Part 25. The Ice Chewer

I went to see Wonder Woman last weekend. Although I enjoyed the movie, I still can’t figure out how women fight in skimpy, leather, strapless, cheerleading outfits and their boobs don’t fall out, but that’s another commentary; I mean story! My story starts with the upgraded AMC theaters near us. I was excited to be able to pick my seat rather than hope good ones were still available by the time I arrived; excited to have a reclining seat; and excited to have my own arm rest. Essentially, I had a smile on my face as the movie began. So excited was I at the experience I was about to have, watching a movie I wanted to see with my good friend Leanne, who was sitting to my right.

About fifteen minutes into the movie I noticed something on my left. Have you ever been so focused on one thing that you sort of forgot about everything else in existence? It’s just you and that thing which is consuming your concentration. Then, something pulls you out of it. A noise, maybe. First you don’t hear it, then it seems far in the distance and undecipherable. But, if you turn any of your attention towards the noise, you're never going to be able to un-notice it, if you decide it is has the potential to ruin your experience. That was me watching Wonder Woman and the noise came from the guy sitting directly to my left…the Ice Chewer. So excited was he to drink his soda so he could get to the ice. He’s probably the only person in existence who asks for extra ice when he orders his $8.00 soda. Part way through the movie he got a refill. Ice, not soda. 

He didn’t chew it continuously for the two hours, but it was regularly enough that, if you weren’t careful, you might be on alert waiting for the cup to be raised, followed by a slight shaking of it to dislodge the ice. Then, gravity would take over, causing the ice to tumble over itself, as if, each piece was racing to be free of the confines of the cup only to find themselves landing on his back molars to be crushed into nonexistence. But I didn’t go there. And what could this experience possibly have to do with cancer? 

Nothing and everything. 

Nothing, in that, while it seems everything in existence can cause cancer if you believe what you read, I have yet to hear chewing ice causes cancer. It may indicate anemia if you believe what you read, or give you a brain freeze, but not cancer. 

Everything, in that the Ice Chewer didn’t ruin my experience, and its because of cancer, or more appropriately, everything it has taught me about myself. When I realized he was chewing ice, a habitual response began to happen - a bit of indignation. I mean, who chews ice in a theater? If there was a reason to be irritated not many people would disagree with this one! But the indignation stopped, because I realized I was at choice. I didn’t have to be irritated. Within my body (most of the time) I feel peaceful and relaxed. In that moment I thought, “Renee, you can choose to be irritated by him and that choice changes your internal state from peaceful to irritation. Is that how you want to feel? Irritated? And then be distracted from watching the movie and become more irritated, blaming him all the more?”  And my answer was, “No, I choose peace.” I heard him throughout the movie but its as if the sound went through me rather then sticking, if that makes sense.

Irritation by Sasuka

I contemplated how I arrived at seeing this as a choice rather than an automatic response of irritation as it would have done PC (pre-cancer). In the past, I lived with low level irritation/ impatience as part of my being. If that is the state I occupied, and someone chewed ice next to me in a theater, there was no way I could have been at choice! I would have reveled in righteous indignation! I mean, really, who chews ice in a theater? The rest of us look for loud, on-screen situations to open a wrapper for God’s sake! This guy shakes the ice into his mouth and loudly chews it while Wonder Woman contemplates saving the world! Seriously, come on! I would have debated whether to give him a dirty look, say something sarcastic (“Would you like my ice when you’re done with yours?”), accidentally bump his ice on his lap, or any number of other scenarios all created while the movie played on. 

When I walked the world with irritation, and encountered experiences that could be considered irritating, the habitual response was to run with it. I think our beings want to bleed off the yucky feelings we carry inside hoping for a bit of peace. For a brief moment in time, having a place to put the irritation made me felt better. Telling all my friends, who then sympathized, made the good feeling last longer. But the irritation inside still remained seeking out other experiences to direct its energy and falsely blame for its existence.

