15 Months

15 months - and it hurts just as much.

I have some new insights, but I'm too raw today to write them.  I'll try soon.

I haven't written it every month, but if you don't hear from me on the 4th, know that it still hurts as much.  If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know. 

Garage cleanout

I mentioned that we are having our garage floor replaced.  What a huge job!  We didn't find out until Friday that Joe wanted to start work on the floor the next Monday (October 1st).  Riiiiiiight!

Before the work could start, we had to empty the garage.  Do you have a garage?  Is it ultra tidy - or is it like mine? 

Scott and Richard both offered to help move the contents of the garage over the weekend.  I don't know what we would have done without them.

One of the things that had to be removed from the garage, was a set of shelves that Greg built for Michael - to hold all of his shipping envelopes and boxes - so that Michael didn't have to go up and down the stairs every time he needed a shipping envelope.  He built the shelves out of whatever he could find in the garage:  dry wall, pieces of scrap lumber - anything available.  The shelves weren't pretty, but they were a huge help to Michael.

The shelves were moved to the back porch until the construction is over.  Scott and Richard suggested that I have new shelves built that would look better and be more sturdy.  I just nodded my head - couldn't talk.  Greg built them.  I don't like to get rid of anything connected to Greg - in any way.  It's like I'm throwing away a part of him.  How can anyone ask me to do that.

At the same time, there was a bag of small pieces of wood - useless, unless you're a contractor.  And boards - old boards - same thing.  On sane days, I know that saving everything that Greg touched isn't good for me.  It makes me sad to see those things - reminds me of how unrooted he was - how alone he felt - out of his home - away from his children.  It's not just blocks of wood to me - or pieces of wood - shelves made out of loose ends.

Greg left me so many special things - the plant hangers with the initials of my  grandchildren - the old-time tricycle on my mantle that he made out of metal - the 1949 Aladdin kerosene lantern in the dining room - the plastic happy-memory Santa on my window sill in the kitchen - and of course, Billy the squirrel on my mailbox - just to name a few.  Do I really need/want blocks of wood, boards, shelves made out of drywall to remember him?

While cleaning out the garage, Scott and Richard threw out the blocks of wood, and boards, laughing about what a hoarder their dad was (or at least pretending so for my benefit). When they told me, I had a catch in my throat - and then I mentally reminded myself of all that I have that connects me to Greg (as if any physical thing is necessary).  I was sad briefly, but then it was okay.

Richard and Scott asked Michael if he wanted those shelves back in the garage.  Michael told them that he did not.  Michael knew instinctively that if they came back in, I would not be able to let them go.

Richard said he would come and get the necessary things back in the garage.  If he gets rid of the shelves and I don't have to see them again, I think I can handle it.   I am grateful for all of Richard's help.

I'll just go sit on the porch and look at my plant hangers and talk to Billy for a little while and I'll be okay. 

Coming and going

I had hopes in the beginning of writing every day.  After reading the first few months of this (after I promised myself I would not go back and read what I wrote), I couldn'e help but think how depressing it was - couldn't possibly help ANYone - and wondered if it was good for me to write every day.

A cancer diagnosis solved part of that problem for me.  There are days I'm just too exhausted to do anything other than the things I need to do every day - the "one-foot-in-front-of-the-other" things that keep me from thinking any farther than the next hour.

So... I come and I go.  I don't like it, but it's where I am in my life at the moment.  Maybe tomorrow will be better - or next week maybe.

I feel better today than I have for quite a while (remembering that everything is relative).

I didn't feel great this morning, so I went and plunked myself on the sofa (a reclining sofa) in the den - put my feet up and my head back - and I fell asleep quickly.  Sounds perfectly normal - until you understand that we are having construction at our house this week.

Downstairs, in the basement, the plumber (let's call him Dave) is breaking up the concrete floor in order to add a powder room there.

In the garage, a concrete guy (let's call him Joe), who had already broken up and removed our garage floor on Monday, was filling the garage floor area with gravel and tamping and leveling (I guess) the gravel with a machine that sounded like a helicopter was in our garage - truly.  It was so loud, that Michael and I had to yell to talk in the den (the garage is on the other side of the wall where the sofa is located).

