Off to Manzanita

Packed up, ready to go toManzanita on the Oregon Coast in quest of fresh tuna. We will stay at Sea La Vie.  I've put aside my inner grammar critic on that, reasoning that we are not in France we don't have to spell as the French do.  It should be a good trip although today's horoscope warns Sagittarius people to "postpone travel".  After emerging from my shower, I heard a strange crackling noise outside.  It was heavy rain the patio.

But the die is cast and the Rubicon (or Columbia) shall be crossed.  The Land Orca is safely in the hospital, the Gray Cat's food and water is all set up, and Maia is at the Pet Hotel.

Next up, Portland.

Maiden Voyage

A first for me! I traveled alone to visit family and see some places that I've wanted to see for a long time.  I've never done a solo road trip, and never imagined that I would or even could.  This was my maiden voyage at age 60.  Here are some statistics for the mathematically curious.  And other information, perhaps needless, but fun.

Days away: 5.  from July 19th to the 23rd

Nights away: 4.  For the first two nights, I was hosted by in-laws Todd and Jill in Eugene, Oregon after a 275 mile drive.  I slept on an air bed in their upstairs home theater.  The air bed was a little worn out, so I lounged in one of the cushy theater chairs and pretended that I was flying first class to Italy.  For the second night, Todd and Jill kindly bought a new airbed and I slept well (for me).  The next two nights I slept in hotels, something I've never done alone.  139 miles from Eugene, in The Dalles, Oregon I stayed in a  new hotel, The Fairfield Inn and Suites.  It was clean, comfortable, and the king mattress may never have been slept on until I came along.  I may have been first to use the shower too,  as I washed off the dewiness from walking around Multnomah Falls and Eugene's humidity.  It was a pleasant evening in that room, with a chilled bottle of Maryhill Gewürztraminer from a shop in Hood River, and half of a leftover elk burger from Eugene.  In Yakima, I stayed in the Oxford Suites, which is just yards away from the Yakima River. It was comfortable and safe, although (minor quibble) the wifi didn't work consistently. There was another first that day.  In the late afternoon, I sat on the patio near the murmuring Yakima River, watched the swooping swallows, and sipped a free glass of chardonnay.  I've never had wine by myself, outside of home. The server remembered me from a previous stay, which was a plus.  Another plus: I didn't feel strange being the lone female diner.  That had been a concern for me.

Miles driven: 769.1 I didn't drive anywhere on Sunday, so that means I drove 192.3 miles on average per day.  Right?

Average miles per gallon of gas: 34.5

Gallons used: 22.3.  Thank you fourth grade math class and Kathryn Smith!

Approximate cost of gas: $88.00, if I round to $4.00 per gallon.

Columbia River Crossings: 2.  My first crossing as a driver was on July 19th.  The I-205 bridge  was an undramatic span, my favorite kind of bridge.  So ho-hum was it, that I didn't know that the Columbia was rolling on beneath me until I was halfway across.  It was an exciting moment, when I realized that I was in Oregon, birthplace of my father.  The other crossing was east of The Dalles, over the Sam Hill bridge, on my way to Maryhill, Washington.

Marquam Bridge, Portland

Willamette River Crossings:  at least 3 and probably more on I-5 in North Willamette Valley.  Twice in Eugene, I walked across on the River Trail and on July 21,  I drove across on the Marquam Bridge in Portland.  That was by mistake.  I missed the exit to Oregon City, via I-205. Jill had warned me and I thought I was set for 205.  Oh so wrong! I blame it on Apple Maps for the iPhone.  To my horror, I found myself on a soaringly scary bridge that carries I-5 northbound on the uppermost deck, after a tilting, curly approach. The stuff of nightmares!  It was a white knuckles on the wheel and a hammering heart ordeal.  I felt an irrational urge to just stop, but the rational part of my brain said, "Keep going!  Eyes straight ahead!"    I thought of my Dad saying, "Didn't I teach you to drive?  No daughter of mine is a chicken.  Calm down, this is actually kind of fun."  Well, no Dad, it wasn't.  And you hated Portland and its bridges, remember? After the Accord hit the ground (safely) and I merged on to I-84 eastbound, I relaxed, knowing that I survived the most frightening bridge I've ever driven.  It was scarier than the above photo shows.  Happily, in just a few minutes, Portland and the Marquam were in the rear-view mirror and ahead of me lay the Columbia River Gorge.  It didn't kill me, and it made me a better (and still alive) driver.   A little shot of Vitamin Confidence, you might say. With the beauty that I was entering, I quickly put it behind me.