It took cancer for me to get to a place of peace, to realize that no thing outside of me, including cancer, let alone an Ice Chewer, is responsible for how I feel. It took cancer for me to realize that our natural state is one of love, equanimity, and peace and to get to that place is a matter of letting go of all that is false - our limiting beliefs, all of which came from someone else. We were born with none.

If you see the Ice Chewer, thank him for me. I got to be reminded of all that and I got to be reminded that I am always at choice in how I respond to situations. I got to be grateful for the peace I feel, and I got to enjoy watching Wonder Woman! (Why do women action heroes wear virtually nothing and men action heroes are covered head to toe? But that’s another commentary. I mean story!)

“It’s about what you believe. And I believe in love. Only love will save the world.”

— Diana Prince aka Wonder Woman

Part 24. What Does it Mean to be Healed?

What does it mean to be healed?

As many of you know, I recently had a CT scan and received some very good news. While I was happy about the result, what was more significant to me was my state of being going into the scan and the subsequent appointment with Dr. Chue. In the past I would have been anxious, hoping for the best, dreading the worst, trying to set good intentions to influence the results, worrying that my worry was working against my best intentions. This time it was different.

While Wes and I were driving to the appointment he asked me how I was doing. I said, “Good!” and I meant it. I could have been going to the market was my indifference to the occasion. It was a far different car ride than my previous rides which included my “baggage,” mostly filled with anxiety, because of the power I gave to a scan in determining my well-being. I checked in for my appointment and was given the barium sulfide to drink. After a few sips I thought, “I’m going to have to remember mocha next time. It’s not too bad tasting,” which was a far different culinary experience than two years ago when I wanted to vomit with every gulp. When the technician sat me on the table I looked at the donut (CT engine) and thought, “You really can’t hurt me,” referring to the radiation I would receive, which was a far different judgement from my usual resentment at receiving more radiation to get a snapshot of my insides. What changed?

I did.

There existed within me a belief that I could always affect change if I worked hard enough uncovering the root causes of a situation. If things weren’t changing then there must be another root cause, my reasoning said, and I would keep looking. It worked so well over the years I never had to consider what belief I might have about myself if the change I wanted to see wasn’t happening. 

Then, in 2009, I got cancer. For eight years I explored my external and internal landscapes uncovering root causes, remedies, and recipes hoping that the current one would be the magic bullet healing me of cancer. The vigilance, discipline, and emotional highs and lows over those eight years took a toll on my body; It was always in a revved up state. I can only see that now, in hindsight. At the time it was my normal. If I were a fish, that state was my water. (The fish and water analogy comes from a David Foster Wallace commencement speech)

When my cancer marker went up in May, I sat down again to explore my internal landscape because the emotions I was feeling were needing some attention. Something had begun to shift already; I could feel it. Being angry had replaced being worried, and quite frankly, I was tired of thinking there must be more to be revealed that I needed to figure out. 

“Enough,” I thought. “I AM enough as I AM now.”

My mind was having none of that. It had a need to want to dig deeper to uncover something to be healed that might have an impact on my cancer marker.

A more loving part of me said, “No, I AM enough as I AM now. I love you.”

But this controlling kind of energy kept pulling at me to keep digging. 

“No.”

“What is this about?” I wondered! I could see its fear and the urgency it had to want to keep looking. I waited, watched, and it finally became clear. What emerged was a long held belief I had been diligently trying to avoid with my relentless hard work uncovering root causes. “If I still have an issue that isn’t changing, in this case, cancer, then there must be more for me to figure out. And if I can’t figure it out then there must be something wrong with me.” - like a fatal flaw, like I don’t deserve to be here, like I’m defective to my core. I saw that belief for what it was and felt a tremendous amount of compassion. Frantic, child-like, afraid, determined, because it felt like life/love was conditional and unless it could prove its worth it didn’t belong. Over and over I hugged that belief with three others lovingly spoken from the very core of my being:

“I AM enough as I AM now”… “I love you”…”I AM healed. “The child-like belief would try and wiggle out and I would would keep repeating, “I AM enough as I AM now”… “I love you”…”I AM healed. “ until it calmed altogether. All that remained was a quiet peacefulness.

