67. A Measure of Time
It’s been weeks since I’ve done any unstructured blogging. I put my rambles aside and did the whole 63, 64, 65 presentation, then took some time off to avoid the claim of Covid, then wrote a blog hopefully putting an end to that nightmare.
Looks like we’re getting back to having some fun.
And then we’ll talk about another corner.
Wacky. Wonderful. Writing.
Okay, let’s see what’s banging through this brain with the force and precision of an errant pinball — the leather loveseat in my living room.
Betcha didn’t see that coming!
Years ago, sixteen to be exact, Tim and I set out to replace our most favorite living room set — the one that had served us well, seen finer days, and was no longer available — anywhere. Believe you me, if we could have purchased the same set, we would have. Why? Because Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful are creatures of habit — in everything — including furniture purchase and repurchase.
So what’s a couple to do?
They hunt and gather seating options.
For some inexplicable reason, we ended up at the furniture department at Macy’s — a place neither of us had ever stepped foot into before. Nevertheless, on that early spring afternoon, that’s where we found ourselves. We clasped hands, stepped off the escalator and murmured softly as we followed along a pathway of beautifully arranged showings of this and that. On more than occasion, we shook our heads at eager salespeople who stepped near — after all, we weren’t there to buy — just to look.
And. Then. This. Happened.
We saw a really beautiful leather set, a three piece, traditional set with rolled arms and minimal detailing. Tim and I live comfortably in the world of ‘less is more’ when it comes to our furniture selections. Anyway, the set was gorgeous — and it was on sale — a really good sale. We decided on the spot that the warm-whiskey-colored sofa and loveseat would be the newest additions to the OB household.
Someday.
Was there a hold up? Yeup. Why? Because we only wanted two of the three pieces. Decisions had to be made by frontend management about splitting sets and getting sale pricing, yada yada yada. Within the week, the haggling was over and a delivery date was set — for many weeks out. On the day of delivery, I watched two buff men carry and curve the pieces through our front door and place them with the expected thud into position. Then I stood, waiting expectantly as the dudes removed the multi-layered plastic and paper outer-wrappings.
Oh. What. Horror. Awaited.
The gorgeous warm-whiskey-colored set we ordered was not what we got. I told the men the pieces were wrong. They told me they made deliveries only and that I’d have to take up any problems I had with the sales department. I was handed a card with a phone number — presumably because this sort of thing happened with regularity — then I got onto the phone with Tim. I explained the wrong color situation, and the delivery situation, and the removal rebuff, but I failed to mention The Color. I can still hear my screeched-response to his casual, “What color are they?”
“Red! Like bovine placenta red! That’s what they look like.
Two big-ass-cow-leather-bloody-placentas — sitting in my living room.”
Okay, for the record, Tim and I always wanted a piece of leather-something in our home — despite our leftist-leanings that forbade such longings. When push came to shove, and our asses found nirvana on the already-deceased-herded-beast-collection in the Macy’s showroom — we became PETA outlaws or at the very least outcasts — all with the simple swipe of a debit card.
In right order, we learned our PETA penance would come in the color red — blood red.
It served us right.
Why am I telling you this?
On Tuesday morning, shortly before 6:30 AM, Tim masked up and came downstairs — still wearing his pajamas and bathrobe, and looking like shit — courtesy of Covid. He walked behind my perch, touched the top of my head, and uttered a mask-muffled, “Morning.”
He ambled along through the kitchen, plugged in the perc and headed out onto the deck for some much needed fresh air. Then, with brewed mugs of Chase and Sanborn in hand, he returned, set mine on the end table and found his way to the staircase behind me. I looked in a mirror that’s hung over our bovine placenta loveseat and saw him perched on a stair tread. He used the same mirror to see me perched on my recliner.
We lowered our masks and smiled at one another.
We sipped a bit then laughed a bit at the lengths we’ll go through to spend ‘our time’ together. I quickly filled the air with talk — the house had been soooo quiet in recent days. “The other night, Jessie left that light on,” I pointed.
“Did it bother you?”
“No. Not at all. It’s a soft light. The reason I’m mentioning it is because it’s near the loveseat — the one that used to look like—”
“Bovine placentas,” he interrupted me.
I happily let the interruption go. “Yeah, look at how much the leather has warmed and lightened over the years.
“Yeah. It’s nice, really nice. And it’s stood the test of time. That was a good purchase.”
Time stands still.
While you’re in the living room with me, we’re going to discuss the Christmas garland that’s still hanging on my staircase. In a previous blog I mentioned that the final decorating ‘thing’ we do for that holiday season is to hang the garland. I also lamented that I was unable to do the actual hanging of it this year. Too bad. Without question, garland-adorned banisters are my favorite decorative detail. I especially love the garland we bought a few years back. It’s lush with Evergreen boughs, holly branches laden with berries, and plenty of flocked pine cones.
As Christmas garland goes, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
The fact that it’s still on display is definitely noteworthy.
Why is the garland still wrapped around our staircase banister? Very simple explanation. When Mr. Wonderful took down and packed up our tree and all of its adornments, he suggested we leave the garland up. “So you can see it at night, in the mirror, it’ll keep you company.”
It has kept me company. Every evening, at exactly 9:34 PM, the garland comes to life with a soft glow of amber lights all nestled into surrounding foliage. At 3:34 AM it darkens once again. I know this because I am usually awake for both events. Some nights my garland brings me joy, and on others it brings some melancholy.
What it always brings me — is a wonderful connection to Tim.
Time changes some things.
It seems that I’ve turned another corner and it’s sort of a concerning one. I’m showing signs that my spinal cord is weakening.
A worrisome development is an understatement.
I’m not sure I wrote this in a blog or not, but a little recap won’t hurt. A few weeks ago, I felt something strange and disturbing in my cervical spine area. I explained to Nurse M and family members that it felt like an elastic band had snapped. The ending result was that my head took on the stability of a ‘bobblehead.’ If an image of a dashboard Weiner dog — a poor little pooch whose head bobs and shakes from side to side and up and down without one measure of control just popped into your head — then good for you.
At that moment in time, I was a ‘bobblehead,’ a head-wobbler, a person unable to lift and support her head with her neck. I called out to Tim to help me get back from a BR trip and once I was reperched upon my leather and had ample support for my head and neck, I felt so much better. There was no physical pain associated with the event — just a loud snapping sound. As for emotional pain and concern — there was plenty of that.
I’ve had several bouts of ‘bobblehead’ since then. Not fun, not painful, and part of the whole spine-is-full-of-cancer-thing. This past week, when the Covid-shit-was-hitting-the-fan, I began experiencing some new spinal issues — a destabilization for lack of a better word. Given that I’m upright less than an hour each day, all told, any change in my ambulation, or ability to stand, is easily noticed and assigned the appropriate amount of concern.
A day or so before Tim got sick, I was doing the whole ‘get ready for bed’ routine and found that I was unable to keep a straight spine when I stood upright. The lowest part of my spinal column sort of swayed to the right causing immediate strain and pain on my left hip and/or pelvis area — you know, the hip and/or pelvis area that’s blackened by cancer. I put my hands onto the sink, gently aligned things, and had Tim get me back to the perch.
I told Nurse M during our Thursday visit and she suggested I up my walker to one that has a seat, and that I have an escort on future ambulatory trips. “You do not want to fall.”
“No, I do not.”
The ‘escort’ mandate lasted until Friday suppertime when Tim went down with Covid. With both of my ‘aides’ down for the count, I began timing my BR breaks to when Jessica dragged her sick-as-a-dog-ass from her Covid-chamber to get life-sustaining sustenance for herself and her parents.
It should be noted that the poor thing jumped — nope, wrong word — the poor thing crawled back into the caregiving role — w.a.y. t.o.o. s.o.o.n. The three of us did what we could under very difficult circumstances, but Jessica paid the biggest physical toll.
And the bottom line for me on the whole ‘escort mandate’ — well, let’s just say there were several solo BR trips taken. Each one had my new little prayer attached to it.
Please no broken bones. Please no bobblehead.
Please no spinal collapse.
I escaped those things — AND I escaped Covid.
Still.
While you and I have been away from one another, I’ve turned another corner. A big corner. One that came out of nowhere and at a higher rate of speed than the last swerve and curve.
Time changes everything.
