... And It Shows

Love in the Time of Corona #7

Some of you have never watched someone you love die of respiratory disease.

Some of you have never been awake at 3:30 on Thursday night, wondering how you were going to make sure all your payroll checks cleared when you passed them out on Friday.

Some of you have never travelled to a place where the government tells you what to wear, when to go out, who to associate with, and what to say every waking hour.

Some of you were not raised by people who lived through the depression, who know what life is like when the whole world's economy grinds to a halt.

Some of you have never held the hand of a 25 year old, listening to the life rattle out of his shrunken chest.

Or built a company on nothing but a plan and hard work, only to have politicians shut it down.

Or woke up with a prowler standing in your bedroom.

Or spent the night in the ER on oxygen because the person in the next cubicle came to work with the flu.

Some of you have never tried to imagine how terrified people are who are lie awake thinking about different demons than yours.

And it shows.

We're all scared shitless. Some of us are afraid we're going to die. Others because we might infect someone else and they could die. Some of us are afraid that the company we dreamed into existence will not survive another week of social isolation. Some are afraid that the job they left won't be there when the Angel of Corona finally passes over. And others remember our grandparents stories of scrounging coal from the railroad tracks so they could light the stove and heat the house and make coffee on winter mornings before the whole family, parents, grandparents, and children went out in the snowy streets looking for work.

Of course we're scared shitless. We'd be insane not to be. We're just all scared of different things.

Let's put aside the whole idea of "I refuse to live in fear." We know it's a lie before we click the send button. Of course we're afraid.

And it shows.

It shows in how quick to take offense we are. In how hard it is to feel like we've been heard and understood. It shows in how impossible it is to understand how people can make the choices that they make, or accept the limits they accept. It shows in the way our influencers tickle and trigger our fears to keep us alert and on edge and obedient. It shows in our lashing out. Our refusal to acknowledge doubts. Our hatred of strangers. Our deathly fear of getting it wrong and sinking in the storm.

But, fear will not get us through the storm. Fear IS the storm.

Each one of us is afraid, and nobody else can ever really understand what it's like to feel what we feel. Calling someone a fool because they don't fear the same things as you is like you telling them that they don't have a toothache because you have a sprained ankle.

There is no victory for us to win here. This war is lost. The field is littered with dead bodies and dead business and dead dreams and there are no winners in the Time of Corona. There will only be survivors.

But how will we survive? By winning the argument or the election? By breaking one another's hearts and wills? Will we survive by trying and failing to convince half of our neighbors that they are stupid? Will that leave us a world that was worth fighting for?

Or will we walk out of the valley knowing that we found a way to help one another through the dark?

Fear won't get us through. Love will get us through. Respect will get us through. Listening. Caring. Compassion for one another will get us through the Time of Corona. Love someone enough to believe that their fear is real, even if you can't feel a drop of it. Care about someone enough to know that they had a good reason to vote that way, even if you can't make a lick of sense of it. Feel for someone enough to help them find their own courage and strength, even if you aren't sure either of you has a crumb of either. Corona will never be a blessing. But we can learn how to bless one another, even if it really is the end of the world.

If we can't learn that, if we can't learn to love each other, fears and all, we will have wasted the Time of Corona.

We may survive. But not as winners. We will be the most contemptible kind of losers. And you're damn right it will show.

May Day... Made it.

Well, here it is. A year ago, during what should have be a triumphant week of personal achievement and recognition, I lost just about everything I loved and hoped for. I expected it to kill me.It didn't. If not for the people who believed in me when I was ready to give up on life, I'm not sure I'd be here to remember that terrible time. And for that... for the people who did not give up on me, I'm thanking God today.

I'm not going to rehash the details here. I've relived them every day for a year. A Major Depression episode, one that I can now see had been a developing for a long time struck me just as I was about to finish my second marathon, raise several thousand dollars for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, and receive an award from the YMCA of Central Kentucky for my "spirit." The attack, and its consequences threw my career off the rails and was the last straw for my marriage. I thought I would die. Several times, I wished I would.

By June, I was living in a tiny apartment. My coaches were gone. My wife was gone. No more dogs greeting me at the door. No more Kizzie curled up on my chest, purring me to sleep. My Mom was confused and broken hearted. My income was cut to a trickle. There were no more happy endings left to hope for.

Two things saved my life. And they are the reason I'm writing today. Because I know that someday, someone who feels the way I felt a year ago is going to find this blog on the day that they need a reason to keep living.

I found out that there were people who still believed in me. My dearest friends didn't give up on me. My boss, who had every right to fire me, let me stay. With cautious compassion, he let me earn a new place at the Y. Not the one I had before. The "career track" was not one I could expect to travel any more. But he gave me a chance. And that gave me a purpose.

