I’ve only been in a delivery room once, that being the September morning I was born. I suppose I was crying with my first breath, if the TV dramas from that time period are to be believed. A doctor or nurse probably gave me a little push and off I went, crying and wailing, all the while sucking in the first breaths that were to become my life.
Our Baby Blue
This past Monday came like that. I woke up and looked at the date, February 17, a good sign. Seventeen had always been one of my favorite numbers, so I arose from my bed confident that it would be a good day to get the pathology report from my doctor. The news would be good, and after a couple of short treatments “just to be sure,” I would be on my way. Healthy again, ready to jump right back into my favorite activities and head to Alabama to help out with family matters. I would dust that cancer right off, thankful I had dodged the bullet and equipped with a heightened sense of compassion and empathy for people who had different outcomes. Still, as I dressed for the day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, seventeen would disappoint. Little did I know the minefield I would run before nightfall. Little did I know that sometimes it is the minefield that makes us feel most alive.
It was a little after eight a.m. when the first call came. B was in the kitchen fixing her breakfast and lunch for the day and I was sitting on the couch, trying to figure out how to put on my socks. The caller ID said it was our kennel. We’d boarded our dog Blue while I was recovering from the full abdominal surgery required to remove a large cyst from my ovary. Our Blue could be rambunctious, and we couldn’t risk her bumping or jumping directly on my surgery incision. Blue was also a troubled soul, so when I saw the kennel name on my phone, I instantly thought she had gotten into a fight and we would be asked to come pick her up. If only. In a calm and compassionate voice, the kennel owner told me that Blue had suddenly passed away overnight. The wailing that surged out of my body came from the center of my chest, the place where the soul resides.
B took the phone from me, still unaware of the source of my sudden pain. Her tears came as she heard the news, and then she went into her usual crisis mode. “We have to go get her,” she said through her tears. Then she helped me put on my socks and shoes and we walked out the door. With minds vacant of thought, numb to our cores, we drove to pick up our girl. She was still warm and soft when we got there, and for that we were thankful. We were able to pet her soft ears and bury our faces in her thick fur one more time. We drove away with our baby Blue, our minds floating in a sea of sorrow.
The doctor’s call came later that afternoon. In the space of a week I had gone from the relatively benign diagnosis of a pesky, giant cyst that would have to be taken out with abdominal surgery – the obligatory hysterectomy thrown in while they were in there – to ovarian cancer, likely stage one, though the pathology report would be required to confirm. For over a week, and through the post-surgery brain fog, I had waited for the pathology and now it was here. Maybe this time seventeen would come through. It was not to be. Stage two, the doctor said, and there it was, the words I had dreaded to hear. Stage two. I would not be dusting off cancer as if it had been nothing more than a few weeks inconvenience. The chemo would be more than originally anticipated, and though the prognosis was really good, I knew there were no guarantees. Much of the report the doctor gave me was positive, very positive in fact, yet the call felt like another gut punch, another explosion in the minefield.
The thing is, February 17th wasn’t the day I thought it would be, yet it may have been the day I most needed. Since my retirement a year ago from a thirty-year career with the US Forest Service I felt like I had been standing on the sidelines, the athlete now out of eligibility, just watching the game other people played. I’d followed through on the things that factored into my retirement decision. I’d traveled to Alabama to help my sister with our aging parents, I’d volunteered, worked a little, went to ballgames without the constraints of a work schedule, and started writing another novel. Yet, I still felt like I was standing on the sidelines, watching a game being played by other people. February 17 changed that. Crying and reeling from the gut punches life hit me with that day, I was sidelined no more. I was back in the game, fully alive, fully engaged, fully aware, sucking in the breaths of my new life, ready to navigate the minefields, ready to savor the fields of clover, off the sidelines, back in the game.
Blue calls a mis-deal