Priming the Pump

My friend Leslie, who is helping me with my writing, says that often times the first paragraph of a piece of work is the “pump primer.” Here I go.I woke up this morning and had a good long cry. I tried to remember what I’ve been taught about crying well, it helps to breathe deeply. It felt like the release of a lot of pent up emotion, the windows were just filling with sun in the heat of this July. On Wednesday when this heat wave started we met with Dr. Meyer. She is a little younger than me (how did that happen?) and we’ve worked together for the last three and a half years. She is bright, kind and patient, she has a sense of humor. You can tell she is someone who works hard to do a good job. Dr. Lies (an expert in the field of CLL) was my “second opinion” after being diagnosed and he saw me through my transplant.  I sort of accidentally called him an “asshole!” that day in his office when he told me he was leaving for the Mayo clinic. I couldn't believe that he would leave me.  "How Could You?,"  came out "Asshole."  Even so, he did a wonderful job connecting me to Dr. Meyers.At the meeting two days ago we spent some time talking about “the plan.” There is more than one option as far as moving forward to keep the Leukemia in check. The immune system given to me by that wonderful women somewhere in the world (who doesn’t know a single thing about me), put up a good fight. There was talk of adding more of her remarkable, generous immune system -- the fact that a stranger let me have her cells to help me live reminds me, up close and personal in these sometimes dark ages -- of the beautiful side of us humans. So many people for so many reasons are so good. No, really.Dr. Meyer has recommended that we search the banks for another donor and attempt a second stem cell transplant. As you can imagine, this conjures up feelings of sensationally serious Eke! We had no idea this is where we’d be this summer, not in the last legs of a stem cell marathon but in the front half of what appears to be a 100 mile ride further down the road of the unknown. This morning a good friend called and, as always, genuinely wanted to know how I’m doing and so I told him the news and waited in the pregnant pause preceding his reply.“So, are you up to it?” he asked and I felt like I was talking to a trusted coach with the key question and that’s when I hung up and had a big, fat cry. At the end of my cry I asked out loud for some “help.” I got out of bed grabbed the dogs and walked to the park. One Cancer Land book (there are so many) called “Picking up the Pieces – Moving forward after Surviving Cancer” says “a brief practice of attentive walking combines physical exercise with sensory input and personal awareness. It will help you regain a foothold in your life.” I’ll take what I can get.I walked to the park overlooking Portland and felt lucky to live here, my hometown. I looked out at this royal looking tree that sits in the center of the park from the top of the hill as the dogs ran around in a celebratory mood. Nurse Jana suggests that the cancer experience gives a change in perspective, often a positive one. Easier to appreciate the little things in the times of knowing, so certainly, that it won’t last forever. And indeed this morning the world looked so beautiful, the green grass and leaves on trees and the light of the sun pushing its way into the day. I know this sounds sort of hokey but what I’m trying to remember is that in those moments of genuine sadness at a precarious, unknown place- there is a simmering wave of gladness to even exist at all.Written 7/12/11