the road taken

Last week I went out of town during the first light snow of the season. Before leaving, I checked the alternative routes, of which there were at least three. I chose the fastest, but also the least travelled.

On a previous trip, this journey took almost two hours. Going this time, it clocked in at 1 hour 38 minutes, with the bonus of pretty views and almost no other cars in sight.

Still. I should have noticed.

One road, called CR 52, climbed and climbed and, for most of its ten miles, was receiving a light blanket of snow. Elsewhere it was only rain, or no precipitation at all.

The next morning, ready to return home, the streets outside the inn were covered with a couple of inches of snow, and more falling. A postcard scene, and I didn't think twice. I could have chosen only state highways which, in this part of the world, are usually plowed and salted and safe. This would have added about 20 minutes to the trip.

But why not go the same way I came? It was so pretty! And fast, too.

All went well until CR 52. But I didn't think of turning back; I had come too far, I know how to drive in snow, and --- an adventure. And a car that tracked sure. The few other vehicles I met were either crawling, or pulled over to the side of the road.

When I reached the state highway about 30 minutes later, the road was clean and the sun was breaking through.

I checked the time when I arrived home: 1 hour 40 minutes.

A good choice, after all.

But next time, if it's snowing, I won't be on CR 52.

Candace

waves on an ocean

"What we call life...consists of single moments, which arise, dissolve, and arise again, like waves on an ocean"-- The Dzogchen Ponlop Rinpoche

As a child I lived near an ocean and I loved body-surfing the waves into shore. The highest were the best; in their current all I could do was "just go" and let myself be churned onto the beach. Those moments held everything: Fear tossed with abandon mixed with awe. And I would go back for another ride and another and another not because I was stupid (well, maybe) but because I was vaguely aware of something else: This land-locked human was dissolving into something I could not understand, but what a relief it was.

Where we are: Rich is experiencing a significant amount of pain in his neck, arm, and two of his fingers. He considers the possibility that "this is the beginning of the end." A big wave, again, and a reminder to let the fear melt away. But I will try to keep the wildness and wonder.

Candace

Training

At my favorite coffee spot a sign occasionally appears above one of the cash registers: "Training: Please Be Patient." I am tempted to borrow and wear it --- and ask for a few extras.

In retrospect, I achieved mastery of every "job" only after I had moved on. I don't think I ever quite managed childhood, or puberty, or college, or my first career, or my second...you get the idea.

Until it was over, and then I realized two things.

First, regret: If I only knew what I now know, how easy it would have been.

Second, acceptance: I know now that I never could have known.

Training is not a place from which we move on, but a place where we learn to be comfortable. And learn patience. For me, and with you, and all of the days.

Candace

revolving door

Yesterday Rich had another MRI to check on progress of the tumor. At the entrance to the imaging center are two doors. One is the simple open-and-walk-through type. But this is not the preferred entrance.

A sign says, "Please Use the Revolving Door."

So we do, again and again. It's not as if we don't have a choice. It's not as if anyone is watching.

Habit? Obedience? Possibility that this may be the better option?

Chordoma is not something that can be walked through. There's the experimental drug, its monitoring, the rhythm of tests, trips to New York, meeting with doctors, awaiting the results. Round and round and round. This is about management, not curing.

Still.

Why not walk through? Each turn is new, even if unwished. We can be stuck in the emotion, but not the moment.

So.

Rich's tumor has not grown. He will continue as a test ferret on the Sutent (ferrets being the only other species known to support chordomas). We will contine our trips to New York, although now Rich gets a "leave" for four weeks. He will continue managing loss of use of his arm, treating the elevated blood pressure and foot blisters that are some of the side effects.

So it still goes, round and through.

Candace

pressure, blood and others

Rich's blood pressure, not unexpectedly, has moved from his normal low to too-high. This is a "side effect" of Sutent, the experimental-for-chordoma drug.

He is still waiting for the "front effect." It doesn't seem to be working. What is working is pressure on his feet, causing painful blisters; sour stomach, causing fear of anything but bland; hope, causing disappointment.

He will not take more Sutent until he gets in touch with the physician's office, probably on Tuesday.

So the pressure is still on: A limited time to stop the tumor before it hits the spinal cord. Surgery is the next step, but it will cause, at minimum, total loss of usage of his right arm.

Maybe I should explore more alternatives, Rich says. Most do far less damage than pills and knives, and some even comfort. But what if nothing works?

Is there a reason for all of this? Rich asks as we fall into bed.

No.

And we sleep, long and deep.

Candace

alive!

I don't think it's me. We may be passionate about politics or sports or NASCAR, but when we ask ourselves what really matters in our wooly-sized worlds...

It's coming up on three years since Rich's surgery. I remember the day after, awake for most of the previous 48 hours, happily stumbling into my favorite NYC pastry shop. Most tables are filled, people absorbed in their cafe au laits, newspapers, laptops.

In front of me is a gaunt young man in black.

"Two coffees, large," he says.

"A long night?" I cheerfully ask.

"Bush won."

Oh, right. Yesterday was the presidential election, and I suppose the absentee ballots Rich and I filled out in October didn't make the difference.

But, I want to shout: Who cares if my candidate lost? My guy won! He is alive! Why isn't everyone celebrating?

Perhaps because my world is so small. Or maybe just the right size.

Candace

watch wooly walk

"Do you think he's dead?" Rich asks.

"No, just resting," I say.

He --- or she, I'm sorry I don't know the difference in this species --- is a wooly catepillar, a furry black-and-brown black-eyed pinky-sized autumn visitor. This Sunday morning he is camped out on our deck, crawling from one board to another, hesitating when he comes to a small separation between the boards before charging across.

Does he have a goal? We expect it's the grass, where he will be safer from predators and find some food. So, we root for him to conquer the chasms between the boards, urge him on as he wriggles under a stray blade of grass that's twice his size, and bravely ignores our skyscraper shadows.

Sometimes, he rests. Moving forward is an act of courage, and so rest, a temporary form of death, is a good strategy. We humans can clearly see where Wooly should be going. Why are you spending so much energy going south! You will only bang your head! That's it...turn around...good!

Rest, crossing chasms, not seeing if we're going in the right direction: That's our life this autumn.

We come back, about six hours later, and find Wooly cozily tucked away, at the edge of the grass and deck. A safe spot. Did he know he would end up here, or is it pure chance?

Either way, it will work.

A good week to all,
Candace