Train

My Beloved burning with fever, this cancer is like a runaway 
locomotive, me throwing switches one after the other 
while gulping information on how to operate this roaring 
thing, the landscape blurring past, our map 
useless, these levers made of nothing but straw.

The past few weeks have been rough. Bill, in his immunosuppressed state of chemotherapy, picked up a virus that very quickly developed into pneumonia; three visits to ER in three days and two weeks of high fevers. I’ve never seen him so sick. Equally disconcerting was a CT scan that showed possible cancer in his right lung. So far, the cancer has only been in his left lung, which made it stage 2 and still curable. If the disease has progressed to his right lung, well, that changes everything.

After less than a month at home in Alaska, we decided to return to Bill’s care team in Vancouver, Washington. I had planted a garden, started the greenhouse, and Bill was enjoying his time with Rudy. It was disappointing enough to once again find care for the animals and dismantle the greenhouse, but saying goodbye to grandkids who asked us please not to go, well … we all cried.

Cancer pays no heed to plans.

So here we are. We have received much confirmation that, as homesick as we are, we made the right choice. The differing opinion of doctors in Alaska vs. doctors in Washington reminds us that medicine is a human endeavor with many interpretations of the same set of facts. We welcome the cautious optimism of the care team here. We are choosing to live in the light of possibility. Thankfully, Someone besides me is at the controls of this train. We cannot know where it will lead, but it has finally slowed enough to glimpse a sliver of hope on the horizon.

Meanwhile, we decided to bring our dog, Lily, to Vancouver. I could not leave her again so soon, especially when we both cried last time — I had to carry her, face buried under my arm from the car to the front door at the boarding kennel. Our other dog Rosie, a resilient youngster, is under the watchful care of 14-year-old granddaughter, Aurora, who is training to race Mt. Marathon. That means lots of mountain climbing and hikes in Rosie’s future. Lily is adjusting to city life. Squirrels here are monstrous compared to the little red chatterboxes in Alaska. The first order of business when we landed in 93-degree heat was a haircut. Lily has requested that if she must be a city dog, she would appreciate a professional groomer next time.