Life in the time of cancer

Just before Craig was discharged from the hospital for what would be his last time, one of the 11th floor nurses (the same nurse who stopped us while walking around Wash Park) said how much of an honor it was to have walked beside us during our journey with Mom and Craig.  She noted the long road we've had, and then said "that Mom and Craig never had to walk alone is a testament to our strength as a family."  Now, as I sit here next to a sleeping Craig, it's clear the road hasn't been long enough. 

Though a year has gone by, the experiences and tender moments can be recalled so vividly.  I can remember sitting with Mom as she received her first I.V. chemo treatment, which lasted over five hours.  She was in a room with other patients, which gave us a sense of community, as if she didn't need to hide or feel ashamed.  I'll never forget looking over and catching a pair of brown eyes staring back at me.  Her expression was somewhere between hope and fear, like she knew this was a long shot, but nonetheless, a shot she wanted to take.  I remember her eyes tearing as the chemo went through.  And I remember thinking to myself, remember this moment.  Remember how I was able to sit with my mom during her time of vulnerability, much like she did with me.  She invited me in and shared with me not only her vulnerabilities, but the whole gamut of emotions.  Most importantly, she allowed me to provide comfort as she moved forward in her treatment. 

Craig has opened his heart in a similar way.  I remember joining him in his room just after he learned that Sutent -- his last hope -- would no longer be a possibility.  He was sitting alone crying, but rather than push me away, he allowed me to join him as he grieved.  We sat together crying.  I listened as he talked about his fears, and how difficult it was living with a timeframe.  We recognized how much our lives had changed and how every experience from that point on would have new meaning -- a heavy importance that comes with knowing that each moment may be our last.  I remember telling him that the timeframe could be long inasmuch as we try to press a fresh experience from each day.  Later, as I helped him with his shower, I could feel a single tear hit my hand.  I looked up to see Craig silently crying.  I asked him if he wanted to be alone, and he said no, he liked having me there.  I told him that I often felt tongue-tied, as though I didn't know what to say, but that I talked anyway with the hope that my words somehow provided comfort.  With the best smile he could muster, he looked at me and said he liked hearing my thoughts.

Life in the time of cancer can be rich and unpredictable.  Our collective experiences span from the tender to the foolish, from the sad to the absurd.  We've had awkward moments, and moments that only we Lawlers would understand.  And as Erin has said, we've also had "you've got to be kidding me" moments.  Like when my chair collapsed during Mom's memorial service luncheon.  I remember staring at my relative's faces as I slowly sunk to the ground.  Thankfully, I was able to catch myself before completely wiping out -- at Mom's memorial luncheon.  She would have laughed. 

Other non-cancer memories spring to mind.  Like the time we lost the keys to Brelle's house not a week after our arrival.  While Diane searched the University of Colorado parking lot for a single pair of keys, I took Mom and Dad to Whole Foods for lunch.  I remember pushing Mom's wheelchair with one hand, while holding her tray in another.  Mom complained as I loaded her plate with veggies and fish; she wanted sausage.  I was so distracted trying to hold her tray, appease her demands, and navigate her wheelchair that I almost rammed her into another salad bar customer.  Mom was not amused.   

Or the time back in May when the six of us discussed our movie likes and dislikes.  Erin was massaging Mom's hands with cocoa butter as Dad explained his aversion to mushy movies, or what he calls chick flicks.  I asked him when he became so hard, at which point Craig chimed in with his working theory that as men age, they dumb down whereby they begin to re-like things (e.g. movies) that typicallys interest seven year old boys.  As Craig delivered his soliloquy, I remember thinking how long it had been since I had heard Craig chime in with something funny.  Even in May, it was hard for Craig to talk, let alone muster the energy to add something witty. 

Or the time when one of the palliative care team members accidentally thought Craig was "Ryan" during one of many emotional conversations about Craig's "process."  It was reminiscent of our Mr. Lewis experience back when a doctor thought Mom was not only a man, but a Mr. Lewis with heart failure.  This was a day before Mom passed.  Check the chart, people.

Or the time I asked Craig if he had any regrets as we drove home from yet another week long stay at the hospital.  He calmly answered no, but quickly amended his reply to say that he wished he could have been a kinder brother.  He apologized for "being cruel" like the time he threw a saw at me for accidentally pushing a tree trunk on his head.  I told him that I wouldn't have changed a thing; blemishes and childhood acts of revenge are what make a lifetime.  (Erin and I had our fair share of cruel and unforgiveable acts (e.g. pinching) back in the day, especially after losing 2-on-1 basketball games to Craig.  Drawing blood was sort of the point.)  Craig also added that he wished he had more time to master the harmonica, and travel.  He wished he could be a father and a husband.  He smiled when I told him that I thought he'd make an excellent Dad.  I told him that I wished he could see me as a mother, and as a wife.  He whispered, "yeah, me too."  He added that he regrets that the love he and Emily share would be cut short, but hoped that the memories would live on.  

I draw comfort from these tender, and oftentimes hilarious, experiences; they help get me through difficult times.  They are the moments I cling to, and that will sustain me in the years to come.  They give me hope and inspire me to embrace each day with the single goal of forming new ones.  Just when I feel my hope shopworn and tired, new experiences, laughter, and stories are shared, adding more color to my ever-changing canvas of understanding.  This is our life, complete with sadness and joy, heartache and happiness, honesty and vulnerability.  We could turn our backs to the world and to each other; we could try going it alone.  But as Mom and Craig have demonstrated, much is to be gained by opening ones heart, and letting unplanned moments flourish.  This is our life; our life in the time of cancer.  -- J