The experience left me contemplating a few things:

1. I thought about my dad who had an unwavering need to be right and wondered if he too couldn’t fathom a world where he would be allowed to exist if he were ever wrong. In lieu of feeling loved, did he choose to be right instead? And then I thought about the human condition - do we each have a strong need to be a certain way - the smart one, the funny one, the good one, because we somehow got the message that we weren’t lovable as we were? We had to earn it? 

2. I thought about our culture which focuses so much on physical healing and yet are we healed? In 2011, I expected to feel relief after my lumpectomy making me cancer free at the time, and yet the worry that had always existed within me found a new focus - will it come back? Physical healing can give us more time to live, but they have yet to figure out a cure for dying.There is more to us than these bodies, and healing the baggage we carry makes the time we have here a richer experience.

3. I thought about how different I felt. With the part of me who believed I had to earn my right to exist now quieted, my body was feeling relaxed, at a cellular level, for the first time. The difference is palpable. Periodically, the habitual echo of that belief will be heard as it wonders if even this realization will be what heals me of cancer . I just say, “Let cancer go, I AM enough as I AM; I AM healed.” And my body relaxes. 

4. I thought about all of this from a more spiritual perspective. At the level of who we really are, eternal and connected to Source - I have always been enough as I AM now, always loved, and I’ve always been healed. Always. My physical existence has come and will go one day, but me, the one who occupies this body, the one who resonates more and more with my eternal nature…has always been enough, always loved, and always healed. It can be no other. 

Which brings me all the way back to my original question. What does it really mean to be healed? The answer to that is probably different for everyone, but for me, I found my answers. I AM healed.

Part 16. Throwback Thursday

IVY Club

The summer after I graduated from high school I worked as a lifeguard at the Illinois Valley Yacht Club. Now I believe it is called the Illinois Valley Yacht and Canoe Club. (Does anyone else find that funny?) The year was 1977. There aren’t many things in my current life that cause me to think back on that summer. When I do, I think about all the post high school fun we had, but there are also three memories that have nothing to do with friends or fun.

• Teaching swimming lessons. When I got the job as a lifeguard I was told I would also be teaching swimming lessons...to toddlers. I was petrified. There is an assumption that lifeguards know how to teach swim lessons. Lifeguards know how to save people who are drowning, and just because I may be able to save someone who doesn’t know how to swim, doesn’t mean I know how to teach him to swim. Toddlers were alien little beings to me, too. I never babysat as a teenager so I had no idea how to interact with them. A toddler, a pool, me, and my complete lack of training in both swim lessons and children didn’t seem like a fun combination, but somehow, I managed to both teach them how to swim and enjoy it, too.
• The smell of chlorine and cement. To this day, a splash of chlorine on wet cement takes me right back to the summer of ’77. Every night our job was to clean up from a day of IVY Club members frolicking in the pool and locker rooms. To clean the floors of the locker room we would hose down the floor, toss some chlorine around and sweep it all to the drain. The combination of the two presents a nostalgic sort of perfume to me.
• The day a visiting boat docked at the IVY Club. One day in August of that year, a quite large yacht that was traveling the Illinois river docked at the Yacht Club. There was a photographer on board, Lou Sapienza, and for a few hours that afternoon, Lou chatted with me and took some photos. I think he might have sent me a photo a few weeks later. Although I was comfortable with the innocence of the afternoon, my mother was worried that continued contact might lead me into the porn industry. Never mind that he would go on to have photos published in National Geographic, Life, and Forbes to name a few. I never knew what happened to him until 2011 when he found me on Facebook and we reconnected. Lou does exciting things now like lead expeditions to Antarctica and Greenland to recover the remains of MIAs from WWII. I write posts to a blog.

