What Came Next

The Salish tribes have been there for thousands of years it is said.  In 1792, explorer George Vancouver felt deceived thinking Whidbey Island was a peninsula.  It was an island. The name Deception Pass was born. Over the years, the area has seen illegal Chinese immigrants thrown overboard while tied up in burlap bags.  It has seen convicted murderers cut rock that was then sent to the Seattle waterfront. In 1935, the pass between Whidbey Island and nearby Fidalgo Island was connected by a bridge. The Daughters of the American Revolution unveiled a stone mounted plaque at the opening ceremony of the Deception Pass Bridge.  The plaque is located partway across the bridge on a small island named Pass Island. 

 “Ray! Hurry up and git over here.  We’re goin’ to take a picture.”

I would bet actual dollars that Nanny barked something similar to that at Papa right before this picture was taken. 

Probably.

I don’t know exactly what year that picture was taken at the Pass Island rock and plaque.  I don’t know why they were there. I don’t know how they got there or who they were with. I don’t know why she’s standing close to the rock and he’s standing farther away.   I only know what came next.

I know how the rest of their many years were filled with life.  I know the family they had surrounding them.  I know about the good stuff.  I know about the bad stuff. I know about the really bad stuff.  Looking back, at the big picture, none of the details about that day mattered much.  What really seems to have mattered is what came next.   No matter what life threw at them, by God, they just kept on going.   That’s what I see when I look at that picture.

“Drew!  Hurry up and get over here.  We’re going to take a picture.”

I would bet actual dollars my daughter said that to my son right before this picture was taken. 

Probably.

I do know what year that picture was taken, decades after Nanny and Papa's picture, and I do know why we were there.  I know why he’s wearing the monster truck shirt and why he was grabbing on to her arm. I remember being terrified walking partway across the bridge, 185 feet above the water, the cars whizzing by so close I could have touched them.  I held the boy’s hand so tightly I could have crushed his tiny bones.

I also know what came next--after the picture was taken. I know about the good stuff.  I know about the bad stuff.  I know about the really bad stuff.  All of it, of course, as their mother, seemed to matter a great deal…at the time.  But yet, looking back at the big picture, none of the details about that day seem to matter much.  What really matters is that, thank God, those kids have been able to keep on going. That’s what I see when I look at that picture.

When photographer Lisa Dills first posted this picture of Deception Pass she mentioned that she had missed the actual sunset under the bridge but managed to capture some boat activity just shortly afterwards. 

I suppose you can’t see the full sunset in this picture. But you can see what came next.  

You can’t see the Salish tribes, George Vancouver, the Chinese immigrants or the rock chopping prisoners in that picture.   But they are all there. You can’t see Nanny and Papa in Lisa’s picture.  But they are there.  You can’t see me and the boy, terrified, up on that bridge.  But we are there.  You can’t see the thousands of people who have posed at the plaque in that picture.  You can’t see their stories.  But they are all there.  

No, you can’t see any of those things in that picture. 

But I do. I see all of that and more.

I see what came next.

Check This Out!

Please go take a look at some of the other pictures Lisa Dills has taken.  She is a phenomenal photographer.  You won't be sorry. http://www.onedayatatimeinphotos.org/

Here's a short little video of Deception Pass.   Watch it and I guarantee you'll say, "Wow!  That place is sure is pretty."  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-Hh3n0UwpI

The Weigh In

It took mere seconds for me to stand on the scale.  I had to take my coat and my sweatshirt and my hat off, of course.  And my shoes.  I had to drop my purse and grocery bag full of crossword puzzle books and magazines.  Oh, and my sunglasses and my water bottle too.  I blew out all of my heavy breath.  I looked forward to the number for the first time in a long time.

“Mrs. Smith, you have lost another two pounds.  Are you having trouble eating?” the nurse asked me.

“Well, the chemo has taken my taste buds so eating is a miserable experience.  My husband did buy me a Dairy Queen Chocolate Xtreme Blizzard last week. I could taste that. ”

That’s what I said to the nurse.  What I said to myself, in my head, was, “Holy heck, YES!   I haven’t weighed this in 5 years.  Finally, something good about having cancer.”

