A Celebration of Life

Words and even pictures cannot capture the beauty and blessing of this last weekend. Friday night friends, family, loved ones, students, gathered to remember and celebrate Lynne. Rather than call it a wake( which Lynne would have hated) I chose to call it greet and eat. I greeted and received so many hugs from folks that my arms are still tired but my heart is still full.

Lynne's celebration service was indeed a celebration. Through singing, reading poems, sharing, laughing, and crying Lynne's life was remembered and celebrated, her death was also sadly mourned. Below are pictures from both events that is a small way capture the wonder of the time.

Our friend July Medeiros created an amazing visual tribute to Lynne. Photos were contributed by good friend Kim Ramsdale.
Even the corners held images of Lynne's life. Here she is with the kids.
Our dear friend Maria looks at the photos of the first 40 years of Lynne's life.

Lynne's mom Eunice read the 23 Psalm and many joined along with her.


Lucy and friends Emily and Eli sing along.
The choir lifted their voices to "You Raise Me up"!!!
Lucy opened the service with one of Lynne's favorite poems by e.e.cummings.
Rob and Jessie played along with a singing a long of some of Lynne's favorite gospel songs.

Even I got in the mix singing "Draw Me Close"



Nathaniel found a smile (so did Lucy in the background). Many of their friends came, ran around with them outside, ate cookies with them, and a few even brought them special stuffed animals to help their sad heart.

After about an hour of the service Nathaniel climbed on my lap and asked if it was going to be over soon!
Over 600 strong gathered over the two days to celebrate and remember. Thanks to all of them, thanks to all of you!!!


Now what???

Much love, Patty

The Boston Globe Article

Hello Friends. So much to say, so little time. Life has been a blur these last few days grieving Lynne's death and preparing to celebrate her life today at the "greet and eat" and tomorrow and the Memorial Celebration. For those of you at a distance I will post pictures of the events. Until then... please check out the wonderful tribute in the Boston Globe today written byJ.M.Lawrence.

You can find it online at:

http://www.boston.com/news/globe/obituaries/articles/2007/07/20/lynne_dahlborg_professor_at_suffolk_university_at_60/?page=full

Your support and care has helped Lucy, Nathaniel and me through this transition and I trust will continue to do so.

Much love back at you!
Patty

You can help!

As you might imagine it was not easy to share the news of Lynne's death with Lucy and Nathaniel. It is hard to believe that I just told them yesterday when they returned home from camp. It feels like weeks ago - my body exhausted yet my heart feels relief and a sort of peaceful sad feeling. Lynne went so peacefully, she was radiant, surrounded by such love and care.

About a month ago Lynne and I spoke about the possibility of her writing letters to the kids, sort of a final gift that they could keep and reread whenever they needed to. Her time went so quickly that she never got to write them. I know Lucy and Nathaniel have wonderful memories

of Lynne and these memories will sustain them... yet I had an idea (of course!) that though it won't replace letters from Lynne - it might help them remember her in the days, months and years to come.

You can help! I know all of you who write on the blog have been touched in many ways by Lynne, you may have stories or memories yourselves that sustain you. I am asking any of you who wish to write a letter to Lucy and Nathaniel about what Lynne meant to you- how you knew her, a story, a memory whatever feels right for you. I will put these letters in a book that in the future the kids can read them and be helped to remember not only how special Lynne was to them but how special Lynne was to so many of you. I so want the silly kids in the picture to find their smile again.

From the bottom of my heart... thanks.

Please post the letter on this blog, or email me at pakogut@aol.com .

May your hearts be open to respond. In many ways it is a final gift you can give to Lynne for all that she has given to you.

Love to all,

Patty

She rests in peace...

June 18, 1947 - July 15, 2007

Our dear sweet Lynne left this life for her next adventure last night at about 7:45 PM. She was surrounded by love and song and prayers and tears. It was a peaceful passing. I will write more later for all of you but I just wanted to pass on this news and let you know than we will be celebrating her live with:

Visiting hours: Friday, July 20 from 5-8 PM

Memorial Celebration: Saturday, July 21 at 11:00 AM


North Congregational Church
United Church of Christ
38 Plymouth Street
Middleboro, MA 02346

So much gratitude to all of you for all your support, care and love these last months. In lieu of flowers, gifts can be made in Lynne's memory to the Memorial Fund of North Congregational Church.

Patty

A Sacred Sad Time (from Patty)

I had another blog ready to post with funny stories about these photos but instead I must tell you that in the last 24 hours Lynne has declined. Her nurse Mary (who we love and who has been such a blessing) said that she has days, maybe just one or two. Saturday I had "the talk" with Lucy, today I had "the talk" with Nathaniel. He said, "Maybe Mamma Lynne can bring a cell phone and call us and tell us what heaven is like."

We are sitting vigil. I played her some of our favorite songs, "So Lucky" by Lucie Blue Trembley and "You take my breath away" by Tuck and Patti. I tried to sing along but I have this big knot in my throat.

