Writings of Constance Ore ( 1937 – 2010 )

We discussed traveling for a long time before embarking on a little road trip because my near isolation in the last weeks has kept me reasonably well. Finally we determined to try a very controlled journey in a car, and armed with an ultraviolet disinfecting wand, Purell, surgical masks, a slew of medications and a very fine letter from the oncologist in which he outlines the illness, the other chronic conditions that have joined in, my medications, and most importantly, the complete information about my insurance coverage, we started off on Sunday afternoon. We had taken Alphie to his usual kennel where he remains “in storage” (as Charles says – I am still not as convinced that dogs live only in the moment and do not feel the passage of time, as is the common claim).

We had been on the road for a little over an hour when we were overtaken by a severe storm with rain, wind and hail – the worst we have ever experienced while driving in a car. We were on the Interstate, and the sides of the road were lined with stopped cars because visibility went to zero. Thankfully, the hail was not so large that it dented the car, or damaged the windshield, but there were small white drifts of it on the sides of the roads, and under trees, there were leaves chopped into fine green bits. We did get to our destination in good shape, and we determined not to regard this beginning to our travels as an omen of things to come. So far, all is well.

Tuesday, we drove to downtown Chicago to revisit “The Bean” at Millennium Park and walk the length of the new bridge from there to the splendid 200+ million dollar addition to the Art Institute, both designed by Renzo Piano, an architect whose work and ability to use natural lighting in spaces that display art are truly remarkable. We went with daughter Janna and family and met dear friends there for lunch. The day was such that when we arrived in Millennium Park, the tops of the tall buildings were wreathed in mists, and everything was magical. It was a grand day. I reflected that no photo or film would be able to replicate what it was like to stand on the bridge and look back at the Frank Gehry band shell, watching the bright colors of groups of school children move through the park and feeling the air blowing in from Lake Michigan across the spaces there. The new part of the Art Institute is truly beautiful, just as splendid as has been reported. So, on this cool June day, we delight in the adventure, look forward to the coming days, and hope for the best!

We invited several friends over for a luncheon yesterday noon, and I awakened feeling ill again, but having begun the food preparations the day before, and having the able and willing help of John-Paul and Charles, I determined to go ahead with the planned event. This worked very well, a great deal like having staff, and we were pleased that we didn’t give up on the day. I had spoken of miracles, and the fact that they don’t necessarily last for the rest of one’s life, but are miracles nonetheless. My lovely time lasted fourteen days, then the systems within began to complain once more. It felt a bit like being told one must move back into a sorry hut after living in a nice house for a while, however, it is far better to have had the fine experience for a short while than to trudge on unknowing. In moving on without any therapies, the best strategy for me is the inner voice that says, “It is what it is”. (this is a quote from a funny tale about the twin granddaughters traveling – see the May 13, 2008 Blog) There is a constant change in life that slowly emerges and permits one to go on with acceptance of the present circumstances. Also, miracles continue to be possible, and are grand for lifting the hope and the heart!

Sanctuary moves from scent to scent. The honeysuckle bushes and Dames Rockets are finished blooming now, and the wild roses and red clover have begun. This year, there are many honeybees, so a busy hum can be heard as one passes the flowering plants. I have had to set aside the bird tracking for a bit because Alphie has become obsessed with digging holes, and in order to assist him past this latest fetish of dogdom I focus on him entirely instead of looking at the treetops. He has never unearthed anything, and some of his holes have gotten deep enough to be a nuisance. I went into the Internet to inquire about what might cause a dog to suddenly become obsessive about digging holes, and “boredom” was listed after the phrase, “You could just as easily ask, ‘Why do birds fly?’” We know Alphie is exercised greatly, and since he runs off leash over 40 acres, it can’t be boredom with a little yard, etc., so I have concluded he is just being a dog, and this too shall pass.

Several of my dear friends have mentioned that if it is possible, they would hope I might communicate with them from “the other side” once I have died. In my own frame of reference, other than the Easter message of God’s saving grace and Christ’s conquering death with the promise of joyful continuation in eternal life there is no guidebook about where or what transpires after one’s death. It is my thought that all of us construct our own images and ways to deal with our life’s end on earth and what might then take place. When I shared with Charles and John-Paul the friend’s requests, after a short silence, dear Charles said, “I suppose you noticed that I never asked for any communications from you from the other side” and John-Paul said, “Actually, Mom, I haven’t either”. After a moment of consideration I had to respond that, well, neither had his sisters, and it was perfectly clear that the family needed a little respite from my fine voice and even finer opinions. The three of us broke into gales of laughter at the mental images each of us evoked, and it was a moment of great delight. So life goes on, and “It is what it is”.

On this 13th day of post-treatment, I have felt nearly as well as I did “in the olden days” before the cancer came. I determined to limit my contacts, and I have been staying away from all places where groups of people gather. I have not gone to church, shopping, movies, or restaurants. I’d like to add large lovely parties, but there were no invitations to such events, so I can’t say that I had to deny myself the experience. We have had a good number of friends come over to share suppers here, and this has been a happy two weeks.

