This Isn’t Good-bye

 

POA 2016

Dear Readers,

After much deliberation, I have decided to change my posting schedule. Instead of sharing a new entry every Monday, I will now be sharing one every other Monday. For instance, my next blog post will appear on Monday, September 23rd.

I am not abandoning Of Pieridae & Perras. In fact, I think this new schedule will make the blog stronger, and more interesting. It will give me the time, and the freedom, to cultivate fresh ideas. I look forward to sharing these future posts with you!

pine

Thank you, Dear Readers, for the years of support and prayers that you’ve given to me. Your love, light, and positive thoughts have carried me through some of the toughest moments of my life. I treasure your commentary and your presence here.

I will see you, again, on the twenty-third. Until then, I hope that life treats you kindly.

 

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

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Gone Adventuring

Castle gardens

My husband and I spent the Fourth of July in the Thousand Islands—which are as beautiful as they are fabled to be. We spent the actual holiday on the St. Lawrence river, on a friend’s boat. We witnessed Boldt Castle’s fireworks from the water.

fireworks BC

On July 5th—after having brunch with a beloved friend and his significant other (both of whom I had not seen in ten years!)—my husband I played tourist. We took a one-hour boat tour of the St. Lawrence; our tour guide directing our attention to various multi-million-dollar homes built along the river. Our tour guide, with rather bad jokes, recited historical facts and the names of the present-day property owners. The boat deposited us on Heart Island, where we walked through the stunning Boldt Castle.

Boldt Castle

Instead of describing our trip in great detail, Dear Readers, I have decided to share some of the lessons that I learned during our adventure:

  1. If you’re not 100% certain of what someone’s name is, combine their name with a similar-sounding one (i.e. Laura-Lauren). As a new friend informed me, “even if I’m wrong, I’m still right”.
  2. When you least expect it, someone who knows your story and has been waiting to talk to you about their own, might appear. Listen to these people. Learn what they’re trying to teach you. Honor their story the best that you can.
  3. I’ve never noticed this before, but after the brilliance of the fireworks dissipate, the sky wears dark smudges. Both the vibrant colors, and the smudges, tell significant stories. It might even be the same story, from different perspectives.
  4. It’s okay to leave the camera and/or cellphone at home. Being in the moment, actually living it, might just be more important than digitally capturing it. And, if it turns out that you need a picture for a blog post, just steal one of your husband’s.
  5. Bad jokes, like our tour guide’s jokes, are often the best jokes.
  6. Enjoy the white lights and birch branches decorating the restaurant you visit for dinner. Appreciate these little, artistic touches.
  7. And, sometimes, when a literary agent gives you a “no” on your latest fiction manuscript, view it as a new traffic pattern—directing you to where you are needed the most—instead of as a defeat.

This coming week, Dear Readers, is a busy one—including a trip to Boston. I am hoping that my transplant doctors will remove more medications from my list. Please continue to send prayers, light, and love. They do have a positive impact.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

Space to Redecorate

My last post was about telling the truth—my truth—how I really feel, how recovery from transplant is progressing, how the timeline is not what I expected it to be.

The adage, “the truth will set you free”, is, well, true.

Once I had committed my truth to paper, once I had shared it—I felt a tremendous sense of relief, like I could breathe again. The weight on my shoulders was a bit lighter.

It—how I felt—wasn’t a secret anymore.

I didn’t have to pretend that everything was wonderful or even okay.

Perhaps the most surprising change is that telling the truth created space in my heart. The space isn’t a hole. My heart isn’t empty or missing something. There’s just more room in it for feelings other than fear and defeat. It’s only been a week, but I’ve decided to redecorate that space with beautiful moments and images.

Among those images, is the view from our front door.

Our house is surrounded, on two sides, by thick cedar hedges. A few deciduous trees have tried to grow amidst the cedar, stretching taller and taller to reach the sun’s warm rays. Wild grape vines cling to the cedars for support.

morning hedges

The only clear view we have is out the front door and windows, which face the road and an unmown field beyond it. To me, there’s something magical about fields. I could probably attribute this affinity to the French-Canadian habitant in my bones and in my ancestry. The field’s grass is tall now, shining golden at mid-day (this photo doesn’t do it justice). Milkweed is interspersed, attracting butterflies of all colors and varieties. I smile whenever I see a winged pair fluttering between the wildflowers.