Those of you who have been with us through this, sit and remember all the gifts that Lynne has given you, say a little prayer of thanks and then go and give your child or spouse or partner a hug, a nice long one when you really stop and hold on long enough so that you can feel their heart beat on your chest and you can feel their breath on your neck - feel their life force beating with yours and say thanks - never take it for granted because ..... well ... do I need to say more?

Hold Lynne and all of us in light and love as she transitions to the next place.

For all of you ... I say thanks!
Patty

Final Gifts (from Patty)

My father once said, "Don't wait until I am dead to send me flowers!" His comment has always stayed with me and on occasion I have remembered and sent him flowers for a birthday or for father's day. They have always been appreciated. The sad thing about our culture is that often we wait until a person has died to lavish them (or their caskets) with flowers, to speak eloquently about them at the funeral or memorial service, to appreciate all the love and joy we received from them. Yet we miss (or don't take) the opportunities to appreciate our loved ones, to offer them our gifts before they die, while they are alive.

I have been thinking a bit about "Final Gifts" these days. For one, because a friend Jamie gave me a book by that title (Final Gifts - understanding the special awareness, needs, and communications of the dying by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley) and it is giving me a lot to chew on and second, because of the way all of you in our home community and out there in blog land have been showering Lynne with gifts both tangible and intangible. Your words are like flowers and our rooms and hearts are filled overflowing. (I know that sounds kind of corny but that is the sort of mood I am in!)

I am still reeling (in a good way) from a gift we received this weekend. The church choir of North Congregational Church (the church where I am pastor) came by and sang to Lynne in our living room. Twenty voices strong sang "You raise me up" by Josh Groban. It was wonderful! For the seven years we have been in Middleboro Lynne and I have sang alto in the choir together. Lynne always said that when she sang with the choir, she would feel the presence of God, the spirit of worship. And so the choir sang and sang and sang. After the song was finished the choir said nervously that they were sorry about the mistakes and in a week or so they would really get it down. With tears in her eyes Lynne responded, "I didn't hear any mistakes ... I only heard the voices of angels." What a gift the choir gave to Lynne.

Some day at a memorial service all our eyes will be filled with tears as the choir sings "Your raise me up!" What a day it will be to celebrate a woman whose life has touched us so deeply. Yet until that day I want to offer Lynne all the gifts I can - companionship, a hand to hold on a stormy night, an ear to listen, a laugh, a reassurance that I will take good care of our kids and I will promise to make sure they floss! Like my dad said, "don't wait to offer your final gifts" - not just to Lynne but to to anyone who has touched you, helped mold you, nurtured you, loved you.

As I write Lynne is resting. The hospital bed will come tomorrow and we will set it up in a downstairs room. She is getting too weak to make the trek up and down the stairs. Home health aides will start coming tomorrow as well. Friends and folks from the church are scheduling time to be here to help and so I can get out and get the kids where they need to go. Her body is slowing down but her smile seems to be getting bigger and brighter. She is filled with grace and peace (most of the time). She will still laugh at my feeble attempts at humor and just for laughs, if you ask her who is the president she will say, "Hmmmm ... Geraldine Ferraro?"

I hope Lynne feels well enough to post soon, if not I will keep you up to date. Keep the prayers, good thoughts and kind words coming. There are no words that can express the depth of our appreciation for all that you have done. Love and bunches of flowers to you all!

Patty

A Post from Patty (still in Ptown)

A couple of days ago I was talking to Lucy on the beach about Lynne and the ever changing state of her disease. Lucy replied, "Mom, the only constant thing is change." I told her she was right and asked where had she heard that? She said her Karate teacher Sensi Joe had taught them that. With the gentle Cape Cod breezes I offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for all the "teachers" in our "village" who are helping raise Lucy and Nathaniel.

I am glad for Lucy that she has some ability to roll with change because Lynne's state continues to change, on a daily and sometimes an hourly basis. Since her last post, we have remained in Ptown, we moved to a wonderful cottage looking out on the bay in North Truro. Since Lynne's challenge with pain at the end of last week we have been able to get it under some control. The on-call nurse Ginny (old friend, long story) came out to the Cape over the weekend to see Lynne, get her pain under control, ease our anxiety, etc. It was good and Lynne felt more relaxed and able to just enjoy being here. Mostly Lynne is resting/sleeping these last days. Some because of meds, some because of her liver starting to be unable to process the toxins in her system. Ginny said, "Lynne has really moved into the next phase of this process."

With all this we have had some wonderful moments. Lynne got me up in the middle of the night to watch passing storm outside the huge sliding doors. It was awesome to see the power of nature, the lightning, hear the thunder yet feel the safety of this little cottage, holding Lynne's hand. She wakes up to watch the moon, see the stars most every night. She says this place makes her feel happy, at peace. (Thank you sooooo much Brian and Marianne.)

