My days are a mix of useful busyness and sorrow. As happened when David was sick for those seventeen months, stabs of anguish find me at unexpected moments.
Our church choir rehearses for the Lexington Interfaith Choral Festival. I’m fine, and then I face ‘No more a stranger nor a guest, but like a child at home’, from My Shepherd Will Supply My Need. The intensity and suddenness of the tears undoes me. My face contorts. My voice shakes. How will I make it through the actual performance?
As I drive to the Festival, a plan develops. Alone in the car, I sing the phrase over and over, loudly and with conviction. As the phrase becomes familiar and I experience singing it without my throat constricting and my face crumpling I gain confidence, which sees me through the day.
10 April 2014
I walk among pink clouds today. After a day at Wrenmimic (Walter Reed) I take the Metro to downtown D.C. I walk several miles, past Smithsonian buildings and around the Washington Monument. At dusk I skirt the Tidal Basin and stop at the Jefferson Memorial. All along the way, as I look up at the soft pink petals of the cherry blossoms I am transported into an enchanting pastel heaven.
I’ve never been to Washington during Cherry Tree Festival. For many years we visited Steve and Maria for spring school vacation week, but always too late for the blossoms. This year I savor a magical evening of delicate beauty.
11 April 2014
Happy Birthday, Sam!
David has his third bone marrow biopsy to ascertain whether or not the first round of chemotherapy has put the leukemia into remission. We’ll know the results in a week.
From my blog:
I’ve got Megabus tickets to return to Lexington Monday evening, April 14th, barring another appendectomy: highly unlikely, since I’m 85% certain that even David was only issued one appendix. Jim and I hope to host our annual Patriots' Day breakfast, with a little help from our friends.
12 April 2014
David’s beard starts to fall out. The chemo is so harsh he has to cover the toilet before flushing; even his urine is toxic. His esophagus is raw; eating a meal takes over an hour, each swallow painful.
14 April 2014
At 7:30 a.m. my brother Steve drops me off at the Medical Center Metro station across from WrenMimic and by 8:40 a.m. I am sitting just behind the driver on a Megabus bound for Boston. We’ll travel via Philly and Secaucus, NJ. I spend the day reading book group books on my new Kindle: Some Buried Caesar by Rex Stout (my selection for our family book group) and The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman (my women's Relief Society’s book group selection). They are novels, light, easy reading, perfect for a long bus ride. However, as the bus approached South Station in Boston, my heart starts to ache. Waiting for my luggage to be lifted down from the storage bin, the tears start, and I weep as I pull the big black roller-bag into South Station and toward the T. I get through the turnstile, then become lost looking for the outbound Red Line train platform. I take an elevator, but it brings me to the Silver Line. The only escalator I see is going in the wrong direction, so I lug the heavy suitcase up the stairs. My nose is running, but I have no tissues; in short, I’m a crying mess. My heartstring is stretching between my body in Boston and Bethesda, Maryland. It’s taut and about to snap.
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