I didn’t tell her I couldn't finish that Blizzard.  She never asked.  I was young.  I had weight to spare. She knew I’d live until the next weigh in.

“Mrs. Evans, I need you to take your coat off.”

“But I’m cold.”

The nurse pursed her lips and lowered her head.  “Mrs. Evans, it is very warm inside.  You will not need your coat.”

Mrs. Evans stared at the nurse, frowned and took her coat off.

“Mrs. Evans, I need you to take your other coat off.”

Mrs. Evans stared at the nurse, again, in defiance.   After a pause, she took her other coat off.

“Mrs. Evans, you’re gonna have to take that big sweater off.”

Mrs. Evans took a deep breath and declared for the whole chemotherapy infusion room to hear, “My DAUGHTER gave me this sweater.  It’s from the Peruvian Andes.  It’s very lightweight.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Evans, it is a very nice but a very heavy sweater.  You need to take it off, just like last time. I need to get an accurate weight."

Mrs. Evans’ eyes were desperate.

Her eyes considered pleading. 

Her eyes tried to tell that nurse she wouldn’t do it. 

Her eyes dimmed and gave up. 

Mrs. Evans’ shoulders slumped. Mrs. Evans took her sweater off and she stepped on the scale.

“Have you been eating Mrs. Evans?  You’ve lost 4 more pounds this week. I’ll have to mention this to the doctor.”

“My son brought me a Snickers! “ Mrs. Evans proudly announced. “One of those King  Size ones!”

“Did you eat it?” the nurse asked.

Mrs. Evans stared at the nurse.  The nurse stared back. The room was full of loud silence.

Mrs. Evans stepped off the scale.  She grabbed her coat, her other coat, her sweater, her laptop computer, her iPhone, her purse and her stainless steel water bottle and turned toward the nurse.  And as the nurse led frail Mrs. Evans away to her chemotherapy chair, Mrs. Evans muttered quietly, “I tried to eat it.”

Mrs. Evans was in the chair next to me. We both had needles plugged into our chests.  We both had poison dripping in. We both had lost weight.  I finally fit into my skinny jeans, thank goodness.  Mrs. Evans’ pants were hanging loose.  Mrs. Evans was weak.  She needed that Peruvian sweater to stay warm.  I worried about Mrs. Evans.  She looked like she was dying.

Mrs. Evans pulled out her laptop and kept her iPhone close by.  Mrs. Evans told me she had to finish grading papers.  She was a professor at the local community college.  She had been teaching for 37 years.  She started teaching before she had even finished her Ph.D.  It was her first job and she never left.  She loved the students.

I pulled out my magazine.  I read about the rich and famous.  I looked at the pictures of the pretty and super skinny stars.  They looked great.  Apparently, eating low carb is the latest craze.  All the famous people are doing it.  

It’s the best way to lose weight.   

Old

Every last one of them was old. 

Every last one of them needed help.

Every last one of them stared at me when I walked in.

My head was down and my hood was up when I walked through the door that day.  My brain was tired and my body ached as I marched one foot in front of the other.  I had been walking through that door regularly for 6 months now.  I was back for a checkup and recognized nearly all of the frailness staring back at me.

I was third in line to check in.  First and second were both in wheelchairs, one in a bathrobe.  When I sat down I had to navigate past a walker and an oxygen tank.  Every person in the waiting room had someone there to assist them.   I had impatience and pity.

The woman next to me started to make the usual cancer conversation.  How is your skin holding up from radiation?  Is your hair growing back yet? My skin peeled I said, and my hair is growing back black.  It’s someone else’s hair on my head, I told her.  She laughed and patted my chubby hand with her spindly one.

She had to have been 80 years old, I thought. She told me she was 71 and she recognized me.  Heck, we all recognized each other, I thought.  We recognized the look of helplessness and exhaustion and fear.  Sometimes we recognized flashes of hope.  And sometimes we recognized the taxing but obligatory face of a positive attitude.  We had stopped counting how many times we had been told to just be positive. 