Our friend "Aunt" Bev has been with us this week which makes it easier to keep the kids busy and enjoying this place. They have been to a ranger program at the National Seashore, have learned new painting technique from Donna (old friend, long story), picked up shells at the beach, ate ice cream at Ben and Jerry's and lots more stuff. With Lynne their hugs are more tender, their voices are more quiet, their hearts are more open. We are all aware that these moments together are precious.

Today, some of us will go see the Forth of July parade here in Ptown (we will be thinking of all our friends serving hot dogs and watching the Middleboro parade today as well!) Lynne is planning on conserving here energy so she can stay up till 9:00 PM to see the fireworks right outside our little cottage overlooking the bay.

Thanks for checking in. Lynne sends love and gentle hugs. I know she wishes she could write some (perhaps soon) but now she just needs to rest. Blessings to all.

Patty

A Night Out

Finally, a day/night when I felt well enough to venture into the exciting world of Provincetown (Ptown) night life. Patty, and our friends Maria and Robbyn, went out to hear Kate Clinton do her comedy routine - "Climate Change" -last night - the early show, at 7:00 - at a club in Ptown. For those of you who don't know this town, I can tell you that there's lots of activity here on summer nights, from the endless parade of people watching people, to the many shows, street theater and concerts. One year, we were walking down Commercial Street at about 8:00 at night, and a car full of tourists rolled down their windows and asked, "Is there something special going on in town tonight? The street is really busy." We laughed and said "It's like this every night in the summer."

Kate lived in Massachusetts - as a teacher, in fact - before she took her humor on the road, so I've been to see many, many shows over the years. So, being able to see her this week felt like a special treat, and being able to laugh long and loud an extra wonderful part of the package. Her humor is mostly political, and I won't try to remember any of her great lines, but she did have a section about "Things I hope never to do again before I die." Examples I remember . . . sitting on the tarmac at Newark waiting for permission for the airplane to move, enduring a 21-month presidential campaign. Like me, she turns 60 this year, so we definitely share "generational humor," and perhaps she is thinking about her mortality too because of this milestone birthday.(She's a comedienne, and I don't mean to project my situation onto hers, it's just something I thought of . . . )

Patty, in her irrepressible fashion, managed to speak briefly to Kate before the show, and tell her my story, so after the show, I got a couple of hugs and kisses and Patty took this photo of us together. I love the photo, and it was great to get out of the house and see the activity of Commercial Street. I'm pleased to report that the new wheelchair travels much more smoothly than the first we had. (Patty is still smarting from the responses to my comments about her speedwork with the first wheelchair.)

Those of you who haven't seen me in a while will notice that I'm decidedly jaundiced, and that I've lost a lot of weight. Both of those are part of my new reality. The bilirubin that creates jaundice is draining through the stents, I think, because the jaundice doesn't seem to be worsening, but clearly some of the bile is not draining. I'm struggling with my digestive system, too, both with nausea and constipation. Yuck! For the last few days, the pain has been pretty manageable.

I'm glad we are here, and I've enjoyed the change of scenery, and Patty and the kids have enjoyed the beach and town.I have not made it out of the house before last night, and that has been disappointing, but it is what it is. My life is winding down.

Pain, pain go away...

I have been suggesting that Lynne write a post to update all of our blog community of friends. She reports that she will blog soon! Besides being away in Ptown trying to relax and enjoy ourselves, Lynne has been dealing with trying to manage her increasing pain while not getting too "loopy" (her word) with all the pain medication. We are working on that.

It has been bittersweet being here. So many of the things we used to enjoy as a family, Lynne doesn't feel well enough to do, so she sends us all off to the beach, settles in for some quiet time - but the beach isn't quite the same with out her. Last night we went to one of our favorite restaurants in town, Napi's for Eli's birthday (11 yesterday). Lynne had planned to save her energy so she could go (she and Eli have a special connection) but as it was time to go, Lynne just couldn't. She needed to stay back and rest.

As I was there with the crew I was remembering all the meals Lynne and I shared at Napi's, with kids and without. It was sad to for all of us to not have her with us, but ever sadder to contemplate the possibility that we may never dine out at Napi's again....

So what to do... enjoy every moment. Enjoy the warm sun, enjoy what Lynne feels well enough to do, enjoy the memories we are making, feel all the feelings...

Thanks for checking in - keep the prayers and good thoughts coming.

Patty

Managing the Pain

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to each and every one of you who responded to Patty's pleas for birthday wishes, and for sending your love and support. It was a special treat to hear from some of you that I hadn't heard from ever before. Your stories enrich me and give me a better sense of who "we" are. I do like the idea of this "blog family," and the fact that you all are touched by my story. And mostly, I love the sense of connection and community. Our widespread belief that we are completely separate from each other is so wrong, and can cause us so much pain. Recognizing our connection and our ability to truly support each other contradicts that sense of aloneness and can provide healing to body, mind, and spirit.

