Baseball, Birding, and the Healing Balm of Hope

 

“It ain’t over till it’s over!”

The time-tested battle cry is never truer than in baseball. I can’t even count the times my team rallied back bottom of the ninth, two outs, one man on. And I watch straight though until that last out is called because, in baseball, there is always hope: hope that my team will come from behind, hope that I’ll see something new (I’m still waiting to see a live triple play), and if my team doesn’t make it to post-season, hope for next year. 

Birdwatching is like baseball as it, too, fills me with hope. I’ve backyard bird-watched for years but am still new to the deliberate world of birding. This is the world where I traipse through woods, cross meadows, and straddle creeks to catch sight of something I’ve never seen before: a new species, a strange activity, an unprecedented flock. 

Even though I average 7 poor days of birding for every great day,  I am undeterred. Why? Hope. 

Tomorrow  holds the possibility of being better. The odds are in my favor. And I’m filled with hope, the healing balm that soothes the pain of losing. Or of losing out.

There have only been a few times I recall feeling hopeless. The most devastating, the time which cut the deepest, was losing my son. For over two years I – our whole family – hoped that chemo would work. We hoped the cancer would go into remission. We hoped for a cure. New remedies were being discovered every day. Just hang on, we whispered, until that next breakthrough. And then, sadly, one day it was over. And I had to do two terrible things: say goodbye and let go of hope.

The ancient Greeks understood hope’s magic. In the Myth of Pandora’s Box, a young woman is given a box and told under no circumstance is she to open it. Curiosity, of course, gets the better of her and she opens the box only to unleash all the world’s ills, mischief, and sorrows. Once released, they could not be re-contained. But when she looked close, in the very bottom of the box, there was one small, significant thing that remained: Hope.

Not only is hope healthy, it gives me reason to get out of bed. And who doesn’t need that these days?

I cannot replace what is gone forever, but I can – and do – hope for new things, good things, things that heal me like baseball, birding and the balm of hope itself.

 

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It’d be hell if there weren’t any birds -- and I’m not the only one who thinks so. In the old Japanese culture of Ainu on the island of Hokkaidu, one of their concepts of hell was the exact world in which they lived – but with no birds at all. No birds, and no hope of birds.

 

My Year of Grief and Gratitude

A couple weeks after our son passed away I bought a wooden sign that now hangs over my kitchen sink. It reminds me every day that even though we suffered shattering heartbreak, we still have much.

It reminds me that in the tragic realm of losing one’s child, we were extraordinarily fortunate. After his diagnosis of Stage IV cancer, we still had months and months to converse with Carey. To go out to dinner. To watch movies. Cheer the Cubs. Boo the Cardinals. Have family reunions. To laugh. To hug. To cry. Hug some more.  To have long soft talks in the middle of the night. And then finally, with everything spoken that could be spoken, to peacefully say good-bye. 

The sign above my sink reminds me of the onrush of family and friends who, with zero hesitation, stood close during two years of shadow and chaos.

That our strong and loving son Cody is only an hour down the road, healthy and in love.

That our amazing daughter-in-law welcomes us with open arms and keeps a big comfy bed waiting for us in her sweet North Carolina home.

That when our grandsons visit they ask for Play-doh as soon as they bound across the threshold.

It reminds me that my grief and gratitude are not mutually exclusive, but two sides of the same coin.

And now, as this first year without Carey comes to a close, I’m grateful that some of the very last words I whispered in his ear, were the same ones I whispered 28 years earlier when the nurse first laid him in my arms: Momma loves you.

There’s no denying the wretchedness of watching your loved one’s life slip away. But, try as I might, I can’t fix that. I can’t undo it. What I’m left with then, is the ability to be grateful for and appreciate what once was and what still is. And what I hope to keep: a thankful heart.

The Inversion of Joy

Nine months gone now.

I remember being pregnant with Carey, all the excitement and nerves as the weeks flowed along. I read books, rented videos, talked with other young moms. There were baby showers, and old women patting my arm at the bank. I got the nursery set up, onesies washed, diapers stacked and rocker set. But all the preparation did not really ready me for the first moment my baby lay in my arms.

Sure, people reminded me about poopie diapers and midnight feedings. But they neglected to mention the joy - the absolute joy - of seeing my infant yawn for the first time. That sweet little mouth and soft round cheek. Because, hands down, there is nothing more adorable in the world than seeing that first precious calm of your baby. And I mean nothing. 

And the first time I made my baby laugh? Oh, sweet heaven! If they could hook me up to a seismograph my emotions would be off the chart. 

And the second and third giggles are just as good! So is the tenth. But then . . .

. . . Gradually, somewhere around the thirty-fourth time it's not quite as wonderful. Still cute. But not the thrill it once was. Over time, the adorability became less and less marvelous, and more and more part of my day in day out life.

In a lot of ways, Carey's death is very similar. Only it's the exact opposite on the seismograph. Instead of exhilarating highs, there are sharp ravines. Instead of rippling giggles, there's a long, long piercing silence. 

It's the inversion of joy.

Now instead of joyful firsts, I face their tragic inversion. The first Christmas without Carey. The first Mother's Day with no phone call from him hoping he beat his brother to the punch. The first Cubs win of the season. The first time I had to refer to him in the past tense. 

It's been nine months now. 

As it was with my baby's first milestones, these tragedies too will fade, the edge will dull and gradually be absorbed into my day in day out life. And next year will be a tiny bit easier. 

At least I hope so. 

Grief on the Frontier

I had a history professor once ask, "What exactly is the frontier?"

Our class came up with several muddled and vague definitions. But in the end our professor gave us this: the frontier is that thin strip of land running between civilization and wilderness. It is a buffer between what is established and what is yet unknown.

For almost three years I have lived on my own frontier of confusion, anger, exhaustion and grief, a narrow land of unlivable territory spanning between life and death.

The minute I learned Carey’s cancer had spread, I stepped away from all that I knew and out onto this barren frontier, with nothing but wilderness as far as the mind could see. Forced here by the chance ricochet of cancer’s bullet.

And here I have lived on that unrelenting edge with my eye fixed on my family, unable to go back to what I knew, petrified of staying for what it meant. There were days on the frontier where I watched my son cross a brutal terrain of chemo treatments and radiation, braving his way with dignity, calm, and even humor. And then, finally, when all hope of survival here had failed, I watched him travel on without me, further into the wilderness. Into the unknown.

My time on the frontier territory is drawing to a close. I can’t stay here. There’s no point. I need to return to my loved ones, to my new home, to all that is still familiar.  But there will be days when I look back over my shoulder to catch one more glimpse of Carey. To see if, by chance, he passed that way again, even if for a second. 

An Honest Day

It’s a day like any other day.

I plan this week’s meals, make a grocery list and finish my coffee.

I put on galoshes and drive to the store, 10 miles in the rain. 

I check the eggs, weigh the apples, and decide against salmon. Maybe next week.

It’s a day like any other day. Only sadder.

After I put away the groceries

and drive 14 miles to the gym, I

work up a sweat and wait for the endorphins to kick in.

They don’t always, despite the hype.

I get home and pull the condolence cards out of the mailbox.

Reading through them makes me feel better and
Worse at the same time. 

So I cry.

I cry and wonder how my daughter-in-law is and 
what my grandchildren are doing.

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since my son took his last breath,

Since I felt his skin grow cool under my hand,

Since I kissed his forehead for each of his grandparents, his uncles, his aunts,

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since I finally let go of hope.

Crying is now part of my daily routine.

I take time for it.

It’s a day like any other day, only sadder.

And dinner still needs to be made.

A North Carolina Visit

Carey, the Cubs, the Beatles and a bowl of tamale pie.

As you know, Rex and I moved to England in August when his company gave him a 2-year assignment overseas. We had looked forward to it for a year and had planned to use our time traveling around Europe, touring thatched-roof villages, and hiking ancient cities.  But three weeks after settling into our British digs, our youngest son Carey was diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic cancer called Ewing's Sarcoma. He has a tumor in his right calf and another in his adrenal gland. Cancer didn’t give a fuck about our plans.



A little sumpin'-sumpin before the next round
of in-patient chemo treatment

I rushed back to the states for a few short weeks to help Carey, his beautiful wife Patty Jo, 3-year old Eli and baby Carver as they moved closer to Duke Cancer Center. Carey will be treated there for the next year, undergoing radiation and 17 separate chemo treatments. We knew the chemo would be difficult and it lived up to expectations. The nausea lasts a week after each treatment and no medication helps completely. But he never really knows what he wants to eat and when he decides, it’s hard to keep food down. Coming out of chemo he’s hungry and tired and sad.

Rex and I returned to North Carolina for the holidays which honest-to-god couldn’t come soon enough. Aside from just being there as a comfort, I wondered if there was anything I could do to help my son. I couldn’t cure cancer, but perhaps I had something in my toolbox that could alleviate the anxiety and sadness that comes with it. Short answer: yes. And for those who know me, it’ll come as no surprise.

Red beans and rice with turkey kielbasa

Carey wanted home cooked meals and lots of them: chicken soya and rice, tamale pie, beef stroganoff with silky sauce and buttered noodles, stuffed Italian pasta shells and garlic bread, curry lentil soup, red beans and  rice, marinated flank steak, cookies, cupcakes, brownies, omelets. We arrived December 19 and for the next three weeks I cooked non-stop. And he ate. Everyday his appetite grew stronger; the aroma of his favorite childhood meals nudging him gently up from afternoon naps.

Manning my battle station

They say that when a family member battles cancer, the whole family is in the fight. If that’s the case, then the kitchen is my battle station. And my plans have changed. For the next 8 months I will criss-cross the Atlantic several more times to come back and cook for him and his family.

Stocking the freezer for Carey in NC
for the weeks I'm back in the UK

This is not what I planned to be doing in 2015 but I’m glad I’m here and almost unbearably grateful for all the support of my friends and family. I wouldn’t trade my time in North Carolina for all the castle tours in England.

Besides, there’s always next year.

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To get a better idea of what Carey goes through during his treatment and afterwards, see Patty Jo’s amazing blog,  boogers and bruises. It’s both poignant and tenderly honest. It was recently featured on Stand Up To Cancer's web site.