 So what prompts me to write about that summer now? Last week Lou sent me the photos from that day. Normally, when you view a thirty-nine year old picture, the photo itself has aged thirty-nine years leaving you with a proper sense of time having passed. These photos hadn’t gone through the aging process and looked like they could have been taken yesterday. So, when I looked at the girl in the photo it was eerie; it was weird. It was me...but it wasn’t. I really looked at her and remembered:

photo by Lou Sapienza

How much my hair irritated me back then. I so much wanted it to hold the Farrah Fawcett curl and it never would. Going out on a weekend night, I would keep those curlers in my hair until the very last minute. My friend’s car would pull up to the house. A honk signaled her arrival and that the curlers needed to come out. Hairspray went on, and then there was the mad dash to the car in hopes it had air conditioning so the humidity wouldn’t undo everything I had done. Today... I don’t have hair.

I didn’t like my thighs. My brothers used to laugh at me and call me “Thunder Thighs!” among other names. They weren’t the protective type.  Being a basketball player didn’t lend itself to thin gams that looked good in “hot-pants” Remember those? Today they are called shorts. This didn’t keep me from wearing my red, white, and blue stars and stripes hot-pants during the bicentennial year, though. I thought I looked good...they even had a little cuff on them. Today, while I rarely wear shorts, I’m so appreciative that those same legs will take me where I want to go after the year I had in 2015 wondering whether I would be able to walk normally again. What they look like is...irrelevant.

photo by Lou Sapienza

I never liked the shape of my mouth either. I always thought I had a thin upper lip. Over the years I tried using lip liner to change the shape of my mouth and all it accomplished was looking like I colored “outside of the lines.” I thought the natural shape of my mouth made me look like I was either mad or sad, too. Maybe I was and didn’t know it. When I was younger I would bemoan the genes that caused this. Today, in the end, I realized that if you walk around smiling no one wonders whether you’re mad or sad. 

Looking at the photos Lou sent made me remember the critical nature I had of myself back then. I stared a bit longer at her. She was just seventeen…would turn eighteen in two months!  She hadn’t left for college yet and doesn’t know that she will become so homesick that first quarter being 2,000 miles away...twenty pounds worth of homesick! Everyday she will cross off the day on a calendar, counting down the days until Christmas vacation. She has no idea what she will do for a living after college, although she is pretty sure it will have nothing to do with swimming lessons. She hasn’t met the man she will marry - that is six years away, or contemplate being a mom - that is twelve years away. She doesn’t know yet how hard it will be to leave everything that will become comfortable and familiar in California at twenty-nine years of age to move to a state like Utah where nothing will be comfortable or familiar. She doesn’t know yet that she will end up raising her boys in the Pacific Northwest, come to love the weather and culture it provides and find her calling there as a personal coach. And finally, she doesn’t know yet that the most profound life lessons, suffering, and joy will come from a diagnosis of breast cancer. I looked at the photo, looked at my right breast in the photo and thought, “Nothing was there yet.” She was more worried about the size and shape of it, not the health of it. At seventeen one doesn’t even think about that, nor should one.

What I was left with after all this pondering were two things - how grateful I am for being alive and getting to a point of being able to appreciate everything that comes my way - the good, the bad and the wisdom that comes from living through life's experiences. And this brings me to the second realization. I have two children in their twenties. I think back over the four decades since those pictures were taken and wonder what is in store for my kids. We all want them to be happy and have a life free of heartache, and yet, has that been our experience? What will the Universe throw their way that will be in their highest interest, but they may not know it?  A mother diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer? What else? It is my hope that how my family has chosen to handle my situation, and the love we have for one another, lays a solid foundation that carries them forward through any experience they may encounter in the years ahead...and that, that brings a smile to my face. Lou, thank you for sending those pictures!