So, I'm now "officially" 60 years old; a new decade! Weird. There have been many times during the last year when I wasn't sure I would live to see this milestone. Now that I have, it feels a little anticlimactic, but turning 60 surely beats the alternative!

Last weekend was tough. I just had no energy, and there was so much going on that it was difficult to participate. In fact, much to my disappointment, I stayed home from the Saturday night birthday party. I hated to do it, but I just couldn't muster the energy, even to imagine being with all of these folks I love and who love me. Sunday I made it to the family party, but only after arriving early and taking a two-hour nap into the beginning of the party.

This week finds me feeling better, with more energy to carry some of my weight around the household, and better able to enjoy friends and family, books and movies. Mary, the hospice nurse, felt that a lot of what happened late last week and over the weekend was due to the pain, and so we've been strategizing about how to get "on top" of it. We've increased the dosage on my pain medication, which seems to be working, much to my relief. I can't believe what a difference it makes! The pain I feel is not a grab-my-side-and-moan kind of pain, but rather an ache in my abdomen that doesn't let up, and leaves me wanting to close my eyes, nap, and withdraw from life. Not sure I've ever felt anything like it before. The fatigue is definitely a big part of it.

We have begun to pack and otherwise prepare for our vacation in Ptown. We leave Saturday for two weeks of sunshine and salty air. I will be taking my laptop, so I'm not planning a blog vacation, although having access to the internet is always an open question.

That's my update for now. I am definitely feeling better, happily so. Love and thanks to each of you.

Blog Readers Unite!

Shhhhh... today is Lynne's 60th birthday so I was thinking... wouldn't it be great if everyone who reads Lynne's blog today (or tomorrow) writes her a special birthday greeting, wish, blessing, hope, prayer, gratitude, or appreciation. Lynne is such a gift to us, on this the anniversary of her birth let's offer her our gifts. Let's go, what are you waiting for!!!


Her main squeeze,
Patty

Illness, Death and Community

Carrie's mother died last Tuesday night of gallbladder cancer. Carrie has a blog about her life, her mother's illness, and caring for her father until his death earlier this year, and there is a link off to the right of this page. In caregiving her parents, Carrie has been loving, devoted, and attentive. I've never met Carrie, who lives in Canada, and I probably won't meet her, but I have developed a deep connection with her over the last six months, since we discovered each other through the internet.

First, a tribute to Carrie's mom, and to Carrie. I honor Carrie's hard work over these past months, and mourn with her the loss of her mother. I haven't been in her shoes over all of this time, but I am moved by her example of love. Carrie, please know that your grief is shared.

How did Carrie and I get connected? I have a "Google search" daily for any new entries on the web for gallbladder cancer, and so when Carrie began to blog about her mother's diagnosis, I was connected to the blog, and wrote a comment. I did so because one of my goals in establishing my blog was to reach out to others who could use the links to resources and information that I gained. Carrie wrote back, and we began to read and post on each other's blogs regularly, and then I created the link here to her blog. During the winter, I wrote about the loneliness of having a rare cancer. I think that loneliness can extend to caregivers and others who love someone with this rare disease, gallbladder cancer. Connecting with Carrie has been a piece of this; connected with someone deeply and personally affected by the cancer, and sharing our experiences using this inherently impersonal and mechanical format, the internet, to create a warm and personal connection.

Carrie, I salute you. Thank you for sharing your journey with me and with others who read your blog, and your comments on my blog.

A brief note about me. Patty's post from earlier today explained a lot. Mostly, things bubble along pretty much the same. I have had more pain in the last 10 days or so, but the hospice nurse, Mary, is doing a great job of helping medicate my pain. When I'm comfortable and reasonably pain free, I feel better to do other things. I have a big weekend coming up, with two parties to celebrate my 60th birthday (which is technically Monday). Again, many thanks to all of you who support me and those of love me with your words, deeds, prayers and ongoing love.

A new wheelchair

Okay, so many of you got a good laugh at the thought of me pushing Lynne in her "transport chair" down the bumpy roads of Provincetown to the point of her saying "Patty (bump, bump, bump) could you slow down (bump, bump, bump) a bit ... I am starting to get (bump, bump, bump) nauseous." Well, to solve the "bumpyroad/fastpushing" problem we got a new wheelchair, one with a big slick back wheel for our next trip to Provincetown (this time with kids and a few friends.) We will be leaving next Saturday and hopefully will be able to stay two weeks. Mary, Lynne's hospice nurse, will be transferring her care to the local Ptown hospice so if Lynne needs anything while we are away she can get it.

Life these days has gotten pretty simple around here. Supporting Lynne as she attempts to find the right combination of drugs to keep her pain at bay and the right combination of food that she can keep down. We make outings to Rosie, Lynne's massage therapist for Reiki and reflexology. We are catching up on all the TV watching we missed out during our busy year. Lynne says that watching TV helps take her mind off her aches and pains.

Lucy and Nathaniel are out of school so that adds another challenge for the household, but so far ... so good.

