The Mongrel Time

This was the time of year. The mongrel time. Neither winter nor spring. The between-time, without a clear-cut name. Mid-winter? Well. . .yes. But no! Early-spring? Surely not.

This is Michigan! We expect ten-twelve weeks of more challenging weather. More snow. Leading in April to sleet and slush, accompanied by damp, biting wind. Maybe an Easter blizzard just to show us who's boss. Then a flirtatious May with its confusing days -- how to dress? Chilly mornings. Warm, suffocating afternoons when we strip off the jacket and sweater and wish for lighter socks and the light caress on our legs of well-worn levis. Maybe even sandals and shorts.

I'm remembering the last time the weather was just like this: unseasonably warm. But it wasn't the middle of January. It was the first week in February, when Nancy came to me and told me she was certain she had appendicitis. She said she'd felt it coming ever since she hadn't been able to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. Hadn't even tasted my birthday cake. She hadn't fully enjoyed food for weeks.

But ever since Thanksgiving, the pain had fluctuated. Some days it vanished completely. Most days the pain was moderate, the sort of pain she could easily put out of her mind. Some few days, the discomfort was intense and frightening. Those few days were the ones I knew about. Those were the days that scared me. Those were the days I couldn't permit myself to think.

I soon learned that for some time Nancy had at least suspected that her breast cancer had recurred somewhere in her lower-right abdomen. She didn't want to know. And she didn't want me to know. That day she spoke only of appendicitis. And true: she was noticeably swollen in that area of her abdomen at about her waistline.

Within three minutes of our brief conversation I called Nancy's oncologist. That was late on a Tuesday. He extended his day and insisted we come to his office immediately.

His colleagues at the Imaging Center performed their magic the next morning. A biopsy that afternoon confirmed what the images showed: that Nancy's breast cancer had recurred in her liver. It wasn't liver cancer. It wasn't tumors that might be surgically removed. It was breast cancer that had spread onto the surface of her liver.

And it was advanced. A second chemotherapy protocol was required. Chemotherapy protocols are horrible. Fifteen endless weeks of intermittent nausea and head-achy vomiting, inability to eat and hold down food, a terrifying weight-loss and physical weakness -- a persistent, grinding-away experience that drives out hope in all but the most courageous.

But during Nancy's eighteen months of remission, she had regained her weight and become strong again. The first protocol had taught us both that she was all but invulnerable. She had suffered and fought and endured. Case closed. She was a survivor.

I know. . .magical thinking. But without such thinking there can be no hope. And hope is essential to good mental health, to the good life.

It was more than just Nancy's indomitable competitive spirit. The first grueling protocol had taught her she could do what was required. She trusted her strength. She loved the life we'd built. She knew people survived. All four of her aunts had survived for years, were still alive and thriving twenty-five years after their struggles with breast cancer.

She completed the protocol successfully in June. I taught fifteen days in May. The class had been scheduled and filled. It was a workshop course that required me to teach just 15, three-hour meetings over the course of three weeks. Nancy required that I fulfill the contract. I suppose she hoped it might distract me.

And it did. The course required that I work with teams of students developing hands-on materials for their classes. So it was an intense set of creative projects, and it required me to focus my thoughts and energies. The course met late afternoons. I would put Nancy down for her nap, race to school, work with my students three hours -- then rush home and make supper.

You may not be aware of how many ways small bits of beef or chicken, rice, and vegetables can be artfully and tastefully combined. Nor might you realize everything short of dish-rags can be made into tasty puddings. Nor might you know the magic of fruit salads.

Nancy was a lefty. I'm a righty. We sat tightly together on the cushion of one kitchen chair. Her right arm beneath my left holding tightly to each other. We had an inviolable agreement that I would eat not one fork-full more than she. One chair, one plate, two forks, our free arms around each other, one small mouthful at a time. Quiet music in the background.

I lost weight -- not all bad, though I had no excess weight to lose. But Nancy didn't lose an ounce -- a definite good.

We'd take turns on the balance scale every morning: "Bob! You're losing weight."

A big hug: "Yeah. I see. You need to eat more, Nancy. . . ."

And for my sake she tried. The predicament made us both laugh in spite of ourselves. Here she was fighting for her life -- for our shared life. At the same time we both knew from nearly forty years together that I had never lost any weight I didn't immediately find again. And she worried about that -- instead of worrying about herself.

Early June, Nancy's cancer entered a state they called stability -- which we were given to understand was not exactly remission. This meant the cancer was still present but not active. Apparently she had fought the cancer to a stand-still, but had not eliminated it.

Her physical condition was such that she never regained her weight or her strength.

That was the final year of her life. Nancy recurred in early October. She had too little body substance and too little strength. She died four weeks into that third protocol.


But, as I was saying: this is that same time of year. The mongrel time. Neither full-fledged winter, nor spring. Above-average temperatures. Snow melt. Bleak days filled with a vague sense that something significant is about to happen.

That was February, 2006. And something did happen. Something bad. And I felt it coming. Felt it unfolding. Knew it was beyond our power.

Something significant is about to happen again. I feel it.

Thing is, though:
This time I feel it'll be
something good!