A Story of Strength and Grace

My wife came home from a trip yesterday.  Her trip wasn’t to a tropical paradise or the happiest place on Earth.  No, far from that it was a trip to a little corner of hell called cancer; specifically renal cell carcinoma or kidney cancer.  Like what happens on many trips she came home with a souvenir, a small incision on her left side.  And, as what also happens when we take trips she left something behind; a kidney and a string of lymph nodes (the pathologist report is still outstanding on the lymph nodes but the surgeon said that his inspection showed that they were clear.).    

This is her third such trip, the other two being breast cancer which resulted in a couple of lumpectomies and a short stint of radiation treatment.  That’s really more than most people deserve but luckily she has always made it a round trip.

Cora was diagnosed in early December when back and abdominal pains sent her to emergency.  The E.R. doctor explained that instead of the kidney stones we'd hoped for there was a tumor and she would have to see a urologist as soon as possible.  A week later a CT scan came out negative, no surrounding organs were affected.  Surgery was scheduled for mid-January.  But this story doesn’t concern itself so much with cancer as it does with Cora’s strength, grace and dignity and of changes in perception about life as we’ve grown older. 

If you had been around Cora for the past month, you wouldn’t know that she was living in the shadow of cancer.  She went through her daily routine, kept the holiday season and was as cheerful as always.  The only indication that anything was wrong was during those pensive moments when she would sit in silence, staring at nothing in particular.  She never talked about it unless the subject was broached by those who found out and then she only asked one thing; pray for me.  I think that the only time that she looked really resigned was as she was being wheeled to surgery.  It was the first time I’d ever seen her look vulnerable.

For years I’ve maintained some things about Cora.  First of all, she’s the strongest person I know.  Now physically she can’t lift shit unless some emergency pressed her to do so and then she would probably hoist a ’57 Chevy.  Her strength comes from her dignity, her steadiness and her faith.  All of this is rather foreign to me which is really no surprise since I’ve had a penchant at times for being the biggest dickweed on two wheels (according to the dictionary of urban slang a dickweed is “a completely self-absorbed, useless asshole with shit for brains”).  And the fact that she’s remained with my dickweediness for 30+ years is a further testament to the fact that the woman is a certifiable saint; a rock that would humble the great Gibraltar. 

Cora is not the ship that navigates through rough seas.  Somehow she is able to be the ship surrounded by a cocoon of calm sea in the midst of the tempest.  She’s been the shopkeeper of the household’s supply of cool and calm.  The roof is leaking; I’ll cuss and spit and she’ll go to the Yellow Pages and find a roofer.  We have an expensive household project before us and while I hem and haw over the expense, I’ll come home one day and find the project done and done.  When the local Toyota plant shutdown in 2010 and my job was in imminent danger of disappearing and  my stomach was in knots and I thought life as we knew it was done she was the one who went on as usual and told me not to worry, “we’ll be okay.”  She was right of course.  I was laid off, got severance and a better job.  She's stared cancer in the eye three times without blinking while I, in frustration over a broken ankle launched my crutches across the room on more than a few occasions.  To use a sports metaphor, she’s been Joe Montana in Super Bowl XXIII who, when the 49ers needed an end of game 92 yard drive calmed the huddle by saying to his teammates, “Isn’t that John Candy in the stands?”  I’m the QB who goes into the huddle and says, “Boys, we’re fucked.”

She’s the selfless woman who decided to spend our thirtieth wedding anniversary making a meatloaf, driving it to our daughter and then helping her with the two babies; who cooks dinner for the whole family and then holds the youngest baby while everyone else eats.  When I broke my ankle she drove me to work every day, even though it was out of her way, worked at her job, picked me up and then came home and made dinner.  All without complaint.  She’s the one who gives dollar bills to the homeless guys and admonishes, “It’s for your food.” So why is it that she’s had to deal with cancer three times?  That’s precisely the bone that I’ve been picking with God over the last month. 

When I was in my teens I engaged in that phony bravado that seems to be standard in adolescent males.  “Ah, I won't live past twenty five. I'll live hard and die young”  We were so many ersatz James Deans living in the comfort of suburbia.  It was easy for us to scoff about death because, Vietnam War aside, we deep down knew that we would easily see twenty five and beyond.  That bravado goes away of course and as we hit the mid-century mark we start to take note of our mortality. 

I don’t recall that sense of mortality when Cora had her lumpectomies.  We were in our forties, they were manageable and mortality was still over the next few rises.  This time it was different.  When the doctors prescribed the actual removal of an entire organ the stakes suddenly became a damn site higher.  Until the CT scan came in negative I went through those stages; you know anger, followed by sadness and a nagging fear of the worst. What the hell God, is this how it works?  Why don’t you deal this out to someone a little more deserving?  You know maybe you could start with some child molester or human trafficker or crooked politician.  This was actually when I was fearing the unthinkable. I reflected on something my daughter told me recently about how she enjoys seeing the “grandparent experience” of Cora and I interacting with her children.  It was something that she'd never had.  Her maternal grandparents lived some distance away.  She was a toddler when my mom passed and very young when my dad passed.  During her early years my dad was in the midst of Alzheimer’s and so her grandparent experience was less than ideal.  Is this the deal God?  You take Cora away from the grandkids who she cherishes so dearly and you cheat those kids out of a grandma?  I thought back to when my mom passed suddenly; dad, already slipping into dementia, rattled around that house by himself and the slippage became a plunge.  I started to understand why he held onto small mementos, some seemingly insignificant but having special meaning that only he knew.  Would I be rattling around in my house?  I know people who’ve lost a spouse and have found another partner.  How do they do that (and no this is not a value judgment)?  How could I even think of ever packing away pictures of my Cora?  I don’t hold much stock in the Mormon religion but if I’m not mistaken they hold a belief that people remain married in the hereafter for eternity.  I like that notion. 

To us Boomers, I suppose there’s a feeling that time is becoming more precious.  I was talking to a co-worker just yesterday.  I told him that I went to the 49er playoff game last weekend and that the tickets were more than I would normally pay.  I would have just watched it at home but I ponied up because my son asked me to go and my daughter and her husband would be there as well.  He agreed, saying that he recently spent more on a basketball ticket than he normally would because his daughter asked him to go with her.  Said Don, “You never know when it can end.  It can be over in an instant.”

But let’s not get the idea that I’m cowering in death’s shadow.  All is good in the domestic circle now.  Cora’s back home.  I woke up before dawn this morning and felt the comfort of seeing her in the still dim light, feeling the touch of her hand and the smell of her scent.  Even the dog is happy.  While Cora was gone Rainey would stand at Cora’s side of the bed and stare at the unoccupied space.  Today she’s been a constant sentinel at the bedside and when Cora gets up Rainey follows like a hairy shadow.

My feeling is that we’re content and comfortable as we grow older together.  We contemplate places we want to go.  We make some vague retirement plans.  Our children and their families live close by and there are frequent family gatherings.  For my part I realize I have to shed my phobia about money.  Can we do things now, take trips, eat out and go to movies and still have enough to retire on (see my earlier post, There But for the Grace of God)?  Cora assures me we’ll be fine and why should I doubt her?  It’s not like she’s been wrong on these things before.  But above all there is a certain indescribable peace.  One day I was talking with the vicar of my church and she (yes, she) was talking about keeping the Sabbath.  She offered that it isn’t all about going to church.  Anybody can go to church, she said.  Her point was that the whole idea is to have a sense of spirituality on Sunday.  I told her of quiet Sundays at the house.  It might be a rainy afternoon, the dog is curled in front of the fire in the fireplace, I’m reading and Cora is puttering or sewing, the only sounds are of the house and the smell is of dinner cooking.  There is an overriding sense of peace, balance and companionship.  This, I told Vicar Susan, is the spirituality in my life. 

If there is a God in Heaven then the blessing that She's (yes, She) bestowed on me is Cora.