In the midst of all this day to day stuff I am aware of my deep sadness at the thought of a future without Lynne, I am aware of the pain I feel for the kids who in time will lose a mom... I am keenly aware of the tenderness in the hearts of so many of you who have touched us with your kindness, support and care.

This is a holy, sacred time for all of us. Through the bumpy roads, tender hugs, pregnant pauses ... holy, it is holy. Thanks you for joining us on this journey.

Patty

Life Lessons

Over the last year, I have been contemplating various life lessons that I found myself revisiting since the diagnosis of gallbladder cancer, and I had such a vivid example of one this morning, I just had to write about it. I believe that each of us comes into this life with lessons to learn, whether small or large, practical or profound. I suspect we may bring these lessons into our very existence as we begin our lives, but it's also possible to imagine them as challenges to our maturity that we bring to our adult selves as we begin to live independent lives. I also believe that life presents us with many opportunities to learn the lessons, so that many of us in mid-life sigh and think "this again!" as we see what challenges a new situation brings.

One of my life lessons has been to learn that I am truly lovable, and to contradict a deeply held belief that I am unlovable. Now, before those of you who know me pull out a list of things you think are lovable about me, know that these lessons, these challenges, just are, come from some deep place within us, and sometimes fly in the face of a more objective reality. I know that I have many lovable qualities, but, deep inside, there is a place of me that has simply felt unlovable. What's the best way to learn this lesson? To let others love me, and in the last year, I have experienced such an outpouring of love and support that moves me to tears and so contradicts this belief that I have about myself. Now, I don't know that I needed to get terminal cancer in order for this belief to be so thoroughly contradicted, but I do know that I've never before had such a consistent and persistent series of contradictions. I have felt the love of family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, and even strangers. An example of this occurred about a month ago when my massage therapist called to say that she'd been talking about me with another client, who wanted to pay for 4 reflexology treatments for me. This client believes in the reflexology so deeply that she felt it would help me, and want to me it possible for me to get some treatments. At other times in my life, I would have refused, but instead I gratefully accepted. And the reflexology treatments have been wonderful.

Another life lesson has been to learn to ask for help, and not to assume that I can or should do everything myself. I came into adulthood strongly self-reliant, so much so that it was difficult for me to ask for help, even when I really needed to. This year, and particularly this past spring when I was still working, I understood that folks wanted to be helpful, and that I simply couldn't do everything I had done before. So, I asked colleagues to pick up a bowl of soup for my lunch, or to run to the drugstore to pick up another set of "sea-bands" because I'd left the house without mine. And any sense of false pride that had prevented my asking for help simply slipped away. We need each other, and relying on each other and asking for help is an important piece of that. I'm reminded of the poem that Jamie posted in the "comments" section last time about how we need to see our connections with each other, and to be willing to lean on and love each other.

Another example of folks reaching out to me to fill a need is that of my quilt tops. Several decades ago, I had pieced together quite a few quilt tops, but never had time to finish quilting them and putting the layers together to make them usable bed covers. A few weeks ago, some of the women in the church asked me if they could take the quilts and tie the tops so that my family would be able to use them. I said yes, and they delivered four beautifully tied quilts this week. We envision that Patty, Lucy and Nathaniel will each have a quilt for their very own, to use or to put away.

A third, but by no means last, life lesson that I have struggled with relates to both of those. In my self-reliance and perception as unlovable, it's hard to lean on others and see myself as genuinely part of a community. And yet, on an intellectual level, I have felt that the breakdown of community in American culture has been a profound loss, and I have mourned that loss. On an emotional level, I have also felt in myself a deep longing to be a part of a community, to be held by a circle of loving individuals who care about me and my well-being, and who also care about each other and the larger world we live in. I have consciously created community with other mothers in our "baby group," formed when we were expecting our first children, and still going strong. I have sought community by looking for others who have seen themselves on a spiritual path, as I have envisioned myself on. I now belong to a church community which existed before my arrival and will continue for many, many years past my death, and I value the relationships, care, and active concern we share for each other.

So what happened this morning that made me think about all of this? I woke just before 8:00 to the sound of voices in the garden to the side of our house. Unknown to me, Kim, a friend and parent to one of Lucy's classmates, had organized a "weeding party" on this Saturday morning, and had recruited kids and parents to come weed my garden. I did need to have weeding done, and I have mentioned it to folks who have asked what they could do. I'm not capable of doing it myself right now. Kim saw a need and met it. With almost a dozen pairs of hands, they cleared out a lot of weeds, and now the garden is even more lovely. And in a single, simple act, they contradicted my beliefs about myself and life and reinforced a much most positive vision of our interconnectedness. Yes, I am lovable, and my garden deserves TLC from strong backs and willing hearts, and yes, it's okay to ask for help with the unglamorous job of weeding the flower gardens. And yes, communities both temporary and permanent can be created when folks come together with a task, a desire to serve, an urge to reach beyond ourselves.