P.S.  I keep forgetting to share the news. My cancer marker is half what it was when I started this process a couple months ago. Woo-hoo!

Part. 15 Unremarkable

I am unremarkable. So I was told last Monday. Yep...unremarkable. And I couldn’t be happier about it. The road to my unremarkability (that’s not a real word) actually started way before Monday. A couple of months ago my oncologist asked a very simple, logical question. “So, are you having any headaches?” Until that moment it never occurred to me that the cancer might make it’s way to my brain. Somehow, without question, I assumed the cancer cells would stay in the lower 48 as if my collarbone were the equivalent of the Canadian border. “No,” I responded in somewhat of a questioning way, as in “No, I don’t think so?” and/or, “No, but, maybe, let me think about this?” and/or, “No, wow, I never even thought about it but, gee, now it’s all I seem to think about!” 

I left her office. As the days passed and my cancer marker climbed, I watched as some part of me, some aspect of my personality took up the “watch” and began monitoring for sensations in my head. It was acting as the border patrol looking for suspicious characters wishing to enter forbidden territory. “What was that sensation? Is that new? Maybe my head does hurt? I feel something.” In my more rational moments I was able to counter with, “ Renee, perhaps unclenching your jaw might make the pain go away.” “Oh, yeah, that does help!” “Hmmm, my eyesight has gotten worse.” “Try not squinting.” I was creating stories about unwanted possibilities that, at times, seemed beyond my ability to control. I wish my creativity in storytelling would confine itself to my blog!

A couple weeks ago I did wake up with a headache. Fortunately, it was a Thursday and Thursdays are spent at the Lifespring Cancer Treatment Center (see my last post for information about the clinic) and I was scheduled to talk with Dr. Chue who always asks how the presiding week went since the last treatment. “Well, I woke up with a headache today.” He calmly nodded his head, “Lets schedule you for an MRI then and get a baseline brain scan. Breast cancer can metastasize to the brain.” The scan was scheduled for Monday, Aug 29th. I was both relieved…now I’ll know, and worried…do I really want to know?

As I was getting ready for my MRI appointment Monday morning well entrenched in my own world of coping when Wes said something to me. I interrupted him, hugged him, or more appropriately, held onto him and said, “I’m scared.” He rubbed my back, probably said something reassuring. I don’t remember, but it didn’t matter; the closeness did. We went about our preparations and drove to the appointment. I filled out the necessary forms, sat for a minute and they called my name…

When the technician had me lay on the table and got my head situated the way she wanted it, I found myself thinking about the crystalware I recently had delivered from Ireland and about the easy bake oven I had as a young girl. The technician had me scoot all the way up so my shoulders just touched the box-like contraption that would be home to my head for the next half hour. After the ear plugs went in, padding was placed on each side of my head so it wouldn’t move. A lid was placed over my head completing the “packaging”. My head was in a box. Fortunately, the box is open at the end closest to your chin so you can breathe. Recently, I had crystal tumblers shipped from Ireland that broke somewhere in the delivery process. Had the packaging been as complete as was done on my head for the MRI, I’m sure the glasses would have made it undamaged. The technician then rolled me into the tube...aka Easy Bake Oven.

I’m glad I meditate. I’m glad I meditate because it is incredibly loud and particularly close in the Easy Bake Oven. Instead of focusing on the noises that are eerily similar to those found in construction zones, I quieted my mind and repeated a prayer-like mantra over and over. I also thought about the recurring images that have been popping into my psyche recently. They are images of me speaking in front of groups, I have a smile on my face, vibrancy in my being, and I am sharing all that cancer has taught me; the vehicle it has been to my transformation. I see another image of my grandchildren. There are two of them, a boy and girl, about seven and nine years old. Our excitement upon seeing one another is mutual. They don’t care what I may or may not have accomplished. They are just glad to see me, and I them. Those images are my lodestar. They are the real me and I know I’m on my way to them. Sometimes the road there can be bumpy but it’s ok, it’s worth it. 