Michael left - I fell asleep - with the helicopter machine behind my head - growling and sounding like a helicopter.  I probably slept close to two hours.  It was likely that the silence of the helicopter-sounding machine being finished was what woke me up.

After I woke up, when I saw Michael, he looked concerned - couldn't believe I could fall asleep with that noise.  He said he came and checked on me several times.  I was sound asleep.

"How are you doing?," he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

"I feel SO much better after sleeping!"  I'm going to take a shower, get dressed, and get my day going.  He just hugged me and told me he loves me - which I appreciate.  He thinks I'm "just being brave", but I really do feel pretty good - a far cry from three hours ago.  This is how it's gone - up and down in the same day - often within a couple of hours.  Crazy,

This whole experience is just strange - not definable - barely describable - it just is.  And what is true this minute may be entirely different an hour from now.

And once again, like ripples in a pond, this affects everyone I know and love.

Minute by minute - step by step - in faith - trusting God.  That's all you can do. 

Character Magnet

I attract "characters" like an industrial magnet.  It's as if a magnetic aura surrounds me.  Not everyone can see/feel this aura - only the strange and wonderful - and they are unable to resist the pull.

Here's the story of this particular character and the joy that she brought into my life.

My grandson is turning 13.  Imagine all the cliches about time flying - I feel them all looking at this child.

ANYWAY... Bryce plays football.  His number is 8.  His dad gave him a beautiful gold chain for Christmas with a number 8 charm to put on it.  Bryce's mom and dad weren't sure he'd like the chain and/or number, so the number they bought him was gold plated rather than 14K gold.  Well... Bryce loved the chain AND the 8 - so much in fact, that he wore all the plating off of the 8.  His father suggested that I might want to purchase a 14k gold number 8 for Bryce for his birthday.  Great idea!  I'm in!

So... off to the hunt.  I saw some 14K gold numbers to order online - which would arrive after Bryce's birthday - so my oldest son suggested that I might find one at the mall in one of the kiosks so that I would have it in time for his birthday celebration.  Great idea!  (These guys are soooo smart)

Michael and I went out to dinner,  which is not something we do often - so many dietary restrictions and so little energy,  By the end of the day, I'm usually out of steam.  (Do you know about the Spoon Theory?  If not, find an explanation in this post: https://despitethedarkness.blogspot.com/2017/08/putting-in-time.html#more)  I was pretty much "done" by the time we finished - my spoons depleted  -  but the mall was just across the street, so we decided to go and take a quick look.

We found the kiosk easily and asked the woman working at the kiosk (let's call her Dana), if she had a 14k (or even 10K) gold number 8.  She was a petite black woman wearing a baseball hat, jeans, a t-shirt, gold sparkly sneakers, and a HUGE smile.  I was dressed in jeans, sandals, a shirt, and a bandana covering my almost-bald head, dark circles under my eyes - no smile.

After looking thoroughly in each display case, she told us, "I don't have any here, but let me check with the kiosk at the other end of the mall for you."

As she called the kiosk at the other end of the mall, she began searching the internet on the computer in the kiosk.  The kiosk at the other end of the mall didn't have any gold numbers either.  That wasn't enough for her.  She made a few more calls, but couldn't find the charm for us. I can't remember when I experienced service to that level.  She was just exceptional.

She asked about the bandana, and I told her that I had just finished chemo the week before and that I had no hair.  She laughed and took off her baseball cap.  Bald!  B-A-L-D.

Laughing, with an infectious deep pitched belly laugh, she said, "I'm too old to mess with hair every day.  No thanks! I shaved it off.  Done."  I had to laugh with her as Michael and I turned to head toward the  mall exit.

"I feel like you have a birthday soon.  Do you?," she asked, cheerily.

"I do", I answered, incredulous. "My birthday is the 20th of this month."

"I just knew it," she answered loudly, laughing.  (she laughed a LOT) "Which way are you headed?  I'll walk with you a little bit."  We pointed to the direction we were going and she moved next to me as we started to walk.

