Dear Friends and Family,
Today, I rode nonstop to the top of the trail.
Did you know that the multicolored roofs of Park City, when viewed from atop the Lost Prospector mountain bike trail, stretch in all directions? Several rows of gingerbread-like houses, if you’ve never taken this ride, actually cling to a steep slope below the ridge on the other side of the valley. Almost every day these houses emerge like ghosts from the morning shadows as the rising sun climbs higher in the sky.
Finally.
Generally, I take comfort from the cloudless blue sky, the surrounding scrub oak trees, the late summer yellow sunflowers, and mostly, the solitude. Such exhilarating surroundings always help me gear up for the day’s trials. (When I ride my bike, it’s my thinking time.)
And new trials are here.
Last night, Nancy developed a new complication.
As usual, she provided the appropriate words: “I just don’t know what to expect, Winnie. Every day is different. And usually, it’s awful.” Though she poked me in the stomach as she said this in attempt to make me laugh, I know there is truth in her pronouncement.
I am now fighting the same sentiment.
Despite all my attempts to stay positive for the loved ones around me, once again I am reminded of the obvious.
Life with cancer sucks.
Nancy experienced sharp pain in her left arm yesterday afternoon and evening. Her wrist swelled and her fingers grew tingly. She was forced to remove her simple, gold wedding band when the swelling extended to her fingers. It wasn’t a surprise to me when our medical team discovered a blood clot in her right arm, a not uncommon side effect of the special IV line so necessary for her treatment. The team quickly removed the central IV line and Nancy was immediately started on blood thinners.
Medically, this is a tough setback. But psychologically, the setback is even worse. Nancy’s highly anticipated hospital departure has been postponed.
Just minutes ago, I received the call.
Today, will mark the end of Chapter 1 in Adventures in Cancer Land. Despite the blood clot discovered yesterday, Nancy will return to Woodland today!
Since Nancy will be coming to Woodland on oxygen, she won’t be venturing to our upstairs family room, the place we normally hang out. Our downstairs living room, consciously devoid of furniture since we moved in twenty-one years ago because of its’ natural beauty (a large hand-placed stone fireplace; a twenty-four-foot wood ceiling; and floor-to-ceiling windows with a pristine view of the river, trees, and mountains), now includes a long couch for napping, a coffee table big enough to embrace two full meals, and several comfy chairs including a recliner. The room’s floor-to-ceiling windows face south, allowing brilliant sunshine to fill the room from early morning to late afternoon. (We hope the contrast with our one, tiny hospital window and artificially lit hospital room will warm Nancy’s heart and strengthen her frail body.)
Though our newly furnished living room should be ideal, we anticipate that Nancy will spend most of her time in our bedroom. After all, Nancy’s mission at home is to rest and regain her strength for the next round of chemo. She will be greeted by a brand new, ultracomfortable king-size foam bed adorned with soft sheets, down pillows, and a new down comforter featuring a deep-red paisley design.
Our ground floor bedroom, like the newly appointed living room, opens to a deck whose entire far edge is flower boxes that contain multicolored pansies, daisies, and other varieties of wild flowers. The deck overlooks the Provo River as it winds through the property, the far side lined with cottonwood trees, aspen trees, and scrub oak.
Bells and buzzers will now be replaced by the melodic sounds of birds and bugs. The smells of summer in the country will replace the antiseptic smell of the hospital.
Home.
A great place for healing.
Summary: Nancy leaves Room 842 today after thirty-five days. We are returning home!
Love,
Winnie