About 3/4 of the way through the scan a wave of peace enveloped me. “It’s ok. No matter what the scan says it’s ok, Renee. If there is something there you are already doing something about it, and Dr. Chue has dealt with this many times. If there is nothing there, then won’t that be fun to celebrate! It’s a win-win Renee, either way you won’t have to be wondering anymore.” 

I was rolled out of the Easy Bake Oven and the technician warmly said, “You look like you could have stayed in there forever!” She was particularly friendly and my mind quickly jumped to an analysis of her niceness. One story says she was nice because she feels bad for the results of the scan. Another story was created that says she was nice because there was nothing on the scan. Somehow the ego finds comfort in attaching some meaning, any meaning to what it’s perceiving. Never mind that she might just be a nice person. That train of thought gives the ego no comfort. It’s looking for a life raft; niceness for no reason has no substance, though it may well be the truth.

I thought I was going to have to wait for my normal Thursday appointment to find out the results of the brain scan. Instead, when I left the radiologists office I headed over to Dr. Chue’s clinic to receive a saline drip to help flush the dye that was used through my kidneys. Dr. Chue walked into the room and his first words were, “We got the results back from your brain scan and everything looks normal. Your scan was unremarkable.” 

The news settled in and I remembered my peaceful moment during the scan, “And if nothing is there won’t that be fun to celebrate!” And so I celebrated! I smiled and said “Well, I’m unremarkable and that is so awesome! I’m glad I’m unremarkable!”  When the nurse came in I made her fist bump me, “My scan was clear!” I excitedly shared. In the car on the way home, I would periodically turn to Wes, “My scan was clear!” Every night when I go to bed I say a prayer of gratitude for the clear scan AND for getting to have the experience of such joy, relief, and excitement of receiving good news.” It’s such a great feeling.

Unremarkable...my new favorite word...

“Unremarkable ~ Not particularly interesting or surprising.”

Part 9. Living Fearlessly in Ireland

I’ve been to Ireland. Yes, I know most of you know that. What does Ireland have to do with this odyssey of mine and how does the experience inform who I am? It seemed appropriate to transition back to this blog with something about my experience with Ireland.

The week before I left two things happened. One, I had an appointment with my oncologist and my cancer marker had gone up. What does that mean? Either the new pill I’m taking isn’t working or it hasn’t started to work yet. I meet with her again next week to find out which is the case. Needless to say, I was bummed, and with that feeling, with that bit of news, my mind can choose to go to all kinds of fearful “what if” scenarios, if allowed. When you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, a tweak of the back in yoga, which can be “mildly irritating" to a practitioner of yoga, becomes “petrifying” to the person living with cancer. Is it just a tweak or does it mean something entirely different? Is that pressure in my head tension, or could it possibly be something…more? Every feeling in the body gets run through an additional system of interpretation. It can be exhausting. My doctor said, “Don’t worry about it, go enjoy yourself in Ireland.” The prospect of being 4,500 miles from home and some minor tweak becoming more and more painful was a little scary; the trauma of last year still fresh in my mind. Maybe I should stay home.

The second thing happened during a meditation one morning a few days after my appointment. Sometimes I write during meditations; sometimes there can be somewhat of a dialogue; and often I don’t know exactly what is written until I attempt to read it afterwards. The writing usually isn’t too legible (I’m reminded of my second grade teacher who gave me the only “D” I ever got and it was in handwriting. Left handers were so unappreciated!)  The part that mattered most to me was the very end of the passage. It read:

    “You’re in our hands. We’ve got you,” (loving, assuredly said by Other.)

    “I choose to live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly, for however long I’m here - the length of time is in Your hands,” (I wrote in response.)