Columbia River Gorge

Counties: 16.  Southbound, counties that I traversed in Washington were King, Pierce, Thurston, Lewis, Cowlitz, and Clark.  Coming back up from Oregon,  I drove through Klickitat, Yakima, and Kittitas.  Oregon counties were: Multnomah, Clackamas, Marion, Linn, Lane, Hood River, and Wasco.  County of note:  Linn County in Oregon is the self proclaimed Rye Grass Seed Capital of the World.

Parallel of Note: 1.  The 45th Parallel.  It was a happy and revelatory moment to spot the green sign telling me that I had just crossed the 45th parallel, and was halfway between the North Pole and the Equator.  I had a brief mental celebration, while on cruise control.  "Hooray!" said my brain to itself, "Next stop, Brazil!"

Passes passed: 2.  I cruised over Satus Pass, elevation 3,107 feet on Tuesday, July 22nd, not even knowing that I was on a pass.  After I saw the summit sign, I figured out why there were trees in this relatively dry part of the state. Unwittingly, I was gaining altitude and dropping temperature. Sadly, some hillsides and canyons were charred from last year's Mile Marker 28 wildfire or maybe the Monastery Complex fire of 2011. If you look at the previous link, you can see some of the nuns who run the the nearby bakery.  Their monastery is the fire's namesake and they worked and prayed hard to help put it out. On Wednesday,  the last leg of my trip, I drove over Snoqualmie Pass in a windy rain storm.  Elevation is 3,022 feet.  Hard to believe that Satus Pass is actually higher. (Safety note: I did not take the picture below left.  Or right.)

Snoqualmie Pass in better weather

Snoqualmie looked like this on July 23. 

Ridges crossed: 3. Via I-82, Manastash Ridge, elevation 2672 feet, South Umtanum Ridge,  2265 feet, and North Umtanum Ridge, 2315 feet.  It was a gusty, two firm hands on the wheel drive.  Angry, slate green clouds spilled over bleak hills to the north, like poison into a bowl. Some road crests were like the sharp edge of an infinity pool.  Was I going to zoom off into the sky when I made the top of the hill?  The emerald Kittitas Valley was a welcome sight as I flew down the last descent. Next time I'll take the scenic route.  Compare these two photos.  Which would you choose?

I-82, on the way to Ellensburg

Next time: Yakima River Canyon via highway 821

Multnomah Falls

Waterfalls visited: 1

Multnomah Falls on the Oregon side of the Columbia Gorge.  Packed with crowds of smartphone camera snappers. Maybe I'll return in September when the kids are back in school. And I won't be back in school, because I'm retired!  Just had to throw that in,  to remind myself. Next time I'll take the more scenic route to see other falls. That will give me an eye level view of what Lewis and Clark saw.

View from Sweet Cheeks

Wineries visited: 4.  During my stay in Eugene, I visited three nearby wineries southwest of the city, and later, one in Washington.  First, my hosts took me to Chateau Lorane. A longish, winding gravel road led to the tasting room and patio embraced by evergreens.  The patio overlooked a lake surrounded by tall trees.  We didn't sample any wines, but admired the cool green view.  Next we visited nearby King Estate Winery.  There was a gloriously orderly pattern of emerald vines marching over the hills, an Italian looking castle-like winery on top of the hill, and a panoramic view of the lush Lorane Valley with eagles soaring above. Last we drove to Sweet Cheeks Winery near tiny unincorporated Crow.  It is a more laid back place with yummy wines and yet another gorgeous view.  The patio was a perfect spot for cheese, crackers, conversation, and a bottle of the winery's Pinot Noir Fusion. The last winery I visited was in Washington State: Maryhill, above the Columbia River, complete with amphitheater, huge tasting room, and bocce courts.

Maryhill winery with Mt. Hood to the west

Lake Louise at Chateau Lorane

King Estate 

Wines purchased: 3.  King Estate Pinot Noir,  Sweet Cheeks Pinot Noir Fusion, and Maryhill Reserve Zinfandel.  All sitting on my "save" wine rack.

Stonehenges visited: 1. On Tuesday, I drove 24.4 miles from the Dalles to the Stonehenge in Maryhill, not far from the museum and winery.  It perches in solitude on a windy hill, with a view of the Columbia far below.  It's not big, which surprised me because it's a full sized replica. Stonehenge holds such a powerful place in the collective imagination, so shouldn't it be bigger?  If I see the original someday, will that disappoint me with its relative smallness? It was so quiet there, despite the wind, that I could hear the conversation of the two other visitors.  From them I learned that there is a Cornhenge in Ohio.  It pays to eavesdrop.

Druids at Maryhill Stonehenge: 0.  New career for me?  Resident Druid priestess of Maryhill.

Drove my car to Stonehenge!

Inside Maryhill Stonehenge

Entrance to Maryhill Museum

North side of Maryhill Museum, hilltop wind farm on the hill

Rodin's Eve

Museums visited: 1.  I was one of the first visitors on Tuesday at Maryhill Museum of Art.  The woman at the reception desk thought she knew me (no). I saw works by Rodin, Native American art including beautiful baskets, and Queen Marie of Romania's furniture. I doubt that anybody ever sat comfortably in those chairs.  The magnificence of Queen Elizabeth's crown jewels will never be challenged by Queen Marie's coronation crown. The striking silence of the the outdoor terrace was the best part of the visit.  I sat alone, listening and watching two little critters (maybe marmots) chirp and scamper over a boulder on the grassy yellow slope below. So quiet was it that I could hear workers snipping grape vines far below and the swishing of water against a boat's bow down in the Columbia.

The ketchup was good

McDonald's: 2.  One in Centralia, WA because as a 60 year old woman, I had to stop.  The other was for a gourmet cheeseburger and fries meal in Goldendale because that's what was there.  Nothing like lunch on a plastic tray covered with paper! After that it was 68.8 miles to Yakima.  Later I learned that Goldendale has an observatory that might be worth a visit sometime.  I'll pack a lunch.

Gypsy Wife quilt designed by Jen Kingwell

Quilt Shops: 2.5.   The .5, Quilters' Junction was at least a mile off the freeway, in Centralia, WA.  It was in a shabby strip mall that showed signs of an unrecovered economy.  And it was out of business!   Next up was Piece by Piece Fabrics in Eugene. Happily, it was open, full of gorgeous modern fabrics, display quilts, and a very helpful owner. There was a display quilt, Gypsy Wife, that I'd like to make. Last,  I stopped at  Every Thread Counts, or ETC in Hood River, Oregon. The owner was friendly,  and recommended a lunch spot overlooking the parasailers on the Columbia.  At Three Rivers Grill I was the lone single diner on the crowded deck.  Take a look at their "virtual tour" for an excellent look at lovely Hood River. Lunch was the spiciest thing on my trip: blacked steelhead (nicely rare) on cesar salad.  It was a warm afternoon, and a cold glass of something Oregon white would have been good.

Pastry! God will provide

Bakeries: 2.  St. John's Bakery and Espresso is just off of highway 97 about 12 miles north of Goldendale, WA.  It is part of the St. John the Forerunner Monastery. The nuns who work there were clad in full Greek Orthodox habits: Black from head to toe with a red cross on the brow of their headgear. They sell coffee, pastry, preserves, and religious items. Isn't pastry a religious item? I left with cookies and Greek tomato sauce.  My final stop before the last 82 miles to home was mandatory:  Cle Elum Bakery for a dozen Torchetti.

No, anything but Domino's!

Confused Pizza Guys: 1.  On Tuesday evening, a knock on my Yakima hotel room door startled me.  Through the peephole, I saw a middle aged, bearded man.   Carefully, I cracked open the door as far as the security latch allowed.  "Pizza?",  he asked. If it had been black olive and salami, and not Domino's I might have said, "Why, yes!  Charge it to the room next door."

Elk Burgers: 1.  On Sunday in Eugene, after the wineries, Todd, Jill, and I sat outside on the Northbank restaurant's patio and had dinner along the Willamette.  I went out on an adventurous and tasty limb and ordered an elk burger.  It was delicious, with the sweetest tomato I've had this summer. I ate the second half the next night in the Dalles with chilled Gewürztraminer in an elegant plastic cup.  Like me, it seemed to travel well.

Los Hernandez

Tamales Purchased: 4 packages of frozen pork, chicken, and asparagus tastiness, plus super hot salsa from Los Hernandez in Union Gap.  No salsa for me!  Nor any of the blistering mustard or Philipino Phil's Nuclear Meltdown chipotle sauce from nearby Fruit City.

Yellow Church Cafe

Close Calls: 1.  And it wasn't even in my car.  After lunch, I stepped out of the Yellow Church Cafe in  Ellensburg into windy and threatening weather.  Thunderstorms were in the forecast.  As I often do, I was gawking around.  There was an interesting tree to check out as well as the potentially stormy sky.  Being a klutz, I missed the step and nearly fell flat on my face.  Luckily I didn't break an ankle or smash my teeth. Even better, there were no witnesses.  Could enjoying grilled cheese and bacon on great bread in a former German Lutheran church have kept me in one piece?  Or maybe it was the Koulourakia with coffee that I had with coffee 36 miles ago in Yakima.  Don't doubt the power of those nuns at St John's Bakery in Goldendale!

Times I felt unsafe: 0.  There were some scary moments on the road: Portland's Marquam Bridge, rain storm on Snoqualmie Pass, and driving on a narrow, steep, and two lane road that curled from the Columbia up to Maryhill.  They were not really unsafe but my irrational apprehension made it seem unsafe.  Staying alone, eating alone, and sightseeing alone, even at sparse Stonehenge did not make me feel unsafe.  The ability to stay connected via smartphone, laptop, and Wifi probably made that sense of security possible.  Things might have been different 40 years ago. But we live in modern times, so, I'm sticking with zero!  Or maybe I'm just oblivious.

Ghosts in my car: 0.  Memories yes, but no ghosts.

Crying Episodes: 1.  Just in case anybody is counting the tracks of my tears, I will own up to one brief moment of leakage.  When the grandeur of the Gorge unfolded around me, I was overwhelmed by two things.  The stunning beauty and regret that Mark and I never experienced it together.  I'm not sure which was the more powerful emotion.  But there is no safe crying for road trip drivers, so it passed quickly.

Happiness: 99% of my trip.  Let's just show and tell it this way.  Where shall I go next? 

Do What You Fear....

I fear a lot of things so I have much to do.  Today I started a new project that involves a zipper.  Three of them actually!  And faux leather.  It is this roomy, pretty, and practical
travel tote bag.  It will be mostly dark green batik with textured faux leather pockets and handles.  The inside will be lined with light green batik.  If I am diligent and careful, it will be gorgeous!  I'm thinking positively here.

It will have room for an umbrella, water bottle, small laptop, tablet, or Kindle. There are many little pockets for goodies that anybody would need: cards, wallet, paper, pens, stamps, journal.  The instructions say that you could keep a passport and/or airline ticket in there too but I'm more cautious. My plans for it involve my solo driving trips.

So, let the sewing commence!

Overhaul

Time to overhaul this blog as well as myself!  I am not the same person who lived through the cancer years and almost three years of widowhood.  It's better now.  There is hope, there is "going on", there is possibility in this world.

It's Something I Do

"I don’t write to dream; I write to stop dreaming, to be more present.  To tell my way toward clarity.  I think I would be a writer even if I didn’t write. I’d have that observational inclination towards the ordinary—that open-mouthed stare at unprocessed existence going by. I write mostly for the process—of looking, thinking, naming, discovering. I think this is why many who might loosely be called documentarians—essayists, memoirists, literary journalists, photographers, nonfiction filmmakers, even biographical or documentary fiction writers—do what we do.  We have an obsessive interest in presenting and pondering ordinary life, the day-to-day flow of things."

That quote by Greg Bottoms, from a letter to a photographer.  I think he nailed it, for me.  I do write to stop dreaming, to work through the grief, to get my thoughts straight.

Outline

Here are some prospective blog posts:

• Somebody Keep an Eye on the Widow
• Seattle Self Service Cremation
• The Great Rain Barrel Disaster
• Smile When You Hand Over the Death Certificate
• Things People Say
• Stages of Grief
• I Didn’t See the 2x4 Coming
• Rage: Who to be Mad At?
• Guilt: Me
• Acceptance, reluctantly
• “But That’s Different”
• If It Had Been Me
• I Am Not Dead Too (a credit bureau thinks I’m dead)
• The Lay Off
• Getting the Notice
• Retraining
• For what?
• Venn Diagram (of me, before/after)
• Grief Walking
• How My Dog Saved my Life
• Tough Love (my sons practice it on me)
• The Little Things Which are All the Things
• How Do I Miss Thee? (I can’t count that high)
• Who Will Kill the Spiders?
• Who Died and Left Me in Charge?
• Gardening while Grieving
• Archaeological Discoveries (digging up the wine corks)
• There is No Joyous Place (sorry, yoga teacher)
• I Don’t Care What You Say, said my Mother
• Mother Superior (role model widows....which one will I follow?)
• Just What IS a Widow, Anyway?
• Vow of Silence (Seems like I’m unwillingly observing it on two levels)
• I Can Talk to the Animals (and walls, and weeds, and my car)
• Say His Name
• Not “he would want you to....”
• Not “he wouldn’t want you to...”
• Just tell me a story
• The 5th Season (lasts 365 days a year)
• Flash Mob Memories
• The “Act As If” Program
• She Looks Okay Now (whew, we’re all off the hook!)
• Moving forward diagonally
• Piece by Piece (stitching together tiny scraps of happiness, wherever found, no matter how small)
• Palimpsest 

The Cat Box 5K

What do you do when you just can’t sleep?  It’s Sunday morning.  PJ, Dorothy, and Annie will come later to watch the Super Bowl.  There’s no cooking because Michael has planned it all.  Everything tasty, but nothing excessively caloric.  Nothing creative for me to do.  I am unneeded, except to vacuum and dust.   Who is this me who hardly sleeps, can’t concentrate, and isn’t needed?   I’ve been awake since 4:30, random thoughts trickling in like gentle waves before a tsunami, lapping at my mind and eroding the chance of sleep.  The WELPA test at school.  Does the dog have an ear infection?   Taxes.   Then the worst: The hospital......no, I can’t think about that and I shove it away.   I try to drift off but an hour later, I’m not drifting anywhere but toward the rocky shore of full waking.  If I lie in bed, then I might get pulled back to the hospital and I can’t face that again. Not now.

The only solution is to get up at once.   After flipping on the coffee maker and feeding the pets, I fetch the paper.  Reading the Sunday paper was once a pleasure.  Without Mark next to me, commenting on what Leonard Pitts had to say, asking if I wanted toast, and gently chiding me for mangling the front section before he had his turn at it, the big fat newspaper has lost its appeal.  Still, I’m a creature of habit.  (“I don’t know anybody more predictable than you”, he often said.) What news?  Boeing is a mess and I think of Mark saying that outsourcing would bite them.  Maybe it has.  I look over at his chair as if to say, “You were right.”   That poor kid in Alabama is still held hostage by the crazy guy.   Here’s something good: the skeleton of Richard III was discovered under a parking lot in England!  Finally, my kind of news.  The article is too short.  Note to self: Google Richard III.

6:15 a.m. and I decide that I need to run a 5K.  Like immediately.  I can’t be still; I’m a lioness looking for her lost mate.  This pacing must be tamed because it reminds me of another time.  Maybe if I exhaust myself, I will sleep tonight and I won’t think certain thoughts.

I throw together some low fat blueberry pancakes, slice a banana over them, spoon a dollop of yogurt atop, and I’m good to get ready for the big event.  Event, you are wondering?  Yes, I need something more than this feline restlessness to motivate and amuse me.  So I create my own personal event.

Go, Mom, Go!

My 5K will be run on the treadmill out in the garage, and it needs a name.  Garage 5K?  No, I’ve done that one before and nailed the victory.  Indoor 5K.  Blah.  Honda Accord Fun Run and Car Wash?   No plans to wash the car, so that’s out.   The two cats glare stonily at me, which gives me an idea.  It will be the Cat Box 5K Fun Run!   Thank you, kitties!   The cats will be the event sponsors and the dog will be my cheerleader.   As event sponsors they demand a name change to “You Fill the Food Dish Instantly Zero-K Cat Nap”, but I nix that.  “Listen beasts,” I say, “The CB5KFR it is!  No arguing and hissing.  Got it, monsters?”

The Land Orca's opinion
of the CB5KFR.

 I wag a recently manicured finger at them and leave to gear up in an optimistic mood. The entire field of competitors is comprised of me.  There is a good chance of winning something.

I get into my Halloweenish jogging gear: black compression capris, running lingerie, and the orange jersey from last year’s Get Your Rear in Gear.  I see the headline in an upcoming issue of Runner’s World:  A widow’s quest for fitness, fashion and a good night’s sleep! But what is she running from?  A good question, but I push it away, even though I know the answer. I hope that the blister on my left foot won’t fully bloom.  Yesterday’s dog walk on lumpy sidewalks must have planted the seed.   

 After posing for a pre-race photo in the Pink Bathroom, I grab my water, cell phone,and fully charged Ipod.  I need running music like a galley slave needs rowing rhythm, drummed out by a huge, sweaty, bald guy with sharpened teeth.  One downside: who

The entire field fits in
the Pink Bathroom.

knew that workout music can be sad?  Or that it even has lyrics?  “Sometimes I wake up by the door, that heart you caught must be waiting for you.  Even now when (you’re) over, I can’t help myself, I’m looking for you.”  Thanks a lot, Adele.  I’d better click over to Kung Fu Fighting, or Dancing Queen.

Full of carbs, geared up, and mentally ready to win and claim whatever prize there is, I step out onto the course.  It’s cold and I need my blue jogging jacket, but at least there isn’t a headwind yet.   The dog whines as I close the door on her.  The cats burst through the kitchen/garage door cat flap and swirl around.  “No, I’m not feeding you!  Begone, foul beasts!” I say to them.  Ooops, talking to cats again.  Nobody cheers, but I am not dismayed.  Isn’t there something about runners being solitary, lonely creatures?



Strong headwind!

After a brief warm up, I crank up the pace to 3.7 mph and then up to 4.  My plan is to average about 4 mph, with periods of 4.5, and some short bursts of 5 mph. I’ve been in training; it’s possible.  And I’m off!  After half a mile, the jacket comes off and the headwind kicks in.  It feels good to be moving.  Maybe I can come to the place where I am not thinking much at all.  Maybe I will not have to push back against the hospital images that try to seep into my mind.

The runner’s high: Is it real?  If so, that’s what I’m looking for.  No thought of mileage, pace, sweat, or effort, just moving along “in the zone”.  Whatever that may be.  Maybe there is a grief-free zone with no danger of emotional melt down.  It is possible to sob on the treadmill.  Once during a cool down, it sunk in that I had been looking at “Mark W Baxter”.  One of his old Boeing nameplates hangs on the garage wall where I can see it.  How often did I think, as I looked at it in those days of grace while he yet lived, that each step I took would add minutes to his dwindling life?   A grief counselor might call it the “bargaining” phase.  Not long ago, I was sweating and breathing hard.  I gasped aloud to him, “I’m doing it for me now.  Like you wanted me to do.”   Then I wept until the tears mingled with the sweat that trickled down the sides of my face.  I almost heard him say, “You dainty thing, you never sweat!  Ladies just get dewy, right?” and my reply, “Who says I’m a lady?”

Fun times turned upside down

White Maneki Neko
for happiness.  We
had it.

Time to slow down and take in the course view.  Our bikes hang neatly from the ceiling.  The white “maneki neko” bike horn that Mark found and installed on my handlebars: how I enjoyed honking it just to make him laugh.   I remember the miles we put in on local trails.  We enjoyed being together outside for fun instead of yard work at our house or my mother’s.   We worked hard to earn the nerve to wear spandex bike shorts and cyclists’ sleek sunglasses!  Mark could move when he clipped in with his bike shoes.  He had great stamina but he hung back for me.  The more miles we rode, the faster I got, until we could ride side by side.  The last time we rode, a young boy swerved into me.  I sideswiped a cement walI, resulting in bruises and scrapes and tender, loving care from Mark.  Then, warm early autumn slipped into sloppy late fall and winter.  The following spring, he was sick and there would be no more cycling.  As late as fall 2010, he said he’d be able to ride again that coming spring.  I knew better.  How abruptly a pleasant memory of biking on a tender fall day veers into a crash landing on Planet Cancer and an imminent visit to room W426 in Overlake Hospital’s Lang Oncology Unit.  Quickly, I look away from the bikes and glance out the window.  The neighbors probably should consider a new roof soon.

I get my focus back on the run.  One mile to go!  I feel good: warm, regular breathing, heart rate elevated, but comfortable.  I can go for a long time.  Brain is calm and almost on cruise control. The iPod tempo is fast and I’m sure to finish in the top one.   The sponsors have given up and are probably asleep.  I’ve been lulled by the galley slave music to think only of moving the legs but now I hear Adele’s beautifully powerful voice, 

“Where you go I go, what you see I see.  

I know I’d never be me, 

without the security 

of your loving arms, 

keeping me from harm.  

Put your hand in my hand, 

and together we’ll stand. 

 Let the sky fall, when it crumbles, 

we will stand tall and face it all together.”   

The sky had been falling for years and we did stand hand in hand.  It crumbled on October 9th, 2011.   Adele has broken my sense of peace and calm. I hear voices behind me, voices that I have struggled to outpace for 16 months.  

My name is Whitney.  I’ll be taking care of you until 5 tonight.  Let’s see if we can make a dent in that nausea.  What’s your pain level on a scale of 10?   8?  Mrs. Baxter, when was the last time you ate?  You need to eat.

It’s the hospital memories, audio version, catching up to me.  I must outrun them; I can’t let them come alongside and swallow me up.  Not now.   I bump up the speed to over 5 mph so I have to focus on breathing and moving, but I can’t keep that up for long.  I have to drop back into the 4‘s.  The others are multiplying, gaining on me.  Gigi the oncology nurse practitioner is there now. So is the young tech who does vitals and is obviously keeping an eye on the soon to be widow who may be a possible cause for concern to the staff.  Will she fall apart, go crazy?  Later, Dr. Smith joins the crowd.  Even the guy running the floor cleaner that Mark called a hospital Zamboni, he’s there making that intrusive racket. 

Hear that?  He might have aspirated.  Oh, I don’t like this.  Let’s do an EKG, we don’t need to call Dr. Smith for that.   I can order it.  Is she sleeping?  Gina, we think he may have had a heart attack.  Do you have the Advance Directive with you?  Good, thanks.  OK, let’s get a naso-gastric tube in.  That should give him some comfort.  Ma’am, you should eat.  Here, an English muffin, eat it for me.  Just half?   Please try.  I won’t kid you; he’s critically ill; you should call the family.  Do you want me to tell him?  I can be blunt.  No, I’ll tell him  (that other me, the wife on the cusp of widowhood, is catching up now and Mark is there too).  I want to go home....you are going home, but I can’t come with you yet.  You can go home, it’s okay, I promise to be okay, I’ll find a way to be happy until we can be together again.  I didn’t get to care for him long, but he seems like a very private man.  I think he needs you to leave.  You’ve said all you can say.  He can’t go until you leave.  It’s okay for you to go now.  She is talking to me like I am talking to Mark: it’s okay to go.  My life is ending too.  We’ll come and get you, after.

After.

Sweat and tears mingle again.  You’d think that the despair and anguish of my time on Planet Cancer would have wrung all the moisture out of my body.  It should be a desert now, but apparently bodies have unlimited supplies of tears.  Grief is green; it can and does renew itself.  It’s all I can do to finish the 5K, but I do, plus another half mile.  The voices fade away, waiting for another time.  Why can’t I get them behind me for good?   Will I never outrun them?  Do I have to endure the tsunami time and time again?



Winner and sponsor of the
first ever Catbox 5K and Fun Run

One more voice.  It’s Patty, our oncology nurse.  She’s walking alongside me.   You can’t outrun grief.  You have to let it happen because sooner or later, it will happen no matter what you do.  Let it happen; let it out.  Again and again.   Let it heal you.  It’s alright.   You’re alright.   I  know, at first you were afraid, you were petrified.  You thought you couldn’t live without him by your side.  You’re not going to crumble, you’re not going to lay down and die......What’s this?  Patty is gone and Gloria Gaynor’s voice is in my earbuds, “I’ve got all my life to live, I’ve got all my love to give, I will survive!” 

Wiping the tears and sweat from my face, I step down from the treadmill, switch off the fan, and return to my reality of surviving the despair of the last seven years.  I win the CB5KFR, sweeping all age categories, and shattering records.  Maybe one day I will win the contest against grief and sorrow and become me again.