I found out that I could still contribute. I could still make a difference in people's lives. Even broken and hopeless, I could still help. No, I'm not going to ever be a director of anything at the Y. I don't think I'll ever be one of the guys who wears ties and goes to meetings with the big shots. But I'll be helping people, people who have been known setbacks themselves. They have had cancer and diabetes, chronic pain and chronic depression. They are old and sick and tired and fat and the world keeps telling them to give up and some kind of spark inside them says that life is worth living anyway. And I get to help them keep that spark alive.

And that purpose, that cause helps keep me alive. I found a chance to serve.

So, a year after it all fell to pieces, I can't really say my life is good today. I'm broke. Often lonely. Always at least a little sad. I'm still a very hard person to love. And a very reliable source of income for the head-shrinkers.

But dammit, I'm still here. It didn't kill me. I thought I'd lost everything. But God stayed faithful. God sent me people and a purpose. I believe that. Am I hopeful? No, not yet. I still don't see any happy endings down the road.

But I can still see the road, and I am grateful for that. He may be doing it with tears in his eyes, and a broken heart in his chest, but The Fat Man is still running.

And I hope, if you are that person, the one who will read this someday when you need to see it the most, I pray that you will find your way to keep running, too. I know you can do it. Because I did.

Peace,
Bob

#196: When No News is Good News

It is a quiet day. Mrs P is out with a friend. Jake is fast asleep on the bed. I am trying to sync my faithful but ancient iPod to my PC instead of my dying Mac which is painful but necessary. There is just nothing going on today and it feels great.

We did our standard drill in the morning with my radiation treatment. Then a stop by the financial office to pick up some records and a trip to see the AFLAC ladies. This is the office where I used to work. Now it is my lifeline to the income that is making it possible for Mrs P to spend these days with me. Please, if you don't have AFLAC, let me know and I'll hook you up with a good agent. We'd be lost without it right now.

Stopped by the Meijer where a job is waiting for me when I'm well again. I got lots of loving from old colleagues and looked for a big floppy hat. My straw Panama has outlived its usefulness and is a bit more, shall we say organic around the sweatband than is suitable for polite company. No luck with the hat, but we did do some research on a Brita filter for the kitchen. Decided against it. We'll stick with jugs of Highbridge Spring Water for now. I also got Mrs P to finally look at the little netbook I've been thinking about to replace my iBook. That one really pains me, but we're not in Apple land financially right now. All I want is a little gizmo that will let me do facebook and write without being tied to the desk. We'll see how that works out. Right now, my Bride's good sense is outweighing my desire to type under the Maple tree in the backyard.

Then it was back home. Made a big berry, protein smoothie. Uploaded a book on tape that a friend sent to make chemo days go a little faster. All in all, it feels like summer around here.

Nice to have a drama-free day. I keep telling people that they give you three weeks between infusions so you can feel like crap for a week and a half, then feel OK for a week and a half before another chemo round. If that's the plan, it's working. I feel great. No side effects other than fatigue which I deal with by taking a little walk, usually followed by a little nap. I'm reading a good book about exercise and cancer treatment that recommends walking when you feel your worst. It makes sense. Muscle loss is the worst thing you can do during treatments. It kills your ability to heal and recover from all the crap they're doing to make you well. That's why they don't want me to lose more weight. It's also why exercise, even just a short walk, is such a good idea.

Yesterday on my walk, I met some kids from the neighborhood. If you want to know your neighbors, get a big friendly dog. There were five little ones gathered around Jake who showed his excitement by spinning in circles and peeing like a lawn sprinkler. One of the kids asked, "Why ain't you got no teeth?" What is it about me that makes kids comfortable to ask such questions? "I have cancer," I said, "and the doctors had to take my teeth so that I didn't get sicker." One child stood apart from the group, staring at me for a minute. "Lemme see your head," he asked. Puzzled, I removed my cap and showed him my bald pate. "Oh yeah," he said wisely, "you really got cancer." It made me smile, but also made me a little sad to know how familiar this little one was with the disease. I wondered whose bald head had taught him what to look for.

This disease touches so many people, so many families. I know I'm fighting for my life, but I don't really feel very heroic. Just taking each day as it comes. Enjoying a quiet afternoon. Doing crossword puzzles with my wife. Dropping a note to a friend who went out of her way to love me. That's all I'm doing. I'm no warrior. I wonder when I'm done, how will I pay all this love back? Shall I make speeches? Do plays about cancer? Visit the sick? Comfort the dying? All? None? I don't know. I know that cancer hasn't changed me, but the love people have shown me sure has. They have taught me to believe in myself in ways I never did before. They have taught me that "survive" isn't some huge epic act. It's just getting by, taking the day as it comes.

I am a survivor. That isn't my self image. It's my job. My job is to get up everyday and survive. Since April 16th, 2010, I have been a career cancer survivor. That feels better than I could ever have imagined.

Even when there's nothing in particular to do but write about it.

Peace,
pennsy.