Written Earlier Today
Craig’s watching the Tyra Banks show, which means he’s either a closet fan or he’s sleeping with his eyes shut. Given the topic of today’s show, I’m inclined to believe the latter. I’d change the channel but he has the remote locked in a tiger grip; prying it from his hands would require a herculean strength that I'm too tired to muster. And as much as it pains me to watch Tyra hog her show with boring reminders of how great she once was (good Lord, she’s annoying), I’d rather endure her tiresome tirades than disturb a sleeping Craig. I’m sure some band of college students has already turned her show into one hell of a drinking game. The rule: every time Tyra self-references, a person has to drink.
Craig seems to be having a slightly better day than yesterday, though he’s still sleeping more than a few days ago. For the first time in two days, he was able to watch Comedy Central with us, which has become somewhat of a routine. It was nice to hear him laugh, and on occasion, he’d talk back to the TV or repeat a joke. He mentioned earlier that he felt like he was “coming out of it,” as in he feels less sleepy. Unfortunately, shortly after saying he felt better, Craig vomited for the first time in weeks. Something in is gut is definitely shifting, though we’re not sure what a shifting gut may mean. His respirations have slowed down from his high of 24 breaths a minute. He’s now breathing 6-8 times a minute, which is low, but not necessarily abnormal for him. His pulse has also slowed from its weekly peak of 120. This could indicate an overall slowing of his bodily processes, but again, he’s been at this spot before. We’ll see if this pattern holds for the rest of the day.
This Evening
After a semi-alert afternoon, Craig took a turn this evening. His respirations dropped to six from a high of ten. Sensing that something had changed, we turned on harp music to help create a peaceful atmosphere for Craig. At one point, I started reading a few of Craig’s favorite poems by William Carlos Williams. As I did, Craig quickly awoke and listened along as Diane and I read The Rose, The Red Wheelbarrow, and The Pink Locust aloud. He asked that we read The Rose twice because, for him, to understand means to read again – one cannot understand the intent of a poem with only a cursory read.
I was surprised to find him so engaged when minutes before Craig seemed to be turning another corner. With each poem, he became more engrossed and even asked us to read poems from his other favorite authors, including Walt Whitman and W.B. Yeats. During a pause in the readings, he asked us for the meaning of such a gathering, referring to the music and poetry. We told him that his breathing had slowed and he seemed at peace. The music and poetry was our effort to create a relaxed atmosphere for him; it didn’t signify anything more. We asked him if the music scared him. He said he enjoyed the calm atmosphere and that he found it peaceful. We reassured him that our intention was not to scare him, but to do whatever we could to make him comfortable and to honor his wishes.
After reading a few poems, Craig asked us to help him scroll through pictures to supplement the photos we pasted on his wall. As Erin and Emily helped Craig work through his man-made labyrinth of folders and sub-folders, I could hear Erin mumble “I admire your ability to file.” Craig has meticulously catalogued each photo and can remember where each is stored; whatever cancer has done, it hasn’t damaged his memory. That he chose to spend his waking moments perusing folder upon folder of old photos indicated his implicit approval of the idea, and an interest in expanding his wall-gallery in order to bring more memories to light.
As with music, Craig took delight in pouring his soul into the project. He selected a host of random pictures to join Mom and the others on his wall: a photo of him riding an elephant in Thailand; a picture of yellow candles; a Buddhist temple; and, of course, photos of flowers. He asked that Erin retrieve a picture that once hung in Mom’s hospital room. It has particular meaning in that Mom loved it, and seemed mesmerized by its beauty. Erin took the photo when she was living in Ithaca, New York. Around this time every year, Ithaca comes to life with color as the trees brace for fall, before slowly losing their leaves to winter. The Japanese Maple, with vibrant red leaves and a strong trunk, is particularly beautiful. By choosing more artistic renderings, like vibrant trees and beautiful flowers, Craig seemed to be creating his own Garden of Eden -- a garden full of flowers, color, and simple, unaltered beauty -- using colors to weave providential patterns from chaos.
His selection of colorful photos blended well with the poem I read earlier in the evening (see below). Like his photos, the poem seemed perfect for the occasion; so rich with nuance and meaning. In the flow of words, the poem conveyed a peace much like Erin’s Japanese Maple, or Craig’s Buddhist temple, or his life altogether. It seemed fitting.