Bambi, and his friends, would say that they’re “twitterpated”.

morning field

This attempt to redecorate my heart with beautiful moments reminds me of a song that I used to listen to when I was younger. In fact, after my last chemotherapy infusion (the first time that I had cancer), I blasted the song on my brother’s stereo. Even back then, my brother, a talented musician, had plenty of speakers; I put them to good use that afternoon.

The song that this view, that this moment in my life, evokes is entitled, “Beauty from Pain”. It’s by the Christian rock band, Superchick. Some of the lyrics are as thus:

                        After all this has passed

                        I still will remain.

                        After I’ve cried my last,

                        There’ll be beauty from pain.

                        Though it won’t be today

                        Someday I’ll hope again.

                        And there’ll be beauty from pain.

                        You will bring beauty from my pain.

Although the song makes me tear up, I also find it to be empowering. Hopeful. In many ways, it’s a reminder that I can keep going…that God will use this experience for good, and that my current health situation will not be my situation forever. My transformation as a person isn’t complete yet.

As the proverb on my home page reads, “just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly”. I’m still in the process of becoming a butterfly.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your continued prayers, love, and light. They are so very appreciated. We’re Boston-bound later this week for a transplant check-up and a breathing test (it’s standard procedure; I am not worried about my lungs, nor are my doctors). Please continue to send positive thoughts, though; as some of you know, Massachusetts’ traffic can be daunting. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love,

Laura

Chomping on the Bit

IMG_20170320_060836

Dear Readers,

I have been an inpatient on the cancer floor for over 3 weeks now.

I’m not sure where the time has gone…or, really, how I’ve spent it. I’m at a loss for what I’ve been doing or how I’ve been surviving this. Time seems to move both slowly and quickly here, measured not so much by the date on the calendar but by blood counts and chemotherapy drugs. It’s measured in new hardware—a chest power port and the Ommaya Reservoir in my head—and the fact that I can now strap on my own leg brace without assistance. It’s marked by meals that are starting to taste like metal. It’s spent coloring and reading three pages at a time (because the Ommaya still gives me bouts of motion sickness).

I look out the window a lot.

There’s an office across the courtyard and at this time of day, when the security lights are on but before the sun rises, I can see inside of it. There’s artwork on the wall and a vase of giant red flowers. I think I can make out the corner of a well-stocked bookshelf. It’s the sort of place that’s perfect for writing, for quiet contemplation.

Contemplation is something that I have been avoiding recently. True, being ill might be the perfect time to take stock of one’s life, reassess goals, make bright and happy plans for the future—but those hopeful thoughts have shadows.

What if the treatment stops working?

What if I never get to go home?

What if this is what the rest of my life looks like—tubes hanging out of my chest, 6 am blood draws, massive doses of steroids?

I want to live. I want to see what life is like on the other side of this…but, if I am being honest, I still don’t have the strength to endure this treatment. There are days when I think that I might have the resolve to do it—that there’s some steel left in my soul—but then there are mornings like this morning, and I know I am drained. There’s barely enough fight left in me to take a sponge bath or choke down a carton of milk. I know I still need you, Dear Readers, spoon-feeding me encouragement and strength. Prayers work. Good vibes mean something here; they permeate the hospital walls, they chase gloomy thoughts to the far corners of the room, they make the minutes pass a bit more gently. And I wouldn’t be here without them.

Without you, I wouldn’t be making progress.

The week ahead may look different for me. There’s chemo involved, of course—and heaping helpings of steroids still—but there is a small chance, Dear Readers, that the next step in the process has arrived. I may be discharged from the hospital as early as this afternoon (if treatment goes smoothly and if we can be exceptionally persuasive).

Am I excited? I am so very excited at this small measure of freedom! I will be free to leave the confines of the hospital, returning to the outpatient cancer clinic at least three times a week for both the heavy-hitting chemotherapies and injections into my Ommaya Reservoir (because, although the tumor is shrinking, it’s still there, circulating cancer blasts in my central nervous system). I will reside at the wonderful Hope Lodge—a move that will allow me to share the same room with my significant other, to have some comfort even though I am far, far away from our apartment, from Wallace the Wonderful, and from Alderaan.

Please pray that this change happens, Dear Readers. I will miss my inpatient care team, but in many ways, since this possibility was first mentioned, I feel as though I have become more and more horse-like, chomping on my bit. It’s as if the windows that don’t open now have drafts and I can smell the promise of spring. I need more of it. Please continue to send well-wishes. Please keep us in your thoughts.

You are carrying us through this process—one step at a time.

 

With Love, Laura