There wasn’t much positivity in the waiting room that day.  There was a whole lot of struggle going on.  Nobody smiled.   I felt sorry for every last one of them.

The woman next to me asked me what I was looking at.  It’s kind of depressing in here today, I said.  I feel sorry for everyone.  She grinned.  She patted my hand again. Oh, but honey, she said, it’s quite the opposite. 

We all feel sorry for you.

I was stopped cold and turned toward her.  Yes, she said.  You’re the youngest.  You’re always the youngest when you walk in here. We’ve all noticed and we’re glad we didn’t get cancer at your age.  You probably still have kids at home, don’t you honey?

I tried not to cry at the truth.  The tears were in their usual spot, right under the surface, handy if needed.  I looked up and scanned the waiting room again.  This time I saw people.  This time, I saw lives still being lived. This time I saw people I envied.  Most were decades older than me.  They had years of memories in their heads and in their hearts.  They were full of life. I wanted to be just like them someday. 

Old.

The nurse called a name.  It was the lady next to me.  She patted my hand again and stood up slowly. Don’t worry honey, she said.  It’s all going to be ok.  We just have to stay positive…right?  And with that she winked at me, turned toward her walker and said hello to the nurse.

I'm Not Done Yet

I’m sorry to tell you this but you have breast cancer.

It’s a rare kind of cancer and it is aggressive. We’re not sure why it grows and we’re not sure how to make it go away. If we do manage to make it go away, it likes to come back again. If it does come back, it’s not good.

Those weren’t the exact words the doctor said to me. But that’s what he meant.



My heart froze.
My brain raced.
My soul shattered.

I remember thinking, “I don’t want to die. I’m not done yet.”



7 months have now passed since my diagnosis and I am often asked if cancer has changed me in any way. I’m not sure. In fact, I’ve written and rewritten this blog 4 different times, trying to discover a meaningful answer to that question. It doesn’t help that I am still a bit angry about the turn my life has taken. I don’t want to consider cancer a blessing. I don’t want to learn any lessons from cancer. I don’t want to become a better person because of cancer. I don’t want to be grateful for one single thing that has resulted from this diagnosis. Cancer is terrifying and sometimes I just want to whine about how unfair it all seems.

Cancer is also complicated. It is not a single disease. It does not have a single cause and it does not have a single cure. There are many different kinds of breast cancer alone, with many different suspected causes and suggested treatments. Each case, including my own, is unique. While I have now finished my initial course of treatment, I am by no means “done” dealing with cancer and its side effects. One way or another, cancer will be a big part of my life for many years to come-maybe forever. I don’t know why I got cancer. I don’t know if the treatments I chose will work. I don’t know if I will live one more year or fifty more years. There are very few certainties in the world of cancer-despite what the internet, well meaning friends and your coworker’s aunt’s cousin who researches avocado extract would have us believe. I have always been a planner with a "to do" list and an agenda to accomplish. Cancer doesn’t care about my list or my agenda. In fact, I go to bed each night with many more questions running through my head than answers. Cancer has taught me to be at peace with that.

Cancer has also driven home the fact that being nice matters. Every day we encounter people in the world who drive us nuts or hurt our feelings or really anger us. There are plenty of people in real life or online that behave in a way we just cannot comprehend. And whether they are there by fate or their own poor choices, there are many people in the world who just seem to get in our emotional or physical way. I’ve been all of these people. I’ve been annoying. I’ve said hurtful things. I haven’t behaved as I was expected to. I’ve been helpless. I’ve been useless. I’ve been a burden.

And people were still nice to me. I can tell you that it was an incredible blessing and has made an enormous difference in my life. Every person on this planet deserves to have that. It sounds simplistic and naive, but I believe without one ounce of doubt that-

Being. Nice. Matters.

All of the time.

Every single day.

For no reason.

No matter what.

Especially when you don’t want to be.



I received a certificate the other day congratulating me on completing a course of radiation. It might as well have said, “Congratulations! You showed up every day!” I’ve certainly had many days where showing up was the only thing I did. And it most definitely was not certificate worthy. I don’t know what the future holds, but it has been 7 months since I looked at my doctor and thought, “I’m not done yet.” I still feel the same way. So for now, I think I’ll just keep showing up.