As we looked through pictures, Craig would look up from his screen towards the smiling faces pasted on his wall. At one point, he asked us if one of the pictures was him with our dog, Herbie. We told him, yes, surprisingly. We added that Abbie, our other dog, was sitting on his lap. That they were both sitting near Craig was a miracle. He usually hates to have the dorkies in his room. Emily said that the photo was taken around President’s Day last year. She added that how Craig was depicted in the photo was exactly how he looked when she first met him eight months ago. With eyes sparkling and a sarcastic smirk on his face, Craig asked “well, have I changed…maybe a little?” Emily laughed and reassured him that he’s still the same Craig, that he’s still handsome. Erin and I agreed, complimenting his bright eyes. Craig’s retort: “well, thanks. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Emily added that even a picture of Craig taken on his 30th birthday looked different. Craig said “well, it’s because I’m getting older.” Like Mom, he has the most expressive eyes; they’re always smiling, even when his mouth cannot.
Eyes bright with ears slightly jutting from his head from the pressure of the Oxygen mask -- a smartass comment at the ready -- for a moment, Craig looked like the Craig in his pictures. It warms my heart to know he appreciates the photos and wants to expand our project to include others. His photos offer a window into his world, a glimpse at what he finds most interesting. As Emily said, viewing his photos is similar to reading his comments in the margins of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. They serve as flags to what he finds captivating in life, which “seems to be everything,” as Erin pointed out. But as she said, “you never know what will turn out to be the shot.” Unfortunately for Craig, because his vision is so poor, his ‘shots’ are playing tricks on him. Though he can see the photos clearly during the day, at night his eyes skew once peaceful pictures into haunting images, which, as he says, “creeps him out.” Though he can see Mom “no problem,” he can’t see the “sticks next to her”, referring to a photo of Craig where he’s peeking out of a few trees. To help prevent nightmares, we’ve agreed to take the pictures down at night.
It’s incredible all that has transpired. We’ve gone from a decent afternoon, to a close call, to one of the most alert and interactive evenings we’ve had with Craig. Craig continues to be all over the map with his symptom. At one point, his respirations are as low as six, with time between respirations spanning well over ten seconds. Then, just as quickly, he rebounds and carries on a conversation about the photos on his door while dangling at the edge of his bed. It’s bad to say but a scene from Monty Python’s Holy Grail keeps springing to mind. As Diane says, “tonight, I thought I watched Craig take his last breath, only for him to wake up and ask for water.” ;) The emotional rollercoaster is intense, but, compared to the alternative, we’ll take it. We get through the tough times with conversation and gallows humor.
I’m not naïve to believe we won’t have other close calls; indeed, this lucid period may be the calm before the storm. But, though the signs may be there, it's clear the mind and body have other ideas. Craig’s will to survive remains strong, though his body continues to weaken. I believe he'll continue to hang on. Despite this tough day, he'll thankfully be with us tomorrow as we welcome another day. But, as Craig has shown, things can change. We continue to take life one day at a time. Crises have their rhythms. They rise and fade away as adjustments are made. We're just riding the cancer wave. As Gandhi said, there is more to life than increasing its speed.
A few minutes ago
Craig just called out for us. We tucked him in well over an hour ago, but it seems he’s still awake, or, more likely, we woke him with our laughter. He asked what we were doing with a voice that sounded like he was itching to join the fun. Curious as to why we were laughing, we told Craig that we had just watched excerpts of Sara Palin’s interview with Charlie Gibson, which naturally prompted our own question and answer session. “What’s your name?” “In what way, Charlie? Interesting question, I’m glad you asked that (long pause)….do what?” Kidding aside, I’ve been in the interviewee spot before, and it’s no fun being asked a question about which you have no clue. Perhaps a better retort to the question on the Bush Doctrine would be “oh, you mean the one that says we can bomb anyone at will and at all costs?” In all honesty, unless someone is an I.R. major, few will know the formal name for Bush’s stance on preemptive war. Regardless, after briefing Craig on Palin’s Q&A, the party was over -- Craig quickly fell asleep. Go figure. – J
Poem from earlier
The Rose by William Carlos Williams
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air--The edge
cuts without cutting
meets--nothing--renews
itself in metal or porcelain—
whither? It ends--
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry--
Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica--
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses--
The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end--of roses
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness--fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching
What
The place between the petal's
edge and the
From the petal's edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact--lifting
from it--neither hanging
nor pushing--
The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
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