The Minutiae of Life

 

 In browsing my files, I found a piece I wrote at the beginning of Ren's chemo journey. We had no idea what the future would hold. We hoped for a few uncomfortable months then a return to almost normal, until the next flare-up. We had toyed with the possibility of a journey to some foreign place in our plans, now that the pandemic was easing. But it was not to be.

Crossroads

 

Jan 22, 2022

With Ren’s returning cancer and the looming chemo infusions, I feel as if I am at a crossroads. I cannot avoid crossing over to the next phase of our lives. The cancer has “progressed” into his bones, and as he said when looking at the bone scan report: “I’m screwed.” I couldn’t argue. The infusions can’t cure him, but just delay the further spread to give him a few more months, perhaps as long as three years. I am looking at him getting progressively worse. Already his hip aches so much he has to take Advil three times a day. And I wonder, how much longer until the Advil is not strong enough to relieve his pain?

Along with his physical ailments comes the inevitable depression. He is painting a new project, so I’m hoping that will keep the major depression at bay. He is much more down, though, than he was before the bone scan. But he did go out yesterday and spend James and Brooke’s gift card at the art store, Blicks, so again, that indicates he is fighting the depression.

As for me. I must stay upbeat and positive. I must not allow his diagnosis and depression to pull me down. He has stated he needs me to stay supportive and not fall apart. From my brush with cancer in 1996, I know that is so. He can lean on me now as I could not lean on him then. We need to believe we can get through this. But of course, we can’t. He has a death sentence, as do we all, but his will probably be sooner than mine. And in between?

The infusions will be every three weeks—for the rest of his life. They estimate he will have one week of sickness for each infusion. How sick will be determined. Bleeding is a side-effect of this medication, so he will have to be careful not to cut himself shaving, nor make his gums bleed. Having to be infused every three weeks with one week of sickness means our vacation time is severely restricted. Doesn’t look like an overseas trip is in our future. So much for a last trip to England, or Italy, or Amsterdam.  

As Ren’s bones deteriorate, I am assuming his bodily pain will increase. Already he is limping around and grimacing if he neglects to take the Advil on time. He takes it at night so he can sleep without pain. So far that is working, but I wonder for how long. So far too, his appetite is holding. He still enjoys a treat of ice cream with chocolate sauce and chocolates. I don’t know how the chemo will affect his appetite, but the doctor mentioned last year that he shouldn’t worry about losing weight. I suppose they expect him to lose weight as the chemo takes effect.

He must not drive until he figures out how the infusions affect his eyesight. That means I will need to be available to drive him to and from the doctors and anywhere else he wants/needs to go.  Already I do most of the cooking, so that won’t change, but I wonder what else I will have to do to fill in where he used to be. I hate to think that I have to call one of the children to do simple things. For instance: this morning I asked him to replace a screen on the kitchen window. I tried several times but couldn’t get it to fit. He did it. Later I tried to open a zip lock bag which was really tight. I couldn’t; he could. I asked him to run his shop vac to suck up a spider in my way in the garage. He actually captured it with a broom and took it outside. But in each instance, I wondered how I would manage when he was no longer able to help, or when he was no longer here.

And that is another unknown. If indeed Ren does go first, how will I manage on my own? Who will look after me if I’m ill? Who will call the ambulance if I fall and hurt myself? Money-wise we have enough now—not riches, but enough to get by with a few luxuries now and then. But—what about if I am ill enough to need nursing help? If I have to sell this house, how long will that keep me in convalescent care? What if I get dementia? Where will I go? In-house or in a facility? Who will make that decision? How will it be paid for? At least there will be the two pensions to help out. Spend it all, I say!

If I am well with Ren gone, how will I spend my time? What activities can I do that will be safe, i.e. not keep me out late and vulnerable? How long will I be able to drive? How long will I be able to keep my brain agile enough to write? How lonely will I be? I do not want to live with any of my children. The company might be nice, but I need, and they need, privacy. You can’t have that when you live together.

