Writings of Constance Ore ( 1937 – 2010 )

Home again, and more snows and cold temperatures established winter’s fierce continuation at Sanctuary. Only the sun is speaking of Spring’s nearing, because the warmth emanating from there has great authority and promise.

The dash to Mexico was a wonderful experience from start to finish. As we got into the taxi to return to the airport, the driver opened the trunk of the car and took out an old broomstick cut to size which he placed under the door to hold it open while he loaded our bags. “Mexican technology” he said with a smile, and we smiled, too. We were at the back side of the condo and we came to the cobblestone street through a tiled garden with a fountain in the middle. Bouganvelia hung from the balconies, and I felt as though we were in a Travel and Leisure magazine advertisement as we passed by. In the days before, we’d had our breakfast coffee on the balcony overlooking the bay, eaten splendid meals, walked on the packed sands right next to the ocean for our morning strolls, and gone on an adventure day trip so Linda could snorkel and both of us could whale watch and see dolphins and sea birds.

Our day trip started early Wednesday when we took a taxi down the hill to the Marina where two huge cruise ships were tethered; the smaller vessels came and went between them. The tour boat was a catamaran holding about 60 people, and after uploading all of us, we commenced on our journey. The destination was a small grouping of islands that was a protected bird sanctuary, and it would take almost two hours to get there. The unfortunate aspect of the trip was a preconceived notion of “fun” which the leader of the tour translated by playing endless music very loudly over speakers. He would stride to the front, grasping a hand mike, give a sweeping signal to another of the crew to shut off the music, and then he would commence. He started with “Good Morning!” (not unlike some preachers after the prelude and before the worship is to begin.) As usual, the first response was too feeble to placate, and on this morning and on this boat, he kept at it until people were screaming and whistling. Linda and I ended up hanging over the front of the boat, where the slap of the waves and the ocean spray protected us a bit from the on board activities. We saw at least a dozen hump-backed whales, both nearby and off to the sides. The most memorable sight was a row of dolphins leaping and diving through the ship’s wake. . . they were lined up side by side, and truly looked like a fantastic chorus line. So the day went – a mixed package of wonders to behold and a manic push for “FUN!” The beautiful sight of sea and creatures I will always remember, and the other I will forget soon and in the future, seek to avoid at all costs.

When I made the decision to make this trip, I understood the possibilities for illness while in Mexico, or from flying on the airplanes. Happily, I remained healthy throughout my stay in P.V., but upon returning to Nebraska, I began a nasty intestinal illness. The white blood count has dropped again, so it may take a bit of time for the body to gather its forces once more. The very early beginning to Lent this year (today is Ash Wednesday) will be the setting for stillness and introspection and hopeful healing. Here at Sanctuary, it will be a season that starts in true winter and concludes with the greening of the willows and grasses in the onset of lovely spring.

From Puerto Vallarta, MEXICO
If not now, when? That was the question that propelled me on into this week in the sun. I am with a good friend in the condo of another good friend. The sound of the ocean is very powerful here – so much so that I close the balcony door before attempting sleep. Yesterday evening Linda and I walked the cobblestone streets of the old part of the city until I needed a rest so we went into a nondescript Catholic church and sat down. An elderly couple (probably close to Charles and my age though the term would never cross our lips in reference to ourselves). They both knelt down right inside the door and commenced to walk slowly and painfully up the side aisle on the concrete floor. Their destination was a side altar near the front of the church. I think about them and wonder if this was a singular journey of contrition or perhaps an act of daily supplication.

We return to the cold plains and our dear ones tomorrow and I will write more then.

“in the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow. . . snow on snow.” So goes the Christina Rossetti text for a Christmas carol, and it accurately describes Sanctuary this January. We traverse the paths where the snow has packed down to make the walking easier. Not only Alphie and ourselves walk here, but deer, rabbits, raccoons, and other less obvious creatures use these same trails. With the morning temperatures hovering around zero, I bundle up in many layers while Alphie patiently waits for me. He goes from the warm house out into the elements clothed in only his coat; he runs about with the same delight as always, chasing rabbits from their hiding places under the cedars and pretending that he might catch a squirrel at some point. Though the winter weather is wearying, it does provide the setting for breathtaking sights – last night a full moon on new snow meant that as one walked across the landscape, it appeared that diamonds were flashing everywhere around, glittering and giving off little prisms of light in a manner I’d never seen before.

On January 20th, we remembered the second anniversary of the day of diagnosis of MDS and the beginning of Chemotherapy. At the time, we were hopeful that the Vidaza would extend life past the six months generally allotted for people having this disease. January 2006 was a difficult time, and the beginning of a new way of looking at life. Now, two years later, I am a different person, with an awareness of cancer and its fierce and dreadful ways that I had never considered before. There is an unimagined amount of courage walking about in the people one meets entering and leaving the oncologists offices and hospitals – most go on without comment and await with hope outcomes that may or may not be good. The ongoing blessing/curse of the treatment is the truckload of chemicals that are so fierce they must be administered with protective garments and gloves because they can eat through flesh if spilled – these are entered into the veins of the diseased and the struggle commences internally. At the beginning of things, one is innocent of knowing what all of this is like, then the reality of “side effects” and physically containing a field of battle becomes a new way of life. One dutifully checks off the list presented, “diarrhea, nausea, muscles aches, night sweats, constipation, bone pain, mouth sores, numbness of extremities, hair loss, etc., etc.,” and goes on.

I am still alive, feeling reasonably well, and so thankful for each morning I wish I could sing louder and express more largely my gratitude. The biweekly CBC’s indicate a slow downward movement of the blood counts, but to date, all is well. Today I will make some chicken soup and clean out a few more kitchen cabinet drawers. Charles has brought up purple, white and yellow orchids from the greenhouse, the fire is burning comfortably in the wood stove, and the frosty winds are kept at bay. Life is good.

Winter refuses to ease its grip on Sanctuary, and looking outdoors today is viewing it as though I am sitting in the center of a snow globe. The flakes are large and many, and the fire feels very fine. There are more birds, rabbits, and squirrels at the feeders than ever, making it a good stopping off place for the hawk which comes through frequently enough to keep all perspective lunches and dinners flitting nervously into the dense cover nearby.

A good place for me to meditate is at the ironing board, and yesterday was a good day to iron the post-laundry table napkins that had accumulated over the past months. My mother hemmed many of the huge white damask ones, and the somewhat uneven stitches around the edges always bring back memories of her, a tomboy to the bone, riding horses and working in the fields and gardens. She likely sat through winter evenings hemming and embroidering and stitching and sewing the items which would be folded into her cedar hope chest prior to marriage. Most of these spent a lifetime languishing in dresser drawers, awaiting special events, as they were being saved for “good”. She didn’t use them more than once or twice a year, and now I have them, nearly new, and present at many of our dinners with friends and family.

January flies on, and I continue to feel reasonably well without any therapy at all. Perhaps the past several years will become an historic episode in my life, and perhaps I will stay at this place in blood health for another decade. I would not mind being written up as someone who did that! Since I cannot fathom the mysteries of life, or death, or the mind of God, I give thanks for each new morning and delight in each new day always looking forward to the next and the next. . . and the next . . .

Postscript: The center photo is of my mother Agnes when she was about eighteen.