50. Misfires. Music. Memories.
It’s long past midnight. Tim tucked me in with a kiss and a touch and went upstairs a couple of hours ago — even though he wanted to stay near and hover a bit longer. The reason for his attention: I had a push of really bad lumbar pain around suppertime. It came during that not-so-sweet-spot when I’m nearing the end of efficacy on one dose of Tramadol, and readying myself for the next.
The discomfort I get during these times is called breakthrough pain. I’ve come to realize the intensity of pain depends on where the breakthrough is on my body. Intense pain is usually felt in my thigh area, particularly the right thigh, and the pain can also get pretty bad along the upper part of my back, on both sides of the spine, several inches below my shoulder blades. Pushes of sharp pain definitely cause a cessation of whatever limited movement I can do in a chair, and always emits an audible moan. I know everything about this body of mine now and can usually tell now how long the painful session will be, and I usually tough it out without much fanfare.
I have other bouts of pain — manageable pain that pokes through here and there and really isn’t cause for discussion unless the pain is in new areas, like my shins and my actual shoulders. The first few times I experienced new pain in those areas, the penny dropped — I am on a pretty strong pain medication, the majority of discomfort I would be experiencing is being masked — that of course means that the majority of deterioration that’s lurking about goes mostly unnoticed.
Catch-22
Tramadol is a pain pill — I am dependent upon them — because they keep me from feeling and from knowing. I’m good with that.
The pain today was different — it wasn’t breakthrough pain — it was more akin to the pain I would suspect someone feels when they break their back — their lower back. It felt as though I’d been kicked by some brute in a steel toed boot — SMACK. Then, almost as soon as it came, it left — though it left a lasting impression.
It scared the ever-loving crap out of me. Tim, too.
You all know my spine is a cancer zone, from top to bottom. The wretched disease is everywhere, but my L1 is, and has been, of particular concern from the very beginning. During the months before I knew anything was wrong, I had a lot of lumbar pain. I’d nestle against a heating pad, toss a few OTCs into my mouth before bed, and assume an ache here and there was part and parcel of being in my early sixties.
When I had the bone scan, and a set of reclining X-rays, I had to stretch out on a hard surface. The experience was excruciatingly painful — seriously, just lying on a table caused silent tears to flow. My lumbar area felt as though it was cement and it was resting upon an equally unforgiving surface.
I remember putting my nightgown on when I got home from the scan. I ran my hand across my lower back — it was a surreal experience. My skin and the soft, poofy area that should have been just beneath the skin’s surface felt like concrete. An unusual sensation to be sure, and an experience I’ve shied away from repeating. That isn’t like me. I tend to check things over and over. If I have a bruise, I’m one of those people who touch it to see if it still hurts — it always does — because I’m touching it. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’ll toss this out there — as soon as I felt my concrete lumbar region, I have had NO desire to touch it — not sure I ever will.
Getting back to the story — I’d just taken a Tramadol and was minding my own business when it felt as though someone took a sledgehammer to my lumbar region — just one quick smack to the right side. Pain pushed hard, took my breath away, and left in its place an aftershock of physical reactions.
They UNSETTLED the hell out of me.
It felt as though my internal electrical system was having a malfunction. My heart did some sort of rat-a-tat-thumpity-thump-twirl thing, and pins and needles shot down my arms and legs, did a turnaround at the tip of each finger and toe and headed back up at lightning speed. I began to sweat profusely from everywhere, and when I called out to Tim I didn’t recognize my own voice.
He was at my side within seconds and the look on his face mirrored the internal shit storm inside me. “What happened?”
“Pain. Back. Bad.”
“You have no color, and you’re sweating, and you’re shaking. And—”
Before he finished whatever it was he’d planned to say next, everything corrected itself. It was as though someone plugged me back in and rebooted the electrical system. I cooled down, and settled down, and marveled that there was only the tiniest twinge of back pain.
Again, Tim asked what happened.
“I don’t know, really. I’d just taken my suppertime pills, was watching a show and all of a sudden I had this smack of pain in my back and everything inside seemed to go haywire. I’m fine now.” I extended my hand to prove that I wasn’t shaking anymore, and he said my color was back. We discussed calling hospice then we wondered what they could possibly do about something that was already done and over with.
And then we had a conversation — sort of a whispered one for fear our words would find space in the universe, and we shy away from letting the Grim Reaper know some shit is hitting the fan at the OB homestead.
“It’s just a matter of time before something like that happens and it doesn’t correct itself,” I said through tears.
He nodded through misty eyes.
“You’re the one who’s gonna have to call hospice — like by yourself.”
He nodded, again.
“Something like that could be the end — you know, it could be that sudden.”
Silence.
“I really don’t want it to be that sudden. I’m not prepared to die that way. How do I — can I prepare myself to die — That. Way?”