It’s Wednesday now, and I’ve spent most of my recent days reconnecting with Tim and the girls. Hannah, Hadley, and Jessica all tested negative for Covid today, and each one has made masked appearances.
Which. Has. Been. Lovely.
Tim has joined me for some ‘masked-distance-time’ and will test tomorrow — hopefully ending the fear that there’s active Covid-cooties at 183. Lots of stuff happened during our downtime. The very worrisome days when my loved ones were ill and needed me. The very isolating time that held me prisoner and kept me from emotionally pushing into my recent physical decline.
Time is up.
Just before readying for bed tonight, a big-ass truck pulled onto the driveway. I couldn’t see the vehicle from my perch, but the bright headlights gave much away — as did the click-roll-click-roll sound of wheels on our sidewalk. Tim was downstairs before the doorbell rang. “Who’s here?”
“One way to find out,” I laughed.
He laughed, opened the door, and stepped outside. I heard him exchange a few words, then watched as he stepped back inside carrying a brand new, super-de-duper walker.
A bovine placenta red — state-of-the-art walker.
I shit you not.
Time to rearrange some furniture.
Just looking at the big-ass walker told us everything we needed to know — things needed to change. So, Mr. Wonderful and I made a plan — I headed to the BR — he moved an end table from here to there, and my perch from here to there, and my other end table from here to there, then met me for a personal escort to my newly reconfigured ‘living room’. I tried the new sitting-sleeping layout on for size, then gave him the nod of approval he hoped to receive. He gave me a kiss on my forehead and touch to my cheek that I hoped to receive.
And off he went.
I went nowhere — I certainly Did. Not. Go. To. Sleep.
I spent the entire night awake — pulling threads. My mind was a twisted mess of things that needed examination — by me — right then. The very first thread I pulled left me at the place I’ve been avoiding — the place that shows exactly where I am on my final journey — the X Marks The Spot — You Are Here pronouncement.
My spine is weakening — I am losing my battle to cancer.
My body and the universe are telling me that.
In tandem.
No longer am I living with terminal cancer — I am now dying from terminal cancer.
Subtle difference — perhaps. Important distinction — you betcha! I know I have the wretched disease. I know I’ve already lost my battle to it. I also know that I’ve been a valiant opponent — I’ve put up a hell of a fight — gone toe to toe and blocked its progression. I did what I could to stake claim on the fragmented pieces of my life. The result? My defiance slowed my cancer death down OR perhaps I simply benefited from the cat and mouse game Chewy Louie has been playing at my expense.
Time for a reality check.
This may sound ‘out there,’ but it feels as though the universe is stepping into my space with reminders that my time here is fleeting — that I don't have to fight to stay here — that there's someplace else for me to be.
The question is — when will I be headed that way?
I learned about my funky alk phos on October 18th. My bone scan results came back on November 9th. I wasn’t sure which date to use as the starting point for my ‘optimistic’ six-month countdown — the kickoff date of my ‘life expectancy’ if you will. I went all Sheryll Bodine and chose an easy date to remember.
November 1st
December 1st
January 1st
February 1st
March 1st
April 1st
May 1st
Sunday is my six monthiversary.
It is also my sister’s birthday.
If you’ll remember, May Day is a Minesweeper goal, a ‘death-date’ I want to avoid — but it isn’t my newest ‘live-until’ goal — that date is May 8th, Mother’s Day. The most important day of the year!
Barring any catastrophic event, I am quite sure I will make it to — and beyond — May 8th.
Time for perspective.
During my awake hours last night, I did some work. I pushed into things that I thought I’d come to terms with, and things that have been left by the wayside, and things that have been just too overwhelming to think about.
At morning’s light, I decided I’m ready to have The Talk with Nurse M, and with my family members. I realize it’s time to press into the big question — what’s next?
In the short term, I need to look at what’s down the road — the one that holds only one destination for me.
Before that happens, I need to embrace this blessing.
Time was the only thing stolen from us during Easter week.
Thank God.
Breaking form just a bit.
For those of you who sent me cards in recent days — the ones that arrived WITHOUT the ubiquitous return addresses — I want you to know I laughed my ass off at the mystery messages — AND I find it sooooo wonderful that sooooo many of you read my blog — had the same thought — and acted on it. Not knowing the ‘who’ of the card-sending was such fun.