train not running

Last time, New York was aglow.  But Rich's surgery was a week before the holiday season, and everywhere there was the excitement of something better coming, even if we know that such excitement folds and collapses.

Still. I expected something different.

Last time, Rich and I walked through Grand Central Terminal where we saw the train show and I pointed out, look! there's the QT train from the '70s, raw and fresh in sound and appearance.

Last time, we walked to Bryant Park, taking in the holiday kiosks selling pet T-shirts and happy Buddhas, and the skating rink where people did what I never could -- smiling, too.

That was last time.

This time, Rich rested in the room while I went to the train show, but -- where was my QT?  Not running.  Which, in truth, is closer to reality.  In the '70s, much of New York wasn't functioning.  But who wants to remember that?

This time, the kiosks were gone, holiday sales over, Buddhas moving on to the Chinese New Year festivities.  Some skaters still circled cooly, but many reminded me of my own gravity-susceptible attempts.

I returned to the room.  It wasn't the same, I say.

Change is inevitable, exciting, normal.  Except when the trains stop running.

Candace

 

vacation

From England, a letter received from a friend of many years:  Remember the Christmas you were with us? If we could only turn back the clock!

I do remember that Christmas, of roasted meats and trifles, of walks along the Thames, and her family's gift to us, a gorgeous coffee (tea?) table book titled "English Landscapes."  To remind us, she said, of what Rich and I loved best about the countryside.

But, like all memories, the book was what the photographer wanted the countryside to be, and what we wanted to remember.  In the forward, the photographer was honest.  Exquisite views of  lakes and fens and architectural triumphs were carefully composed, devoid of imposed blight (even the palaces and churches appeared organically grown).  

This was a world without humans, or at least of the post-Neanderthal sort.

Still. It was real.

We have had ten full days home and are now on the road again for Surgery: Round Four.  It was like a vacation, Rich said.  We walked, tied up some financial matters, ate hot meals with candlelight and good wine, and even squeezed in a wonderful New Year's Day party, joined by neighbors and ex-neighbors, and friends.

Perhaps we are looking at a place that exists only in our mind, but that doesn't matter.  It's still real.

A wonderful new year to all -- 

Candace

kudos

We're home.  

Time to breathe deep and remember, starting with much kudos to those listed below, and many others who we will never know.

• To the friends and neighbors who provided loving Thunder (he's our cat) care, and filled our refrigerator with grains and vegetables and jars of organic kosher chicken soup (if that doesn't cure cancer...);
• To those who took shovel and snowblower to our driveway; 
  
• To new and old friends in New York who shared time, meals, and laughter with us during Rich's hospital stay;
• To the amazing people at Miracle House;
• To the staff at Memorial Sloan Kettering, whose care, compassion, and competence exceed just about every institution I've known;
• To Rich's colleagues who sent him a box filled with CDs and DVDs of "Fawlty Towers" and "I Love Lucy" and other comedic greats;
• To all who called, wrote, visited, and kept us in their lives.

And the list could go on and on, gratitude without end.  None of these efforts may be enough to "cure" Rich (except for the chicken soup...) but they're more than enough to make this life beautiful.

Candace

frequent surgery card

Patiently sitting in the pre-op cubicle, his clothes whisked off and his vitals recorded, Rich and I discussed the possibility of the hospital introducing a frequent surgery card, just like cafes, where ten cups of coffee entitles the buzzed-up drinker to an eleventh at no charge.  The temptation is to order the pricey exotic options -- supersized cappuccino, amaretto-chocolate latte.  But Rich and I almost always ask for the usual:  Cafe au lait (for me); basic black, leave a little room for milk (him).

Why can't hospitals can do the same?  Especially for frequent theatre-goers (of the cut-me-open sort).  After five surgeries (these are, after all, even more expensive than lattes), get a gratis treatment of choice, anesthesia included!

Rich is getting close to having a full card, returning to New York in less than two weeks for another hit of surgery, this one going into the dura in a chase after the wandering chordoma. 

Unfortunately, when the bonus kicks in, he can't stick his basic black, leave a little room for milk.  He may have radiation one more time, but this time the dosage formerly spread over 40 days will be shot into him in a week.  And the chemo options are even more unimaginable -- and guaranteed to give a bigger buzz -- than an amaretto latte.

For now, we're going home.  To get ready for the next time.

Candace

worser and worser

Although Rich is recovering magnificently from Wednesday's surgery, looking amazingly fit and walking multiple laps around the hospital halls, all is not well.  Fact is, we're in reverse.

Last night's MRI revealed a bulge in the dura (inner, hard part of spine) that the neurosurgeon doesn't like (neither does Rich).  Is it merely scar tissue, or chordoma tumor (very rare to be growing this way), or another sort of tumor?  Another surgery, perhaps as early as Monday (!) may be required.

I'll stay in touch.

Candace

have a good night, sweetie...

...so said the bus driver tonight as I exited, heading home from the hospital.  I'm not going to my home, of course, but to a rented apartment while Rich recovers in the hospital.  And Rich is not exactly recovering, either, as the surgery sucked out more cancer, this time a bit higher up the spine (C1 and C2, to use Rich's precision).  The recovery is from this surgery, so he can have more surgery, more toxic chemicals, more (perhaps) radiation.

So I can say many more times, "have a good night, sweetie," and he will be next to me, not in a hospital, and together we will be home.

This hurts so bad.

Much appreciation to all for thoughts, time, love shared -- 

Candace

latest dance

We're on a bus, headed south. On Wednesday, Rich will once more will have surgery to remove an overachieving tumor that just doesn't get the message.  Because it has been only three months from the previous surgery, we're not happy.

I'll stay in touch.

Candace