He kissed the top of my head and went to the kitchen. He returned with an apricot danish — which you should note I have also become addicted to in recent weeks. As soon as my appetite came back, it came back with a vengeance for apricot danish. There’s a place in Worcester called Culpeppers Café and Bakery on Southbridge Street. They make the best danish of any flavor anywhere and the apricot is a huge seller, so Tim has taken to buying a dozen at a time and tucking some into baggies for the freezer so we have some on hand.
I accepted the tasty treat with a smile, leaving the ‘what if’ fears and anxieties about sudden death scenes for another time. I spent the remainder of the evening pretending to watch a show on Hallmark — he spent the time with his eyes glued to me — and when he knew I’d had enough scrutiny and was about to snap, he went upstairs. I heard him walking the floors late into the night. I couldn’t sleep either, but since I am lashed to the leather, I grabbed a piece of paper, and jotted a few notes about things I wanted to cover in upcoming blogs. I make these lists often, but the stuff rarely gets into one of my writings.
For the most part, I don’t outline or even think things through before I start typing. It was the same way with my books — I’d start with a blank page, put a sentence or two down, and let my characters take me on a ride. The story essentially wrote itself, and then on the first rewrite, I’d go back and put in the color, the setting, the description of the characters, all the oomph-stuff that makes readers fall in love — or not.
I fell in love. I really miss my characters — my men.
I miss the ease of Fred Serpico — the guy who makes you think you’ve known him your whole life even though you’re still shaking hands of introduction — the guy who’s comfortable in his own skin and wears the hell out of it.
I miss the intensity of John Maxwell — the guy no one really knows — the guy who catches the eye of every woman, lusts after a few, but loves only one.
I miss the sophistication of Rocco Fiancetti, and the mischievous sex appeal of Manuel Xavier, and the prowess of the legendary Malcolm Price, and the wackiness of Randall Parker, and the boldness of Mathis Reynolds.
A sigh. A tear.
Halfway through my list, I’d written my men’s names. I figure there must be some reason I took a little walk down memory lane with my guys — so I just brought you along — and now I’ll get back to business.
All things considered, I am doing really well. Sometimes I forget that I’m sick. Correction: sometimes I forget that I am dying. Like this past Saturday, I had Mom and Marjorie over for a mid-day dinner of chicken pot pie and whipped potatoes.
No big deal. A very big deal.
Two lovely young women with whom Jessica works, Molly and Haley, sent a chicken pot pie to our home — an unexpected treat, for sure. Tim put it in the oven, and we had dinner guests. Everyone grabbed a seat in the living room, put their plates onto laps, and mouthfuls of yumminess into their no longer flapping traps.
There was no talk of cancer, or hospice, or funeral preparations. We talked about the beautiful, unseasonably warm day, and the many wonderful people who have done considerably kind things for a woman they know — or one they think about because they have a friend who is hurting and they want to show her they care.
Guess who made a reappearance later that afternoon.
Hint: He came in a package and was delivered by our postman, Jose.
Philip McTigue
Yeup, he’s been reading my blog and taking time out of his busy life to create a musical treasure trove of CDs for me. Tucked inside the package was a lovely note and two more musical trips down memory lane. Tim went to put the CDs into our system.
“No don’t!” I shouted.
“Don’t what?”
“Play them.”
He shot a look that said, “What the eff now?”
“Don’t play them. Not now.” My mind was twirling and swirling. A wonderful idea was taking shape in my head, but sadly I wouldn’t be able to pull it off without help. I probably would have enlisted the aid of Hannah and Jessica, but Mr. Wonderful was there — impatiently waiting for me to say something. “Don’t play them. I want to save them.”
“For what?”
“I want to have a date night with you.”
He lowered his head and looked at the floor. When he looked my way again, he had a smile — the one that spreads wide and causes line-dimples to run his face. His eyes lit with excitement.
I melted.
I don’t know if I ever told you, but Tim has really pretty blue eyes. The thing that makes them unique is a circle of yellow around the pupil. They are like starburst eyes, and I’ve seen them flash with excitement hundreds of times before — but then again, never like this.
“When. When’s our date?”
“Next Saturday. It’s your birthday.”
So, here’s the skivvy. No one is invited to Tim’s 65th birthday.
February 26, 2022
Do not call. Do not come.
It is a party for two.
Whenever Tim and I had date nights at home, we’d have shrimp cocktail, green grapes, sharp cheese, pepperoni, a variety of crackers and a bottle of sparkling cider. So that, my friends, is what we’ll be eating — as for what we’ll be doing.
In my mind, I’ll be dancing with my man. to the tunes of Mr. Philip McTigue.
Music has always been my connection to the good and not so good parts of my life. I’m not unique in that, but I’m one of those people who can — or could — name the singer/group who recorded the song, whether it was an original or cover recording, the year the song came out, the album it was on — or the flip side of the 45 — and most often who wrote the music and lyrics.
I suck at math – but I was the bomb at music.
My very first ‘concert’ was with my mom at Fitton Field at Holy Cross stadium when I was ten, or so. I saw Bobby Vinton. I knew his songs because my mom and Meme listened to W.O.R.C. — the music station in Worcester. Morning, noon, and night the station played Vinton’s tunes leading up to his visit to Wormtown — an affectionate nickname of my hometown.