Rush

There were people who found it important to point out that the stereo was worth more than the car.  It was true that the gold, 1969 Plymouth Valiant was a 15 year old castoff from Bell Telephone Company and did not garner many second looks as it rolled down the street.  And it was true that the stereo was a totally radical aftermarket addition financed entirely by 1980’s era teenage boy paychecks.  But he knew you couldn’t measure things like this with dollars.

His index finger pushed the cassette into the player and he heard the familiar click. The two Sanyo amplifiers and Sanyo deck fired up the soundtrack of his life.  There were people who didn’t know a thing about noise reduction that claimed Dolby C was useless. But the 6 x 9’s in each door and the two 8 inch rounds in the back proved them wrong.  He knew it sounded good.

Geddy Lee’s voice screamed at him to conform or be cast out.  He pounded on the steering wheel and serenaded the drivers in the next lane with the story of the restless dreams of youth. There were people who failed to understand the Canadian rock band Rush.  But he knew every word of every album.  

He wasn’t the only one.  There were people who rode in that car who would drum every single Rush beat onto the dashboard.  There were people who hung their feet out of the window during the California road trip while Rush provided a distraction from the heat.  Rush played on that stereo when they piled into the car on their way to the football games.  Rush was the soundtrack to the brake failures coming down from the Mt. Erie adventures. It was Rush playing on the way to challenge Steve at ping pong and over the Westside bridge to pick up Dave and every time Chuck wanted to go visit Judy.   

And Rush played on the day he drove away from them all, when he drove away from those days to search for his future.

No, you couldn’t measure things like this with dollars.

It was 2014 when the teenage boy sat in the hard plastic chair and listened to the teacher yell above the roar of junior high chatter.

“Today we are having 80’s trivia contest!”  the teacher announced.  “I’m going to play a song from the 1980’s and the first person to tell me what the name of the band is will win a fabulous prize!”

The sound of Geddy Lee filled the room.  He screamed at those teenagers to conform or be cast out.

All of the kids stared blankly at the teacher in front of the room.

Except one.

One teenage boy raised his hand.

“Um...that’s Rush.” he offered casually.

The teacher asked him how he knew about Rush.

“Yeah, that’s my dad’s fault. 

I swear he knows every word of every album.”

Check This Out!

Rush was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013.  Here's a video from a concert of theirs in 2011.  

He Was A 12

There was no way out.

We were trapped.

My left hand reached forward for the husband.  My right hand reached back for the teenage boy. 

My God, I thought. One wrong move and bad things could happen.

It was six thirty in the morning when he painted a bird on his face. 

He dressed carefully, layer by layer, each piece colorfully cementing his commitment to the cause.  As he walked to the train station he had to take a deep breath.  He needed some way to control the excitement bubbling in his blood.

When he arrived downtown it was a sea of blue and green as far as he could see. 

It was no surprise.

He knew they would show up.

The Seahawk 12s always showed up.  

He waited a long time for the team to come by.  But when they did he yelled as loud as he ever had.  He raised his arms and chanted with the crowd. His heart was pounding.  He thought this might be the greatest moment of his life.

He knew it was just a game.  But by God, these boys, these men, had managed to make him deliriously happy.  They had won the Superbowl.   He was sure he’d remember it forever.

He knew he was just one of thousands that day on the parade route.  He knew he was just a normal, average guy with a bird painted on his face.  But this football team? - They were inspiring. They had done something great.

The crush of people began as soon as the parade was over.  Within minutes the husband, the teenage boy and I were seized and engulfed. The pack tightened.  The choking crowd swayed as one.  The gridlocked individual was powerless as thousands of bodies pressed up hard and tight against each other.  The initially intoxicating and exhilarating experience of being a part of it all had taken a turn toward the frightening and alarming.

It was, without question, impossible to move.

I turned to find a man with a bird painted on his face bellowing over my head at the top of his lungs.  His belly pressed hard into my side, I could feel him take in another breath and bellow again, “There are little children here!  There are little children here!”

The crush of 12s turned their heads in real concern and looked toward the man with the bird painted on his face.

“Come on people! “ he firmly roared. “We are going to make some room!  We’ve got to get these little children out of here!"

Impossibly, the 12s pushed back and parted the sea of congestion.  Impossibly, a space was created. Impossibly a mother holding a baby and pushing a stroller with a toddler in it nervously made her way through the crowd.

The man with the bird painted on his face yelled again, “Good job people! Good job!   We don’t want anyone getting hurt-especially the little children.”

And with that the crowd closed in on each other.   

Again, it was impossible to move.

When the crowd finally broke free, I watched him walk away.  He thought he was just one of thousands that day on the parade route.  He thought he was just a normal, average guy with a bird painted on his face.  But this guy? - He was inspiring.  He had done something great. 

Check This Out!

Most of what I knew about Bruce Springsteen came from his Born in the USA years and the fact that my high school choir teacher was one of his biggest fans.

I have just finished the book Bruce by Peter Ames Carlin.  

A fairly honest account of Bruce's life and music, this book has caused me to become one of the Boss' obsessive superfans.  At least for now.  It's worth checking out, for sure.  It's no surprise he's still creating and touring. I recommend having some of his albums around while you are reading. Listening to the music the author is describing helped in understanding the book, and Bruce.  

I've become particularly fond of his early music, something I was fairly unfamiliar with before reading the book.  

One of my new favorites:   Prove It All Night

You Should Have Been Looking At My Boots

You saw avocados. 

You saw me pressing the avocados trying to find the perfect one.  You saw middle aged and mom jeans and the search for healthy monounsaturated fats.

 U shoulda been lookin’ at mah boots.

If you had seen my boots you would have heard the retro pounding of Judas Priest’s Rock Hard, Ride Free.  You would have felt the peculiarly brilliant words of George Saunders cut through your heart.  You would have tasted the beatnik in the Post Punk Kitchen recipe I was shopping for.  You would have seen all that and you would have wanted more.

But no.  You saw the avocados.  

You saw the brown rice and the Good Housekeeping and the fiber yogurt. You saw the coupons and the chamomile tea and the mundane.

You should have been looking at my boots.

The hipster man-boy coddled my emotions as a skilled young salesman would be expected to do with a 40-something woman who had wandered into that kind of store.   I had wanted to buy the boots since I was in 8^th grade.  Budgets and rational thinking hijacked my intentions for 30 years.  But now I sat before this hipster man-boy and listened to his prophetic chattering about my dream boots.  He told me they would be too tight.  He told me they would hurt like heck.   He told me they would stretch out and then fit like a glove.

I felt like a joke when I put them on.  He assured me I didn’t look like a skinhead at all.

I was unsure and ready to walk out the door.  He was convinced and remained admirably committed to his ultimate goal.

He grabbed me with his eyes, smiled in a particularly charming way and slowly cooed,

“Trust me. 

They will be awesome.  

You will be transformed.

You. Will. Love. Them.”

The hipster was right.  The dream boots were a nightmare.  My feet were utterly overwhelmed with agony.  The Internet promised that my pedi-torture would eventually lead to a euphoric nirvana.  I didn’t know if I was strong enough to make it to that promised land.

But I did.

The agony eventually morphed into mere pain, traveled through mildly uncomfortable and landed solidly in the hipster’s predicted vision about my boots.

They were awesome.

I was transformed.

I. Did. Love. Them.

When I put on my boots that morning I became a rock star.  I became a poet.  I was a rebel.  I was a visionary.  I had secrets and darkness and a riot in my brain.  I had insight and intensity and inspiration in my blood.  My boots and I stormed into the store that day screaming at you.  We were bold and fearless and ready to conquer.

Yeah, you should have been looking at my boots. 

You would have seen all that.

But no.  You saw avocados.




Check This Out!

The New York Times believes that Tenth of December by George Saunders is the best book you will read this year.  

This collection of short stories is different.  It is provocative.   It will make you question.  It will make you think.  It will give you some serious book withdrawal when you are done.   You really should check it out.