking  in his East facing room.  Paul was deep in sleep, the best sleep he had had in days when a nurse entered.

“He’s asleep,’ I said

“I need his vitals.”

“Why”

“For the record.”

“But he’s asleep.  Can’t you get them later?”

“I’m sorry, that will throw off my schedule.”

As she approached his bed, I felt my heart race, my face flush. “Get the hell out and let him sleep ,”I said. “Come back when he is awake.”

Sleep the rest of the night eluded me.  I remained on duty, protecting the rights of my sick husband against the schedule keepers.

Not until the next Saturday night when I returned for my nightly visit did he sleep through the night without serving their schedule. 

TREATMENT BEGINS

The first days after that memorial day were for me (and I am sure for Paul) terror filled and hope laden. He confined to a hospital room—me alone in our rural home whose maintenance took no notice of  his absence or the need to wait for his return.

Grass grew. I mowed. Weeds attacked the tomato and pepper plants. Deer finished what the weeds spared.  Eating alone after fifty years of sharing mealtime left my soul hungry no matter what I ate. 

Monday through Friday I gave it my best effort.

But come Saturday I left behind all efforts to keep the place going. I left behind missing him.  I set out with deli sandwiches for lunch, sausage biscuits and my canned tomato juice for breakfast, the Scrabble Game for our usual Saturday night battle, and a change of underwear.

Twenty four hours together before I came home where I spent  another week of handling home alone and he the week battling for his life.

TO LIVE OR TO DIE; THAT IS THE QUESTION

The beginning of Paul's and my journey through cancer is etched in my mind.

That day – the day before the memorial  day weekend Dr.  Ellis said, “With treatment maybe two years. Without two months at best.”

Her plan was to admit him that day. Paul was stunned;  I was beyond stunned.  “I need time to think,” he said.

Dr. Ellis down this road so many times before said, “Fair enough.  I’ll arrange for your admission the day after Memorial day.  If you decide to keep the appointment, be here. If you decide not call and cancel.”

Simple enough!  Simple?

That drive home from Wake Forest (the first of many as it turned out) seemed an eternity. Two days ago we were reveling in the delights of retirement; today we were facing its end.

Safely if not joyfully we returned to our thirty four acres. Thirty four acres bought  twenty-five years ago with dreams of growing grapes, making wine and growing old with the best of what life and nature had ro offer . Grapes which chose not to grow mattered little.  The beauty of our place made any other place on the planet seem secondary.

Home again with a death sentence hanging over our heads we cried. We laughed at the vagaries of nature. We pondered our choices. “I’m not ready to die,” he said.

The day after the memorial weekend together we drove to Wake Forest.  The next  day I drove home alone leaving him for the beginning of an eight week intensive chemo treatment.

NATURE'S HEALING NATURE

There are two routes from our home in Elliston Virginia to the Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, North Carolina. One is via the interstate requiring less time, bypassing points of delight to the eye and ear. 

On those frequent trips cancer treatment required  we chose not to bypass this little part of America. We drove back roads, through Riner and Floyd and Mt Airey. We chose to see  Mt. Pilot.

Mt Pilot looms up above the road asserting its place and grandeur. It demands attention, it demands awe. So often after a  trying and often not too positive meeting with the Wake Forest doctors we headed home.  And often we took the narrow, winding road to the top of Mt.  Pilot. With Food Lion deli sandwiches or the famous North Carolina barbecue and a six pack of beer (we never tried to learn if alcohol was allowed) we picnicked. 

The beauty of the mountain plant life, the wind in the trees, the darting of skittish animal life filled our ears, eyes and hearts with joy. The looming threat of cancer, the fear of what the future held fell away.

Mt Pilot did more to extend Paul’s life than any of the chemo he endured for his two years of treatment.  Of that I am sure.

NAGGING IS NOT ALWAYS WRONG

Memories come as memories come, unsolicited, on their own schedule. Thus this one came.

The dining room chair in front of the ‘west facing’ deck door allowed Paul to feed his lifelong addiction to the sun.

 Well into his second year of AML treatment  he spent hours in that chair allowing the rays of the sun to bake his cancer weary body.  This day he sat, he read, he dozed.  Until he did more dozing than reading. His head nodded, snapped upright. His body swayed- always to the left. Perhaps because he was left handed.

“Paul, you’re going to fall out that chair,” I said

“Stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he swayed. “Honey, you are going to fall out of your chair.”

“Will you stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he swayed. “Paul”, I said more harshly. “You are going to fall out of that chair. Why don’t you move to the living room.”

“And what don’t you stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he fell out the chair. I ran to him. He was unhurt. He looked up at me, “Why did you quit nagging?” One of our good days at the end.

MEMORIES OF A DIRE AND WONDERFUL TWO YEARS

My husband died three years ago.

                  Three  long years.

                          Three short years.

His clothing is gone

Except for the two  sports jackets I made for him and the combat boots from his Army basic training.

His lecture notes are shredded and composted.

His bulletin is dismantled except for his army pin up picture of Anita Ekberg and his father’s 1934 calendar given to coal customers the year he died.

Memories of our 50+ years.

                 Memories of the last two years.

AML Leukemia (no cure) came.

                Two years with treatment.

                           Two months without.

We chose the two years. The next few entries will be memories of that sad and happy time.

DESPAIR OR LAZINESS

The discipline required of a serious blogger eludes me, I fear. Whether from sloth or lack of talent is open to question. Or not. Likely a little of both. BUT I ask you-- how many of you would or could produce a daily blog?

If many of you should and would, I shall either make lame excuses why I cannot or cry in despair.

Despair!
Despair is likely my problem.
Despair is surely my problem.
Despair from the chaos I see in our current political situation.

If there be a God, or if there be gods I beseech you see to this!

Alas I fear the fault is not with our gods but with ourselves.