Here's a link to an article — if you want to know about Worcester.
http://www.golocalworcester.com/lifestyle/inside-guide/
Since I’d never been to a concert before that day, I had no way of knowing if I’d enjoy it or not, but it was wonderful being on an outing with my mother — just the two of us — a rarity, for sure.
Anyway, when Mr. Vinton sang “Blue Velvet,” I knew — then and there — that my ass would be sitting in concert halls and nightclubs and tiny venues for the rest of my days.
I became addicted to live music.
My first ‘real concert’ — and I say that with some tongue-in-cheek, was a Bobby Sherman show, somewhere in Worcester. I was probably twelve or thirteen and I remember seeing several faces from my neighborhood at the show. I think I remember seeing Terry Canavan, Linda Fitch, and Susan LeBlanc in attendance. I’m probably wrong, but in my mind’s eye, they were there.
Those kids had long ago gone from my mind and had stayed away for decades until very recently when I received an email through my Pulling Threads website. It was from a girl with whom I went to grade school. Let me tell you what I think I remember about her.
Susan LeBlanc, she doesn't go by Susan anymore and she changed her last name when she married, so technically, the girl I knew as Susan LeBlanc is Sue Rohr, now. Her name may have changed, but the person I remember is still there.
I didn't pal around with Susan outside of school — she lived in Columbus Park, but she lived down from the rotary at Lovell Street and I lived up from it. We could have made the trek, it wasn't all that far, but there were plenty of kids on either side of the rotary, so we often spent our time in our own little neighborhood corners.
That didn't keep me from 'knowing' or at least forming an opinion of Susan — the kid with the goofy smile (we all had one) — the kid that fit in with everyone (we all tried to) — the kid who didn't make waves — the kid who probably didn't even choose sides. Susan was just there — always there — at the ready when someone was cast away or edged out. She was part of the safety zone in the playground.
From what I recall, she was really smart, too — and never one to cause a raised eyebrow from a teacher. We all have kids like Susan LeBlanc in our grade schools — the ones who are happy to sit next to you in class pictures — or on an infrequent bus trip on a school outing. To some extent, we are all those kinds of kids, or we should be. Truth is some kids shine more brightly at that age — others are comfortable being who they are — Susan LeBlanc was comfortable being who she was. How lucky for her.
During the formative years you get to know who's who in the way you get to know pieces on a checkerboard. They are here — and then they are there — and then they are gone from the game board called ‘grade school.’ They move on and arrange a whole new checkerboard in high school. They become adept at moving diagonally across black and red squares, forming new friendships — the real kind — the ones with depth and substance. They take the time to lean into those relationships before jumping onto life’s big checkerboard — the one that takes longer to play and requires strategy and effort.
That checkerboard is for keeps. It’s where people build new lives with husbands and children. And where they lose loved ones before they've fully realized how much they need them. And where they tend to their daily lives never expecting an opportunity to take a trip back in time. It is the fortunate few who see a chance for reconnection with someone from their past and grab hold of it — without expectation — without reservation.
Sue is that person. She reached out to someone she knew once upon a time — someone who wrote a book. She wanted to help celebrate the accomplishment — and she did — and it made me very happy to hear from her. And then no sooner had we become email buddies, she learned that our time was going to be cut short — that I was going to be ending my game of checkers. She held nothing back, not her anger, nor her sadness.
The person who reached out to celebrate with me a few months ago may go by the name Sue Rohr now — but the person who sends a weekly email full of comforting words is Susan LeBlanc, a girl I knew way back when.
And no sooner had I heard from Susan — I heard from Karen Flynn Larson Gouin.
I met Karen Flynn in high school, a time when you sit near or across from kids you never knew before. My memories of Karen seem to involve times that took place outside of classrooms. Maybe gym class — God I hated the uniforms we had to wear. And I swear EVERY DAMNED fire drill that took place at South High school took place during my gym class. The bell would ring and the whole lot of us had to vacate the building and stand in an alleyway with the whole student body staring and laughing.
I can’t say for certain if Karen was in the alleyway being snickered at or not, but I think she was — and I also think she was a classmate of mine in Mr. Power’s class. I’m sure she’ll let me know if any of my memories are real in a future email — the ones that have turned the corner from fun chit-chat to the telling of meaningful life experiences.
Karen first reached out when she received a copy of my first book, Bullet Bungalow, as a birthday present. She expressed very kind words and has kept me in the loop as she moves through Pulling Threads and we move through an email friendship.
Full circle.
Tonight I had a really scary episode. It reminded me that I am a terminally ill woman and that I am going to die sooner rather than later. The experience kept me awake longer than usual and set me on a path of remembering who I was and what I was doing before my world was turned upside down and all of the important parts of who I am were dumped by the wayside.
Tonight I gathered the pieces of my life — took a quick peek at what they meant to me — and what they mean to me, still. So, from misfires, music, and memories comes an opportunity for me to be me — if only for a few hours in the still of the night.