With her cap still off, bald head exposed, the woman started singing Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday to you" - with the most wonderful voice - at the top of her lungs - walking down the mall next to me (me on my mobility scooter).

She walked part way with us and then waved (still singing) as we moved away from her.

I looked at Michael and told him how thankful I was for her help and for her presence that particular day.  This last chemo was rough.  I was tired and didn't feel well.  It had been a long day - I pushed harder than I should have (a recurring theme) and I had been missing Greg a lot that day.

I am grateful that God not only loves me - but that he puts this kind of person in my path at the times that I need them most.

Thank you, God, for the characters in my life.  I love them all. 

Halloween memory

Richard stopped by tonight on his way home from work.  I fainted yesterday, did something to both knees, and was unable to walk. I have a lightweight (35 lbs) mobility scooter in the basement that I use to gather leather, etc. while making bracelets.  While Richard was here, I asked him if he could possibly bring that scooter up.  Michael had been pushing me through the house on a rollator since I fell.   ANYWAY... that's not the reason for this post.

Richard stopped by and we were talking about some work I was having done to the house and that the man doing the work (let's call him Brian) was someone who graduated with Richard.  Richard didn't remember him at all.  Didn't surprise me.

Brian told me that he played American Legion baseball with both kids but knew Greg better.  He cried when he learned that Greg had died.  He also told me that he had a history of drugs and that he had been sober for 13 years.  Now I knew why Richard didn't know him and Greg did - kind of.  That's not really the reason for this post, either.

When Richard left, Michael walked him out to his car and as they talked, Michael mentioned that one thing he has learned is that the McKinnons were well known in this area and that we keep running into people who knew them - and it often worked to our advantage.  Richard laughed.

He told Michael that Greg knew everyone.  Richard remembered one Halloween when he and Greg were 12 or 13.  They were walking down the street together and at one point they heard a group of kids behind them.  The kids' behavior identified them quickly as thug-type kids.  They kept getting closer - their language threatening.  Richard said that it was becoming obvious to Greg and him that they were about to be beaten up - their candy stolen. The kids behind them continued to get closer and louder.  At the last second, Richard and Greg turned around and one of the kids, seeing Greg, yelled enthusiastically,  "Hey McKinnon... how you been?" Greg responded just as enthusiastically.

Richard just laughed.  He said that was Greg.  He knew and loved everyone from every part of life.

Greg was voted "Most Popular" in high school.  When he told us, I wondered how many people he had to please to be voted Most Popular.  Greg knew the nerds - he knew the jocks - he knew the thugs - he knew the medically challenged kids - he knew the unpopular kids.

In Greg's adulthood - especially watching him in his own business, I learned that Greg just had a huge capacity to love... people... all people.  He forgave easily - was compassionate and empathetic.  He employed people who needed the work - whether they were a help or a hindrance. He took payment in old cars and cats.  Greg did work for people who couldn't afford to have that work done.  He did it because he could - and because they needed the help.

His light burned brightly and went out way too quickly.

Suicide Day ~ Chemo Cycle #5

One day last month Richard stopped at the house and I asked him how he was doing and how Greg's death has affected him.

His told me that he's angry - all the time.

"At Greg?,"  I asked.

"Just... angry," he told me.  "All the time.  I wake up angry.  I don't know why I'm angry.  I just am."

"You process your way and I'll process mine," he told me before I could ask another question.

"Okay," I answered.

He and Greg were close all their lives - played the same sports - had the same friends.  They were best friends - inseparable.  Although 14 months apart, they were known as "the twins" - the McKinnon brothers - clear through high school.  Richard's loss is enormous - and he'll have to carry that loss much longer than I will have to carry mine.

I don't think I understood until that moment, how profoundly the loss of his almost-twin brother changed Richard's life.

"Does talking about it help you," he asked me.

"It does," I replied.

"Well, it doesn't help me." 

I talk to Richard about everything. I lean hard on him.  I think we'll still be able to share memories and stories about Greg. I hope so.  But if he doesn't want to talk about "feelings" or how he's working through this, I have to respect his boundaries.  I hope it will change, but I'll follow his lead. 

All of that is a preamble to Suicide Day from Cycle #5 of chemo.