Garden Spring Flowers

What gets me through my days? Lots of things, including the love and suppport of friends and family, my trust in the universe that everything will be okay as my life winds down, and the delight I feel in my garden.

My spring garden has lots of perennials and perennial bulbs, which means I have to do nothing except weed and perhaps water a little. And with little energy to do gardening this spring, I have appreciated the enthusiasm of my garden. I love watching new flowers open, and breathe in the fragrance of the flowers.

My poppy is a vibrant red that brightens up the whole garden.


The fish are active in the water garden, eating and laying eggs (I think). The greenery is water celery, whose roots survive even our hard New England winters, and which grow quickly once the weather warms.


This looks a little messy, as I favor the "cottage garden" look that lets things grow where they planted themselves when they seed themselves. I do plant the perennials and they don't move around the garden, but some will seed themselves from year to year. In the foreground are the peonies, with fat buds not quite open yet. Farther back is a bearded iris, and my red poppy.


This is my tree peony, with its enormous white blossom, It opened a little earlier than the others, and was stunningly beautiful. I planted the tree peony about six years ago, and it bloomed for the first time last year. I guess they are fairly exotic and can be hard to grow.



A white "traditional" (herbaceous) peony, incredibly fragrant.

My pink "traditional" peony, also very fragrant.

I also have bearded iris, and siberian iris blooming in the yard, profusely, and other flowers coming along. By the end of June, most of the show is over, except for any annuals that get planted, and any summer blooming bulbs I get into the ground (and I do have some ready for a friend to plant). My raspberries are full of flowers and newly developing fruit which we should be able to enjoy in a few weeks.

Life bubbles along in its new rhythm. I was pleased to hear the hospice nurse say on Monday that she thinks my energy and overall state have been pretty stable over the month she has been seeing me. I still wish I had more energy, but I'm grateful to make it through days when I can do some productive things and feel a part of my family. I send love and gratitude to each of you who reach out to me.

Mourning my Losses

Patty and I just returned from a few days in P-town, the little trip without the kids that Patty mentioned in her post last week. We had a tiny little one bedroom unit on the harbor in Provincetown, able to watch the tides come in and the boats rock gently on their moorings. On Friday we had an early morning thunderstorm, and a one again in the late afternoon, which we could watch from the couch in our living room. It was sweet and relaxing and felt like being out in the weather without being out in the weather.

While we were there, we hung out in our room, reading, napping and relaxing. Patty did more, walking on the street and running errands for us. An expresso bar is right near the unit we were in, so Patty had lots of coffee to drink, and in the mornings she bought us cinnamon donuts at our favorite little shop on Commercial Street.

Because I'm experiencing shortness of breath, I knew I wouldn't be able to walk up and down Commercial St., one of our favorite things to do while there. We had arranged for hospice to get us a wheelchair, and Patty wheeled me down the street on Friday, so I could check out the shops and we could order a little lunch at our favorite burrito place. I couldn't eat much, but it was fun to share our lunch on the back deck, overlooking the harbor. I still don't have much appetite, or hunger, so when I eat, it tends to be just a small amount.

Riding in the wheelchair was okay, but I'd like to order some better shock absorbers! The street was not smooth, and so my ride was bumpy. Also, at first, Patty was pushing me so fast I began to feel motion sickness! Once she slowed down and avoided the potholes, the ride was much more pleasant!

Another day, we drove around P-town, checking things out, including two rental units we've arranged to spend a week in with the kids later this summer. They each look really special, and like they will be special places for our family for the week, but they raised my anxiety about my energy in 4-5 weeks and how much I'll be able to do or not do.

When we got home from our excursions, it was time for a nap. I've been sleeping 2-4 hours during the day, in addition to the 8 to 10 hours I sleep most nights.

I finished a few novels, read the newspaper each day, checked out some magazines, and generally spent a lot of time on the couch reading, and then watching TV at night.

I mention all of these details to say this is my life these days. Lots of naps, lots of reading, a little moving around, but not too fast or too much. Bringing my current state of low energy to a place I have loved and delighted in enjoying makes me aware of how much I've lost. I'm not the person I was; I don't have enough energy to fully enjoy being in a delightfully different location. I feel the cancer taking its toll on my body and my energy and delight in life. I am mourning all that I have lost.

What does it all Mean? . . . The Dream

Since my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer a year ago, I have wondered at the meaning of my disease, of any disease for the person affected. Although I haven't written about meaning in the blog before, the question of meaning has been a persistent one. Last year, newly diagnosed, I wondered "Why me?" and "Why have I gotten a cancer with such a poor prognosis?" I have been acutely aware that with a diagnosis of a cancer that was more treatable, with better statistics for long term survival, I would have thrown myself into making sure that I was one of the survivors. But under all of this, the question about meaning.