The oncologist decided to forego checking the status of the blood cells each week, saying that one tended to “obsess” over the readings, and feel more anxious about the lack of white and/or red. Instead, I will have the CBC once monthly. If I begin to feel exhausted walking up the stairs, or sick in other ways, I will meet with my GP at the Clinic here in Seward. At first, this seemed startling after all the months of weekly readings and medical reactions, but returning to just plain living has been splendid. It has led me to consider the nature of miracles. I believe I am living one, and even if it doesn’t go on into the future indefinitely, it remains a miracle.

On an evening last week, we invited our neighbors over for a supper together before they left for their summer residence in Montana. The menu featured filet mignon, and the entrée was built around this delicacy. I had marinated the four filets for a bit, and Charles had gotten the grill ready. The table was set and the house looked nice with many bouquets of orchids, lilacs, and spirea – all was in readiness, with the meat on a plate far back on the kitchen counter. When our friends arrived, we all went into the living room for a moment to look out over Sanctuary, and it was then that our previously dear Alphie suffered a lapse into moral turpitude, because in about thirty seconds of time, he hefted his great self up and neatly removed all four of the filets without disturbing any other thing. I came back into the kitchen, looked at the empty plate and said to Charles, “Did you take the meat out to the grill?” and he said, “No, did you put it into the refrigerator?” Since neither of those actions had taken place, we both turned our eyes upon Alphie, who was lying on the kitchen floor, one eye shut, and one eye just a bit open and watching us. He was soundly scolded, but the deed was done. Fortunately, our friends love Alphie also, and have had labs of their own, so we heard stories of other outrageous thefts and behavioral lapses while I reconstructed the supper. I have noticed that since that evening, when we have guests, Alphie slips into the kitchen, nose up and sniffing for more lovely things to eat. For now, we have learned caution and he finds nothing of interest, but sadly, he is a changed creature. Charles says he thinks that until that feasting moment, Alphie didn’t realize just how much better human food tastes than dog food, and from now on, we will have to be on our guard against “Alphie the Snitch” where before we had “Alphie the Good”. Alas.

Yesterday, when we made the drive returning from Lincoln to our home, I looked out over the roadsides and fields – the colors were so beautiful, I imagined my hand to be like a giant’s hand reaching out and stroking over the soft grasses, following the undulating shape of the hills, and touching the tops of the willows and cottonwood trees in the valleys between. We have had very little rain this spring, but the earth has sent forth its best anyway. I think the early settlers must have seen this season, planted seeds, and assumed that the bounty would come, but instead the dry days and hot winds arrived and reduced everything to exhausted burned out stems by the time summer ended. We have had those times too, and it is possible that this will be such a year, so we must continue to live in the moment and enjoy fully what the present has to offer.

It felt strange to visit with the oncologist and hear the finality in the words, “The chemotherapy treatment did not work this time, and there is nothing more that we can do.” He went on to say that if we wanted to find another opinion, he would be open to that; the discussion continued about what he knows, what information he has been able to gather at conferences, etc., and what people do when they hear these words. He said that he has had several former patients who went to Lourdes, France to ask for a miracle, and some have gone forth to seek out alternative treatments. He talked about how emotions take over, and rational thought seems to flee – and finally we talked about trust. Since he has been my doctor for almost three and a half years now, the trust in his judgment is great, and we are glad.

In a way, it is like the TV program where the contestant stands before three doors and must choose one of them for the grand prize. For me, it might be Door #1 which would be contacting other Cancer centers around the country and pursuing any kind of clinical trials that might be available. Door #2 opens to the present plan of a kind of medically centered hospice; close contact with my GP, calling him when feeling ill, and trying to avoid getting into the pattern of red blood transfusions until absolutely necessary. (According to the oncologist, the body will make adjustments over a little time to deal with less. . . like it does when one goes to a high altitude. So one has to give it a chance to work with a lower red blood count before rushing into the transfusions. Once I begin into those on a regular basis, the inevitable downward spiral increases in velocity.) Door #3 has a bleak and empty place behind it, where the phrase “There is no cure” keeps playing over and over again, and a heaviness settles in. I have peeped behind Doors 1 and 3, and the space behind the first door is seductive – it whispers, “Maybe…” Behind the third door is a place that I find myself every now and then in spite of attempting to keep away and it is very hard to be there. The second Door opens to the space in which we choose to be at this time. A dear friend who has lived this entire scenario with her husband said it best when she commented, “It’s the curse of the disease. When you feel good, life is good, and looks wonderful. When you get sick, which inevitably happens since you have no immunities, you have the hope of returning to feeling well, but you never know if this time will be the last time”.

Like the giant’s hand hovering over the beautiful hills, I truly do feel God’s care and the web of many people’s concern and prayer that is above, below and all around us, and today I feel good, and life is fine.