July 19, 2007
The sun is just coming up into a clear day in Sheridan, Wyoming, and our plans are for mountain travels today through the Big Horns west and north to Red Cloud, Montana. Our road trip began on Tuesday morning after I had my last CBC in which I received normal blood count readings and my final shot of Neupogen. Our VW Gulf is packed with everything needed for complete comfort and delight, including a sack of meds and a portable refrigerator.
On day one, we ate our noon meal at a Wendy’s in Grand Island where there was a Wurlitzer electronic organ in the corner being played by an older man who then stopped to bus tables. When I complimented him on his playing, he was very pleased and said that he didn’t hear that very often. We both said to ourselves, “Well, that’s ONE job that we aren’t doing right now!” From there, we drove scenic Highway #2 going diagonally west north into and through the sand hills. This is entirely different country – rolling green vistas that compliment the sky and set off the occasional trees. It’s a beautiful drive with almost no traffic, and few towns. Our destination was Alliance, near the western border of Nebraska, and as the hours passed, it got very hot, reaching 100 degrees in the afternoon with beautiful cloud formations and rain off to the north.
We stopped for a hot snack and stroll in the middle of the afternoon at Mullen,NE. No one else was in the establishment, just the woman who made us a very good omelet and her six year old son who “helped” clear after we ate. Across the street, there was a former outhouse facing onto the street, with a dummy inside, and a sign on the front with the inscription, “Campaign Office in Basement”.
We concluded our day’s adventures by driving out of Alliance to see Carhenge in the evening. The gold wheat fields and green irrigated fields were beautiful in the late light, but the stacked, gray painted cars were a uniquely unimpressive sight. Apparently the builder of it did seek to match the same formations as Stonehenge, but without the history and the mystery of the original, it seemed to be just a gathering of old rusting cars painted gray. At a little café/souvenir shop on the grounds we were told that its 20th Anniversary had been celebrated in June this year.
Day Two: We determined to drive through the Agate Fossil Beds Nat’l Monument as we headed west, and to do so meant that we would need to drive a short way on a “gray” line on the map to reach the north/south highway. When we got to the indicated spot, we came to a little gravel road with the sign “Cut Across” and “Pink Schoolhouse Road” on it. Charles was very dubious because it is deserted out there with no houses or people. When I told him it was that or sixty miles out of the way, he said we’d try it. We commenced on a narrow, very rocky road going due west. There were yellow wild flowers on the road sides and small gray birds flew with us in an escort on both sides of the car. We couldn’t drive more than 25 miles an hour, and the birds flew beside us in a dipping flight; when one pair veered off, the next pair came, and this went on for the entire six miles. Charles said that perhaps they thought we were the ultimate mother ship bird and they were giving us due homage.
The Agate Fossil Beds were virtually deserted on this hot summer morning, the only other people present were a German speaking couple meeting us in the doorway. The path up the hills to the excavations had an orange and black sign, “Watch for Rattlesnakes”. We went inside and contented ourselves with looking at the video and studying the dioramas even though in the past, we were quite snubby about people who did that instead of experiencing the actual thing. There were rattlesnake skins lying about on their counters, and that alone was enough to encourage staying inside.
Unfortunately, dear little Gulf with its very low undercarriage was not prepared for Cut Across roads, and we dislodged the cover for the engine so that later, as soon as we drove more than fifty miles per hour, it flapped about. This meant that we had to find a garage with a lift so it could be mended. We limped along westward, becoming that older couple that people wish to shoot at because they are in the line of cars and trucks stacked up behind waiting to pass. I wanted to shout out that normally we were quite as speedy as anyone out there, but alas. . . When we got to Gilette, Wyoming, it was quickly fixed, and we speeded into the end of the day. En route, we passed the town of Lost Spring, Population, 1 (the sign really said that) and we passed over Dead Horse Creek and Crazy Woman Creek. Both of the latter surely had stories worth telling; the names indicating a bit about the land through which we passed.
Meanwhile, her husband sells his watch so he can buy her some tortoise shell combs that to wear in her hair.) I thought that Charles was very disappointed at my decision to not go on the adventure so I changed direction and said no, on second thought, we would take the trip no matter what, and leave on July 16 as planned – after all, we had everything in place. Charles, thinking that I wanted to go on this trip more than anything else in the world, told me that he thought he could get me through the airports, etc., with wheelchairs and other helps, and that I could see a lot of New Zealand riding through its countryside even if I didn’t have much energy. We held on to this decision for a bit because at first the antibiotics seemed to be working quickly, and the cold was retreating, but then this morning, it was very present with much deep coughing and physical exhaustion. At lunch, Charles looked at me and said that he absolutely did not want to make the trip in the face of this current state of health, with the possibility of pneumonia lurking. I said it was true that I wasn’t feeling too swell, but I thought we should go as I truly didn’t want him to be disappointed. As we talked, we both confessed that we were trooping on ahead for the sake of the other while personally not enthusiastic about such an undertaking at this time. Now, in a state of vast relief, we are undoing the arrangements so that we can go forward with “Plan B” which is the leisurely road trip to California. 
Tomorrow, July 4, and the town of Seward is as ready as any household might be awaiting honored guests; the lawns are mowed, flowers are blooming in tidy rows, flags are up and out, and a sense of excitement is stirring from the gas stations to the grocery stores. All along the parade route, blankets are already spread out on the lawns, no matter that there is a 50% chance of rain after midnight. There are at least six tents selling fireworks for the occasion, and now that it is almost time, they are offering great enticements to buyers. . . ..“BUY ONE, GET TWO FREE!” The nights are already filled with the sounds and sights of many partakers of the exploding delights, and dogs everywhere are frantic under the onslaught. Except Alphie. He has come from a line of hunters, I suppose, and somehow, a genetic tolerance for loud sounds seems to be bred in. John-paul has come home to photograph the day’s events, and daughter Heidi has decided that her family will be in the parade with herself driving our 1970 MGB and the grand daughters sitting on the back as “softball princesses”. Exactly how this will all work out on a very hot day is yet to be seen; I believe the princess designation is one which they have given themselves, and I also think the entry is in the “Vintage Car” grouping. Six year old Kira speaks glowingly of throwing candy and water balloons – I fear there are some explanation points all over my eyebrows as I listen to her, but I do think it will be an event worthy remembering. 
When Charles came in and announced that two of the swallow’s eggs had fallen out of the nest that is over our upper porch door, I immediately offered to clean up the mess. I gathered a bucket, cloth, and spatula, mentally envisioning eggs the size of hens’ eggs splattered over the floor, and when I opened the door and looked down at the miniscule little shell shards and tiny bit of remains there, I truly had a moment of the inner voice saying, “Good grief! What were you thinking?” I was eyeing the two little swallows balanced there on the sculpture and did smile at my own lapse of logic. 
My July 3, 2006 entry rhapsodized about it being the last of chemotherapy, having just completed the sixth round, and thinking then that it would be all that I would be doing. Alas, this joy was premature, because now I have completed the 12th round of chemotherapy, and I am looking at a struggle that continues. My blood readings went back down precipitously again this morning, once more presenting us with a questionable future. My life has been enormously blessed, though an aspect of it is learning to accept a slow decrease of energy and selfhood. It might be compared to walking along with fists clutching fine sand, and having the sand escape the grip grain by grain never to be found again. And yet, should anyone ask, “How’s it going?” I’d have to think of the laughter and delight and beauty in my days in spite of this and would truthfully reply, “Can’t complain”.