One year ago today, the last night I was hospitalized after my surgery, I had a dream, a dream that offered hope and that framed a lot of this past year of struggle with my diagnosis and my disease. Here is my dream:

"In the dream, I woke to a pain in my side (like a pain I'd felt before since the surgery), but the pain was more focused and so both less and more intense. I was being encouraged not to move, but to lie still while I was ministered to. Then I was introduced into a 'chamber' (like a showroom with glass windows, or an old fashioned room with large stone chunks making up the walls, feeling almost medieval). In the room, four other beings lay as I did in a hospital bed that was more than a hospital bed. Each of us appeared radiant, transparent. To our right side, a small decorative decanter/glass beaker held this radiant spot of pain, some ethereal organ. Mine was damaged, so I was participating for healing, but the others had offered their small organs as sacrifice to others. They had known at the beginning that they were offering five days of their time to lie absolutely still, in this transcendent place. The dream did not offer a promise of healing of the body to me and to others who would come along in need of healing. Rather, the feeling of the dream is that we all want our suffering to be meaningful. We don't want to suffer without meaning.

In the dream, this time spent in holy, voluntary sacrifice offered peace to all and a promise that our suffering has meaning. Not what it means. But that it has meaning."

The dream brought me such peace. I have never doubted that it was divinely inspired, and that God was speaking to me of not being alone on my journey, but joined by other beings who sought to be of service. And, while I think a lot about the meaning of my suffering, I also remember that whether or not I know what it means, I don't doubt that it has meaning. I still wish that life had dealt me a different hand. I didn't choose to have cancer, never envisioned it in my life's path, and wish I were dealing with different life challenges at this point. But there it is. Given the hand dealt, my choice is how I deal with it, and how I make meaning out of this terminal diagnosis, this end of life coming before I'd ever envisioned it.

Our First Kiss

I realize that this title might seem out of place in Lynne's blog but please bear with me. This week a friend encouraged Lynne and I to get away for a couple of days. I said to Lynne, "Your energy may never be better than it is right now. So let's go." With a few calls Lynne and I have reservations for a few days later in the week at a great place called Angel's Landing in Provincetown, MA.

As I have been anticipating getting time away with Lynne I have been flooded with all the memories we have made in Ptown. Well ... our first kiss was overlooking Herring Cove back some 18 years ago. Then there was meditating in the dunes (she was heavily into meditation at the time. Mostly I sat there with a peaceful look on my face thinking ... did I just get bit by another mosquito?) Before kids we used to camp in Ptown for weeks at a time, after kids we still camped in Ptown for weeks at a time. Independent of each other both kids wrote essays at school this year about there favorite place ... yet, they both were about Ptown. Nathaniel wrote: "My favorite place is Ptown. The ice cream is as tasty as cotton candy. The cotton candy is as tasty as ice cream." Lucy wrote:"I fell in love with Ptown and this is why, the ocean and gulls singing in harmony and the fragrant seawater. I saw many people so happy and worry free. I taste my Ben and Jerrys ice cream cone. I feel so safe like I am at home."

I have so many memories of sitting on the beach with Lynne - me ready to leave and Lynne wanting to stay and soak up every last ounce of the day. Lynne taught me that it really is okay to eat ice cream every night (in fact Lynne's rational for camping was we saved all that money so we can eat at great restauraunts and yes Ben and Jerry's) I remember biking for hours with Lynne in the dunes, feeling free and light and then sitting on the Post Office steps drinking ice coffee watching the world pass by. I remember romantic dinners with Lynne at the Mews, Lorraines, Cafe Edwidge and so many other places.

Many months ago when we were planning our summer vacations we decided (surprise) to go to Ptown. We have a place for the first two weeks in August. The same friend that suggested we get away now convinced us to rent a big Ptown house with her family in the last week in June. I hope and pray that the Lynne, the kids and I will be able to enjoy more time together there this summer. But around here we are living a day at a time and trying to capture precious moments where we can find them. So in few days Lynne and I will be heading out to Ptown. We will be leaving the bikes at home and we are bringing another set of wheels and a full supply of Oxycodon.

After Lynne's diagnosis last summer in Ptown we found a print of an ocean scene with the words: "The cure for anything is salt water; sweat, tears or the sea." It hangs in our bathroom. I look forward to going back to smell the sea, to let the tears flow, but mostly to make some more memories with Lynne to carry me through in the days ahead.

Feeling Sad

Today's feeling is sadness, just general sadness about my current state and the things I've lost over this last year. Today is the one year anniversary of my diagnosis for gallbladder cancer, and I'm remembering my innocence going into the surgery that revealed the cancer. The doctors explained to me the many things that could be causing my bile duct to be blocked, but I never attached to cancer, or tumors, and I never saw that as my path. That left me feeling even more blindsided by the diagnosis, and by what the surgeon found when he opened me up.

