No Perfect Way

 

I’ve walked the trail near Chambers Bay thousands of times. But one recent afternoon when I swung onto the path, I pulled up short.

The trees were light, dark, bare, budding; full, scraggly, thick, thin. Dead. Vibrant. Straight and tall. Blown backward by the wind.

I saw color and depth and heard birds.

And I had to sit down.

A few years ago, my husband, Dan, was diagnosed with Stage IV esophageal cancer. Six months later, I was diagnosed with cancer, too. We went from a handful of medical appointments a year to over 150 in eleven months.

We made our plan: we would tackle the situation with humor and a positive, matter-of-fact attitude. And we did.  We plowed through surgery and treatments, asked friends to recommend funny movies, made jokes, laughed, remained upbeat.

And we tried to protect our children. Tess was in graduate school in New York; Blake was just starting his freshman year of high school. Urging them not to Google Dan’s diagnosis, we stressed his was an unusual case: he was fit, healthy, a nonsmoker. And we clamped down on the information we imparted to friends and family, carefully controlling the tone and content.

Though Tess had to cope from a distance, she didn’t witness the day-to-day reality of dealing with a serious illness.

I was more worried about Blake, who was on the front lines. Reserved and quiet, he didn’t want to talk about what was going on.

When Dan returned home after his extensive surgery, Blake never said a word about Dan’s stoma, or feeding tube, or the staples in his neck.  Blake’s face, which had been anxious before the surgery, became tight and set.

However cheerful we tried to be, underneath we were all exhausted.  I admired how Blake got up and went to school every morning. He did his school work, helped at home, and, I knew, was determined not to add to our stress.

And he was very, very quiet.

I was tracking appointments and insurance, keeping the household running, and working as much as possible. Though I tried, I couldn’t give Blake much fun.

Gradually things got better. After six months, Dan was able to talk. A few months later, he could eat solid food. A few months after that, I finished radiation and Dan was back at work, slowly increasing his hours. Things were looking up.

Then Blake got sick.

He had headaches and nausea. He was dizzy. He slept nearly all the time. He was unable to go to school, and this went on for weeks. Medical tests came up empty.

Was there some unknown medical cause, or did he finally feel safe enough to collapse after bearing up under the stress of the previous year? I was a jangle of anxiety, not knowing which way to jump. Should I push him to return to normal life? What if this went on for months? 

One morning I insisted he go to school; he could always call me to pick him up. We pulled into the lot; he sat, looking miserable. “Just try,” I said. I watched as he wobbled into the building.

And suddenly, for only the second time in this entire ordeal, I was in tears. I flung myself out of the car and found Blake leaning against his locker, eyes closed, utterly still, his forehead against the metal door. I took him home.

Now, sometimes, I think of Blake, pale, limp, sleeping for weeks. I remember how hard he worked to make up a month of missed school work; how he never complained, not once. How he didn’t want to talk about our cancer.  How he still doesn’t.

I did my best. We all did our best.

And we are all here, and we are okay.

I am grateful beyond words.

But I sit at Chambers Bay, and wonder: Does Blake see the color?

 

 

April, 2019