I’m always saying, “Don’t cross bridges until you come to them.” But I can’t help wondering about the future. I’m not averse to planning ahead. But I do realize it is impossible to plan for the unknown. I will just have to gird my loins and be ready to adjust and adjust and pray that I stay healthy.

And start to sleep well.

 

March 21, 2022

Now that Ren is well into chemo (3^rd infusion tomorrow) I hold on to my sanity through the minutiae of life. To live another day, to keep on going, we have to eat, drink, sleep, and attend to other daily functions.

 The temptation is to drop everything, to focus on the symptoms, the progression, the prognosis, the accommodations needed. But in between all this, I cling to the small things: phone calls, successes and trials of the grandchildren, travel plans, and work news for my children and friends. Our household cooking, cleaning, shopping, everyday life, still goes on and that is encouraging. When he sleeps, I can sink into the writing, forget my worries while my mind plots and plans and moves my characters around. Just like reading, I can escape for a short while.

Part of the accommodations of this cancer treatment is coping with Ren’s depression. He has said he will find a way to end his own life before it gets too bad. I sympathize with his view, but I have a quibble about what “too bad” means. I also find myself nagging him to do what he has been told to do, e.g.

1.      Rinse his mouth four times a day with the prescription mouthwash. He insists once a day is enough. Then complains about his mouth hurting.

2.      Drink enough water. He sips. For one day he drank enough and felt much better. Then he got tired of drinking and started sipping again. Dehydration causes fatigue.

3.      Force himself to eat even if he doesn’t feel like it because his mouth hurts. Without eating he gets weaker and weaker. And fatigue sets in.

4.      Walk, just a little, on days he feels better. “Two blocks down and two blocks back,” I said. He shrugs and doesn’t do it. And gets weaker and weaker.

 

He also keeps threatening to end the chemo because the side effects are too difficult. The sore mouth prevents him eating properly, and he’s lost a lot of his sense of taste. (See #1 above) He does take the nausea pill when he needs to. It works. He complains of fatigue all the time. (See #2 and #3 above.)

And so it goes.

 

Mortality

In my mid-70s I ponder how much longer I have in this world, on this planet, with my family. I watch them sub-consciously prepare for our departure by clinging closer to their loved ones, by contacting us less, by building their own worlds richer, more secure. That is as it should be, but, but, it leaves me/us more vulnerable, less engaged in their daily lives and thus, less engaged in this world. This is made worse with the current Covid-19 pandemic. Our own outside activities have been curtailed. What might have been other connections to the world outside our household, outside our family, are denied us. Letters, social media, and Zoom gatherings all lack the warmth, the subtle nuances, the mannerisms, the sub-verbal clues and reactions that connect us to others. Changes in verbal pitch and tone are often masked or reduced by technology, further reducing our connections.

Not only do the elderly suffer from this lack, but so do students who are relegated to online learning, coworkers who have to communicate via technology, as do club members, classmates, old friends, new friends, extended family. How can we maintain connections when we are deprived of face-to-face human connection?

And so we are left on our own, struggling to stay relevant in increasingly remote outside contacts. That is another aspect of aging at this time, in this environment.

 

Disruption on the Mall

What happens when we age?

 Having missed my early morning walk, but eager to make sure I get enough exercise, I walked to the post office to mail my Christmas cards—about one mile each way. As I passed the library, I noticed a “pop-up” book sale interspersed with mostly masked buyers. I browsed for a while, but seeing nothing I couldn’t live without, I continued on to the post office, passing by the Farmer’s Market and wondering if I should stop in on the way back to buy something.

As I neared the post office, I saw booths and milling people that alerted me to a street fair!! Cool! After dropping off the mail I hurried back to the fair to see what was on offer. Artists galore lined the blocked off street on both sides. They offered paintings, clothing, jewelry, pottery, fabric art, leather work, and many other crafts along with several booths offering food. I walked slowly along by myself, fascinated with all the different wares for sale and wondering about the people who manned the booths and tried to make sales at street fairs like that. I found one Christmas gift to buy, and decided to pick it up on the return. At the end, I turned back and continued my stroll along the booths on the opposite side of the street, people-watching as I went.

