12. Firsts and Lasts
This blog is a mashup of things — things I have never done before — things that I may never do again.
Thanksgiving. This was most likely my last and it was very different from all others. I saw an orthopedic oncologist early that week After he did a head to toe analysis of where the cancer is and where it has done the most damage, he insisted I leave his office using a walker, and that I use it every time I move about, and then suggested I not move about. “Limit yourself to bathroom trips, and don’t go outside, unless it’s to a doctor’s appointment or for a diagnostic scan.” Trust me on this point, I would much rather have left my home for a turkey dinner than for a recent bone biopsy — but maybe that’s just me.
In a future blog, I’ll tell you about that shit show.
Snowfall. The first snowfall of each winter season is a big deal in New England. Most often it is a flurry here and there and doesn’t amount to much of anything (except for Halloween a few years ago when we got a blizzard, but that’s a story for another time). Anyway, the first snowfall came in the afternoon the other day. The annual event is always greeted by me with a squeal of delight — this year, my squeal was followed by an uncontrollable push of tears. For each snowflake that fluttered past my window, a big, fat teardrop began its journey — from my eye, down my cheek, and onto my chest. “My last-first snowfall,” I blurted to my husband. He patted my shoulder as he walked past me, trying to hide his tear-filled eyes, “Don’t worry, you’ll be cursing the snow in no time at all,” he reminded.
Priests. A priest came to the house the other day — it sounds like the beginning of a joke — it certainly felt like one.
A little background, Tim was raised Catholic and I was raised Protestant. Our children were baptized in the Catholic church and attended Catholic high school. That decision was part of our religious plan for them from the get-go. Tim and I didn’t have a get-go on our religious plan. We spent the early years of our marriage ‘visiting’ churches, looking for the right fit for each of our religious needs. Sadly, we never really found ‘our’ religious home. No big deal for our daily lives, but a bit problematic now that I need a spiritual leader on my current journey.
My bestie, Donna, solved my problem with one phone call to her priest, a dude she’d been raving about for years. The other day she showed up with the man in tow — the man I need — the man I could have benefitted from knowing my whole life. The laidback priest took a seat in my favored mission chair (although he might have been equally comfortable in a beanbag chair tossed on the floor or swinging from a hammock in the backyard while listening to a little Van Morrison or Joan Baez). Father Cool became part of the scene. He didn’t arrive with expectation, or vie for the leadership role. Honestly, his vibe was that we were just hanging out together. He wanted to know about me, sure, but offered no Plan A or Plan B on how to accomplish that. He just sat back and let me tell him what I wanted to tell him. In other words, the man of ministry knew we’d find our way.
In retrospect, I can honestly say the only thing that set the cleric apart from any other dude I’ve invited into my home was the black and white collar he wore. This priest is as easy a conversationalist as I am, but he is w.a.y. better at listening — part of his training, I suppose. He was open to discussing the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism, and more importantly, the Christianity that binds the two.
He skillfully guided me around a tiny complaint I expressed in the God department. “The only thing I have prayed for since the beginning of this ordeal, is that God won’t give me more than I can handle. Sometimes, I think He might be missing my prayer,” I said in a near-whisper.
My visiting holy man wanted examples. I gave him a rundown. “I’ve sort of been getting one blow after another: you have metastatic breast cancer; it’s in your bones; it’s full body bone cancer; it is terminal; your femur and L-1 are your biggest concerns; dying of bone cancer is excruciatingly painful; there may be a pill that can help with the amount of pain you have getting from here to hospice; you’ll need to have a bone biopsy to see if you’re eligible for the pill; the biopsy can be painful; you should meet with hospice in the near future; you should begin planning a funeral; and, and, and — all of this happening in the span of a few weeks. It’s sort of been a lot, and it feels like it’s more than I can handle, sometimes.”
Mr. Priestman let me work it through for myself — I filled the slightly uncomfortable silence with — “But, I guess I’m handling it because my friends and family tell me they can’t believe how strong I am, or how important it is for me and for others that I’m blogging about this, or how in awe they are that I’m still enjoying life.”
Father Steuterman smiled.
I fell asleep that night without saying my prayers (a pain pill and a Xanax are to blame). If I had spent time with God that night, I would have thanked him for sending this priest my way because I know that with him by my side, I will be better able to handle whatever comes my way. And had I chit-chatted with God, I would have told him: