The bones in her beautiful face hurt. Already the cancer beast has gnawed its way through her spine and ribs, leaving her skeleton with a fearsome lace-like elegance on x-ray images. Now it is attacking her skull. She told me when she first learned of the new mets it never occurred to her that her skull included her face.
Marian has lived with breast cancer for nearly a decade. The second time 'round brought her back to the Bay Area. She's a few years younger than I am, has a 21-year-old son, a husband. We met two years ago at Commonweal's Cancer Help Project in Bolinas, California. Marian was attending Cancer Camp for the second time and was accompanied by her father. I attended solo. That week I formed some of the deepest friendships of my life: Marian, Wayne, and Tom, who left the earth one year ago today. Marian was in a lot of pain during the retreat and still her presence was serene, funny, wise. I wanted more than anything to know her.
Yesterday Marian allowed me to care for her. She is at home in the house she decorated with her husband, her mountain of a Newfoundland, Bessie and Len's sweet Mona. The hospice team visits but does not stay with her and she is alone between friends, family and caregivers. At 9:00 am I arrived with Peet's coffee and bran muffin, as requested. I learn that sometime before I arrived Marian may have shattered a bone in her shoulder or arm while reaching for something over her head. That's all it takes when cancer has made piecemeal of your skeleton. She's in horrible pain yet going to the emergency room is discussed and with the nurse's phoned-in advice, postponed. Instead, we increase the pain medication and use a heating pad. The visits from these friends are too important and the benefits from the hospital trip uncertain.
The day passed in a whirl of friends, oxycodone, calls to the hospice for advice, make-up application, chatting, hugs, foot massages, a special-order lunch run, and so much more. How honored I am to be part of my friend's transition. Is it enough, I wonder?
She tells me she would really like me to help in the evenings, from 9:00 - 12:00, so she can get ready for bed and watch movies while Len can get some rest. She needs help with this, and with getting upstairs to bed. I'm willing. Len's not so sure.
At 6:00 I know I must leave. Marian is weary; she has done too much but could not have been stopped. The next day she has planned to visit her niche at the San Francisco Columbarium. I will join her. But first, I have to return to my children and husband, who have played plumbers all day, installing a new toilet and repairing an old one.
The drive between the two homes ticks by quickly. When I arrive home the relief at being in my house, with my family, is washed away by the weariness of the day. There's very little room to feel anything else.
I'm asleep before 10:00.
Showing posts with label Commonweal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Commonweal. Show all posts
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Sanctification
July 11 is the anniversary of The Surgery. I didn’t realize until a few days ago that I had unconsciously been planning my House Purge Extravaganza around this anniversary. How is that possible? After my trip to Commonweal, the Woo-Woo Center of the Universe, I ask the question with a smile.
What is the meaning of a purge anyway?
Sanctification. Really. I looked it up after I started using the word to describe my plans.
I’m making my home a sacred space. Removing the fear and sadness of the past year and replacing it with healing and beauty, with room to grow.
Purging is physically and emotionally draining, like peeling away layers of an onion that turns out to have been cast in concrete.
On Day One, I finished Danny's room. It took an entire day. When the dinosaurs were sorted, the cars tossed in their bins, the sharks and sea creatures nestled under the train table, I hauled the boxes of not-used-so-much toys out in the hallway. Turning to look at the room from the doorway, I had to smile. This was a little boy’s room again. When he arrived home from daycamp I wondered what his reaction would be to the way I’d moved the red wooden train table, actually more a play table, from the back of the room to the front. Now he’d be able to stand at one of three sides and draw or play games, not just stack piles of toys and clothes and books on it. A cozy nook in the corner welcomed one or two children to read or discover together. The closet was no longer a fearsome place where haphazard towers of toy boxes threatened to collapse whenever the door opened, but one where a few extra toys were stored, boxed and neatly labeled. Order imposed on chaos. Elimination of excess. Yes, this was good.
Gracie’s room contained a year’s worth of a champion packrat’s best efforts. Every piece of homework, drawing, doodle, note, fuzz, bead, doo-dad, hairclip, ribbon, rock, shell, and paper she had come into contact with over the past 365 days were hidden somewhere in that room. The excavation would take at least two days and, overwhelmed by that thought, I retired to the sofa with a bowl of brownie mix, a book, a cat and music. Purging would wait.
After a decadent and refreshing interlude, I stepped back into my reality and began to wrestle my daughter’s room into submission. Two days drifted into three before the match concluded. Exhausted, I stood at another doorway and grinned.
Art materials in containers, crafts stored on closet shelf, desk clear and ready for story writing; desk chair available for sitting once again, bookshelves holding books, all standing straight and tall; knick knacks arranged in containers, no longer flung willy nilly in every cubby. A rocker beckons the young reader, the daybed sweetly holds the teddies and unicorns. Check, check, check. Twelve grocery bags of papers went to the curb that week for recycling. One long plastic bin went to basement storage. In it resides the best of K-2 art, writing and special works from a creative mind.
Our bedroom was next. The space resembled Ground Zero. It is the sorting room, the boxing room, the bagging and debating room. Bit by bit everything will make its way out the door and down the hallway, on its way to charity, a friend’s house, a sale or with regret, the dump.
With every layer that is chipped off, peeled away, torn off and deposited somewhere else the house feels lighter, cleaner, fresher. It is easier to say no to bringing new things in when the progression of their life in our home is seen. How long will that toy last before it goes to charity? To the dump? Will the enjoyment last as long as it did?
As the house empties out of things I feel joy seeping back in. The gifts I now wish to receive are small ones: time with friends and family, art, green and growing things, healthy food, beauty and love. Always love. My husband and children will thrive with those gifts. I will receive them, I will give them.
My home is sanctified now. I am purged.
What is the meaning of a purge anyway?
Sanctification. Really. I looked it up after I started using the word to describe my plans.
I’m making my home a sacred space. Removing the fear and sadness of the past year and replacing it with healing and beauty, with room to grow.
Purging is physically and emotionally draining, like peeling away layers of an onion that turns out to have been cast in concrete.
On Day One, I finished Danny's room. It took an entire day. When the dinosaurs were sorted, the cars tossed in their bins, the sharks and sea creatures nestled under the train table, I hauled the boxes of not-used-so-much toys out in the hallway. Turning to look at the room from the doorway, I had to smile. This was a little boy’s room again. When he arrived home from daycamp I wondered what his reaction would be to the way I’d moved the red wooden train table, actually more a play table, from the back of the room to the front. Now he’d be able to stand at one of three sides and draw or play games, not just stack piles of toys and clothes and books on it. A cozy nook in the corner welcomed one or two children to read or discover together. The closet was no longer a fearsome place where haphazard towers of toy boxes threatened to collapse whenever the door opened, but one where a few extra toys were stored, boxed and neatly labeled. Order imposed on chaos. Elimination of excess. Yes, this was good.
Gracie’s room contained a year’s worth of a champion packrat’s best efforts. Every piece of homework, drawing, doodle, note, fuzz, bead, doo-dad, hairclip, ribbon, rock, shell, and paper she had come into contact with over the past 365 days were hidden somewhere in that room. The excavation would take at least two days and, overwhelmed by that thought, I retired to the sofa with a bowl of brownie mix, a book, a cat and music. Purging would wait.
After a decadent and refreshing interlude, I stepped back into my reality and began to wrestle my daughter’s room into submission. Two days drifted into three before the match concluded. Exhausted, I stood at another doorway and grinned.
Art materials in containers, crafts stored on closet shelf, desk clear and ready for story writing; desk chair available for sitting once again, bookshelves holding books, all standing straight and tall; knick knacks arranged in containers, no longer flung willy nilly in every cubby. A rocker beckons the young reader, the daybed sweetly holds the teddies and unicorns. Check, check, check. Twelve grocery bags of papers went to the curb that week for recycling. One long plastic bin went to basement storage. In it resides the best of K-2 art, writing and special works from a creative mind.
Our bedroom was next. The space resembled Ground Zero. It is the sorting room, the boxing room, the bagging and debating room. Bit by bit everything will make its way out the door and down the hallway, on its way to charity, a friend’s house, a sale or with regret, the dump.
With every layer that is chipped off, peeled away, torn off and deposited somewhere else the house feels lighter, cleaner, fresher. It is easier to say no to bringing new things in when the progression of their life in our home is seen. How long will that toy last before it goes to charity? To the dump? Will the enjoyment last as long as it did?
As the house empties out of things I feel joy seeping back in. The gifts I now wish to receive are small ones: time with friends and family, art, green and growing things, healthy food, beauty and love. Always love. My husband and children will thrive with those gifts. I will receive them, I will give them.
My home is sanctified now. I am purged.
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