I told you about the emotional drop that I experience from prednisone after chemo.  Cycle #5 was the worst to date.

I decided that I was tired - done - ready to die - ready to let other people get on with their lives without being crippled by my presence.  These were not sad, self-pitying thoughts.  I was calm - rational (or so I thought).  I began to Google my medications to see what would take me out the fastest.

As I was gathering pills to kill myself, I had a flash of Richard - just a flash - his face - how he would look like after I died - how my suicide would affect him - forever.

I collapsed in tears.  I knew in that moment, that suicide could never be an answer for me. Never.  No matter what.

God's grace - his infinite mercy - touched me in that flash of Richard's face.

What had I been thinking?  It was then I realized the roller coaster pattern of chemotherapy (therapy?) and the chemical effect on my brain.  Knowledge is power, I've heard.  This experience was the living truth of that saying.

I will be forever grateful for Richard sharing his feelings with me that day - and even more grateful for God's mercy.

When I talked to Woowoo (You remember Woowoo, right??) about what happened, she told me that people contemplating suicide often report a "vision" that prevented them from completing their plan.

Did Greg have a vision?  Was it too late?

Chemical impact

Post chemo week is always an adventure.  When I look at the way prednisone affects what goes on in my head, I can't help but think of all the drugs that Greg took and how the "Greg" of him disappeared into the drugs.

On chemo day I get 100mg of prednisone.  Have you ever taken 100mg of prednisone?  Have you ever taken 40mg of prednisone?

100mg of prednisone makes me feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.  It makes me feel like the impossible is just within reach. It makes a lot of my physical pain a vague memory.

Chemo day in the oncology world is known as Day #1.  In addition to the 100mg of prednisone I get on Day #1, I also get a pretty large dose of Benadryl (for reactions to the chemo).  The Benadryl counteracts the prednisone, making me sleepy.  The night after chemo is usually a good night - no pain and Benadryl helps create a deep, dreamless sleep (a welcome change).

But on Day #2 I get another 100mg of prednisone.  Sleep that night just doesn't happen.  My eyes are wide open - my mind is on super-charge.

On Day #3, yet another 100mg of prednisone.  Sleep?  Not a chance.  But I'd be happy to talk to you - all night - non-stop.

So, now I've gone two nights without sleep - and then the fall begins.  On top of the effects of sleep deprivation, we now cut the prednisone in half, from 100mg to 50mg for two days on Day #4 and Day #5.  On 50mg of prednisone, sleep is still sketchy at best.  On Days #6 and #7, we cut the prednisone in half again - from 50mg to 25mg and Depression replaces the feeling of well-being.  Thoughts of suicide - feelings of hopelessness - exhaustion - confusion - and the pain is back.

Today is suicide day.  I woke up this morning in pain, this hideous oxygen tube strapped to my face, heart rate too high - oxygen levels too low - almost no hair - my skin the color of chalk.  I wonder why I'm doing all this - knowing that everyone around me would have a simpler, happier life without me in it.  No doubts.  Certainty.

And then I remember that today is Day #6 and I'm sitting in the first car of the prednisone roller coaster - strapped in tight. I know that everything I feel or think today is due to the chemical onslaught that my mind and body have experienced since Day #1.  I'm just a passenger.  I have no control over this ride.  All I can do is hang on until the ride is over - promise myself that I'll make no decisions - take no actions until the ride comes to a complete stop.  No matter what I think - no matter how I feel - I will make no decisions today. 

This has been a pattern for every cycle of chemo, but I didn't recognize the pattern until the previous cycle.  Someone should have warned me about this.  Last month, it almost cost my life (more tomorrow).

Greg didn't appear to know how much the drugs affected his mind - his thinking - how altered he could become.  He didn't seem to understand that much of his loneliness - his feelings of isolation - and of hopelessness were drug induced.  As the highs got higher, the lows must have gotten correspondingly lower.

I've seen God's hand in my life over and over again in the past year or so - his mercy - his grace.  I know that Greg begged God for help - cried in anguish to God for help.  Did he have to find his help in death?  Was that the only way for him?

There is no peace in understanding - firsthand - the death call of drugs.