I felt…comforted, loved, and heard. I also had a motto to hold onto should fear think it might want to jump in my suitcase and come along with me on my trip for the next 2 1/2 weeks…I choose to live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly! 

Well, fear did make the trip and chose to climb out of the suitcase the Sunday morning my mom and I were to get on the plane to Ireland. At her kitchen table I was sipping tea while reading my book. Casually, unconsciously, I stroked my neck with my right hand and felt something. Mid sentence I froze; stroked my neck again. The lymph node in my neck was enlarged. My stomach knotted and I wanted to vomit with the anxiety. Do I have a virus or has cancer spread to my lymph node? There’s that “system of interpretation” kicking in again. Fear was so happy to be dancing on the kitchen table while I fretted and worried about being so far from home. Maybe I should cancel the trip? Mom would understand. What if this turns into something major? What will I do being so far from home? I reminded myself of the motto I was choosing to live by - I live fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly. There are hospitals in Ireland. I’m going on this trip. 

Man O' War

Our tour group arrived in Ireland on Monday, boarded a bus, and began the process of making new acquaintances. The first stop on the itinerary was to eat a traditional Irish breakfast at a 400 hundred year old tavern outside of Dublin called the Man O' War. Meanwhile, I was still thinking about my lymph node. It had swollen to the point it was noticeable in the mirror. “It could be a long two weeks,” I thought to myself. Fortunately, I remembered that I had brought my essential oils, and for the next five days, used two of them. After a couple of days, the lymph node returned to normal. Was it due to the oils? Who knows? Who cares! My sense of the situation was that it was the Universe giving me a chance to choose love over fear, which I did; to practice living fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly.

Had I given into fear by canceling the trip, I would have missed out on the preciousness of being with my mom.

Every morning I would turn to her after I had brushed on my eyebrows, “Are you ready for your eyebrows?” She would turn to me, “Yes!” I hunched down to see them as she is shorter now with her almost eighty-six years of living and brushed hers on, too. I couldn’t help but notice the arch of her brows mirrored mine.

Roof Top bar at the Guinness Storehouse

Slowly walking in the rain together, she doesn't walk fast anymore, huddled under our tiny travel umbrellas, avoiding puddles and dips in the cement, as we made our way to a museum. "I'm just following your shoes!" she chuckled. She was a trooper, willing to go wherever I wanted.

Sharing a Guinness when neither of us drinks dark beer.

Witnessing a shoving match between two young women on the public bus in Dublin. Again she was willing to try the bus at my suggestion. We got off and hailed a cab back to our hotel. Out of harm’s way, we laughed as we replayed the profanity laced dialogue we had overheard; all due to a struggle over a seat on the bus. We subsequently found out one doesn’t sit upstairs on a public bus in Dublin!

Over a glass of wine at dinner, sharing words, feelings, and thoughts from what life was like for both of us living in our family forty years ago.

Strolling the gardens at Powerscourt arm in arm admiring the scenery. When we would get to the steps I would walk down them first, right in front of her, so if she fell, it would be on me. I didn’t think she would fall, but having me there gave her more confidence.

I gladly was her eyes and ears on the trip. She didn’t have to remember the way from the lobby to our room. She had me. I reminded myself that, often, when Wes drives and I’m the passenger, I don’t remember the way we got to our destination either. She wears two hearing aids, I was her interpreter.

Gardens at Dromoland Castle

In my fifty-six years of sharing this Earth with her there has never been a time where we had two weeks of just the two of us - no husbands, children, or siblings. We parted six days ago and I miss her still, but I get to always have, as a part of me, our time together. Fear didn’t win. It was relegated to a compartment in my suitcase, forgotten, probably tucked under the dirty laundry somewhere, withering for lack of attention. Instead, joy and love jumped out of the suitcase every morning wondering where and how they were going to get to play that day! Boy did we get to have an adventure!

I lived and continue to live, fearlessly, joyously, and lovingly! 

I am so darn lucky!!