I went into surgery around 2:00 p.m., and it was expected to last a few hours. When I woke up in the recovery room, the lights were dim,, it was mostly shut down, and I could see by the clock on the wall that it was almost 11:00. The recovery room nurse was cranky with me, and refused to answer my questions. I knew something had gone terribly wrong because the surgery lasted so long. All she was allowed to tell me was that the surgery was successful and they had relieved the blockage, and the surgeon would talk to me in the morning. Apparently everyone thought I'd be knocked out all night from the anesthesia. Instead, I spent the night awake a lot of the time, moving in and out of dozing, feeling incredibly anxious, and deducing that whatever they had discovered, it was really bad. I don't remember my exact thoughts, but I know that I couldn't wait to talk with Patty and find out what she knew. I knew that the doctor would have talked with her after the surgery, although it turned out they talked by phone because she had headed home when the surgery took so long. I had my cell phone in my room, but decided not to call her until morning.

At 6:00 a.m., I called and Nathaniel, the early bird in our house, answered. He got Patty on the phone, and I told her she HAD to tell me what the doctor had said. "He wants to talk with both of us in your room this morning," she said. "I've been awake all night speculating on the worst. Nothing you can tell me can be worse than that," I responded. And so she told me that I had cancer, either of the bile duct or gallbladder (the doctors wouldn't know which until the pathology report was back). I was stunned, but still knew that it was better to know than to not know.

That night was my "dark night of the soul," when I had to face my worst fears and realize they were undoubtedly true. After my speculation, alone in my hospital bed, knowing was better, but the news was still incredibly painful.

So today is one year past that dark, painful, unexpected day. I feel sad, remembering. I am amazed on many levels that I'm still alive to write this, and to remember, and I'm sad that I'm so sick at this point that I'm not able to enjoy life with any sort of normal energy. Outside my house, it is the most beautiful time of the year, with all of the spring bulbs and early perennials I've planted over the years producing their colorful blooms; red tulips, pink and white bleeding heart, my yellow water iris in the water garden, purple columbine, white ground phlox, many colors and textures. I am grateful to see them appear with so little effort on my part this spring, and I'm painfully aware that this will be my last spring of soaking in their beauty. And I am sad.

Feeling my Anger

Out of the waiting, something has bubbled up . . . my anger. I realized in the last day that I don't want to be a poster child for dying well. That's totally apart from the fact that I don't want to die at all. Yes, part of me accepts that that is the hand dealt, and that the pace of things has picked up as the cancer has spread. It's no longer last September, when I received a clean scan and felt great, rather it's mid-May, now almost one year following my diagnosis, and the cancer has spread. Is spreading.



So, part of me does accept what's happening with my body, and part of me is just plain angry, screaming, shouting mad, that death is what's up. I always thought I would live well into old age; there's longevity in my family, and my parents, in their 80s, have always taken good care of themselves and are doing very well. I have been healthy all of my life, avoiding many of the problems that beset us as we age . . . no heart disease, no diabetes, no "female problems," no high blood pressure. I didn't even have my first surgery until I was well into my 50s, and then it was elective surgery. When they take my history at the hospital for each of the [many] procedures I've gone through in recent months, I often joke with the nurse that I was a very healthy person before I got cancer. So, being this sick, being terminally ill, is inconsistent with my internal view of myself.



And the part of me that doesn't accept this is just plain mad that I am faced with an aching body that doesn't respond as it should. I read novels, watch TV, remember what it was like to really worry about intimate relationships, work, negotiating the world successfully, and those all feel so far away. Instead, I am focused on what my body will and won't do in any given moment, or hour, or day.



Following a link from one of respondents to Leroy's blog, I found a website constructed by friends of a woman who died last year of ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. I haven't read the whole site, but this poem seemed to speak to the limbo I easily find myself in these days, waiting . . . for words, for insight, for guidance about how to be in this new state.



Poem #2


Waiting


Pale morning light on my walls.
Nothing calls.
Purpose no longer clear.


My name no longer present on the roster of life.


Mind swirls in floodwaters of pain.
Grasping for something stable.
Nothing, nothing solid within reach.


What do I call onto my canvas?

No image arises.
Blank, stark, whiteness glares back.


Awful waiting game.

Tired of the nothingness.
Do I pull the plug?


Standing,
miserable in the dark, rain.
Shivers rattle confidence,
Cold seeps through me.


No bus arrives at scheduled time.
Where is the ride
that will take me home?


Ilene Kouzel August 23, 2006



The anger, the not-knowing, even the waiting, are just some of the stops along my journey. It seems to me that my task now is not to get too attached to any of them, but rather to be open to the journey and to what I can learn from the varied stops, starts, pauses along the way.



A quick check-in about my physical state. I'm feeling a little better each day, and hoping that continues. My energy is still not what I would like, and I feel as if I'm trying to discern what the "new normal" is and will be. I keep reminding myself that today I am just one week past my last internal interventions, and that my body is still adjusting. My appetite is still not normal, but is slowly improving, and I'm trying to eat more to build up my strength.



As always, thanks to you who read and comment to my musings. Thanks for being with me on this journey. Your company helps me feel less lonely.