After perusing the food and drink booths on a side street, (the most interesting of which was offering liquor-filled pops) I resumed my route along the main street. The first booth I encountered had something on display that I have completely forgotten. The reason my memory is blank will soon become clear.

As I glanced towards the items for sale, my attention was captured by a woman with two live parrots balanced on her shoulders. Her back was to me as she chattered with the owners of the booth telling them the names of her birds. She sounded friendly and happy. The birds were bright and beautiful—Orange? Green? I have no clear memory of that either, but I think orange. I wanted my husband to see what strange sights this fair offered, so took out my phone to take a picture. I had always been told that you are free to take photos of anyone in a public setting, which this was, so thought nothing of my impulse. However, as I tried to frame up, one of the parrots crossed to join the other on the opposite shoulder and both were obscured. I waited thinking perhaps I’d get a better shot when the woman turned around, and I could take a frontal picture of her with the birds.

She did turn around, but before I could even think, she started for me waving her arms and screaming, repeating over and over: “You’re taking pictures of me and my parrots without permission!! You can’t do that!” Startled, I stood silent for a split second as I processed what she was saying and what her objection was, while she continued to yell at me. I looked at the people in the booth hoping they could defuse her, but they seemed as startled as I was. I wondered in those split seconds what she expected when she walked around with two live birds on her shoulders, and whether or not this confrontation was a habit with her. Her diatribe did seem practiced. As calmly as I could, I tried to explain to the woman that I hadn’t actually taken a picture yet, but she continued to yell that I had, and she demanded  my phone. I wanted to show her that she was not on the camera roll, so held my phone out but she tried to grab it from my hand. I backed off as she lunged at me reaching for the phone and still screaming. I blocked her from snatching it by turning away from her worried she’d try to smash it if she got her hands on it. She darted around me into the middle of the street. Of course, the crowds passing by stared at us both and moved aside to allow the tussle to continue. (Thanks guys!)

With my back to the booth as I tried to keep the phone away from her, I’d had enough. No more apologies or explanations as she was screaming too loudly to hear anything I was saying. Sliding my phone into my pocket, I summoned my Master Sergeant’s voice, loud enough for anyone within a hundred feet to hear. I spoke sternly and shook my finger at her: “DO NOT TOUCH MY PHONE!” I boomed at her while staring into her eyes. Unfortunately it didn’t stop her. She continued to yell about not asking her permission to take pictures. However, she slowly moved back to her position in front of the booth where the proprietors still sat with their jaws agape, obviously not coming to my aid.

Then she started screaming “Elder abuse!! I’ll call the police. You attacked me! Elder abuse!” I had only blocked her reaching arm by turning, so the charge was ridiculous. She had actually attacked me. Besides, I looked at her and realized she was at least ten years younger than me. The only thing I could think to respond was, “Well, I’m older than you, so that makes no sense.” She paused for a second then continued to yell, “Elder abuse!” but I think with a little less gusto. When she paused for a breath, I was tempted to try to defuse her by explaining again, but I instead I just made a dismissive motion with my hand and said, “You’re nuts!” then slowly walked off without looking back. She didn’t try to follow. Thank goodness. 

I made my Christmas gift purchase and slowly walked home. Strangely enough, I wasn’t shaking and didn’t feel my heart racing, which is weird since I am not in the habit of dealing with physical altercations. My relaxed morning stroll was disrupted by an obviously disturbed person. Was it age, loneliness, or was it something else?

And that leads me back to my original question. What happens when we age? This is the second time in two years I have been challenged by an older person. Different reasons, but both in public, and both encounters have left me unsettled. Is it the stress of the pandemic? Is it part of the aging process that we feel entitled to challenge anyone we perceive as taking liberties? Or is it just the chance we all take when we enter public spaces? The chance that we will meet all kinds of people who may or may not be willing to get along with others, or may be looking for a fight, or may crave any interaction no matter how disruptive.

Whatever the reason, I hope I don’t get that way.