And after 21...

Dr. Timothy D. Moore (okay, so he's a little older now
and the hair has gone white but this captures his great smile)

Before yesterday, I had been tossing around a bunch of topics about which to write, ranging from food to community to moving through the grayness I seem to have been wading in this fall to it being Biscotti Season again. But then I was told some news that made me catch my breath and I woke up this morning thinking I have to write about this.

Yesterday we saw my oncologist of 21 years, Tim, for what has become a pretty routine every-three-months check. After coming into the examination room and asking me how I was doing (fine), he sat down, pulled his stool up close, looked me in the eye, and said, "You have heard, haven't you?" 

Heard what?

Tim is retiring at the end of January. And I hadn't heard because at my last appointment in September, he was unexpectedly rounding in the hospitals, so he was not there to tell me himself. 

Tim? Retiring? What?

While I knew that his retirement was possibly/maybe/probably on the horizon, it is one thing to know this "may be happening" in the future and quite another matter to hear a date definite said out loud. He said there were two hematologists at Zangmeister that he was passing his patients to and that he made the choice for one who he thought would be a perfect fit for me. After talking about her background and experience, he added, "The first thing she will say when she meets you is "You've had myeloma since 2004? What?!"

Don't get me wrong. I am very happy for Tim and his wife, who I have met several times. Over the years, our talks have ranged far and wide; I know of his family and travels and I am thrilled that they can now spend more time seeing and traveling and being with friends and family. I totally get moving on from a lifetime of practice. 

But all the same I was shellshocked. Tim is turning 71 this spring. I never expected to outlive his practice and I am so grateful I have. But dang!

Warren had the best response when we talked about it later yesterday and again this morning. He pointed out that, for me, this is an ideal time for Tim to bow out. I have not had treatment since August 2023 and my myeloma has stayed flatlined since then. That is way better than me being in the middle of yet another course of treatment or worse. And Warren is right.

I meet my new oncologist in March. And I know I will continue to cross paths with Tim from time to time. "You know how to reach me," he said, and he meant it.

Tim and I have had 21 years and one month together. I still remember what he said the very first time I met him: "Don't look at statistics for myeloma. Every patient is different." (The survival statistics for myeloma in late 2004 were bleak, to put it mildly.) I also remember what I said to him that first appointment when he told me just from my blood tests alone he knew I had myeloma: "F*CK," immediately apologizing to him because I didn't know him well enough to talk like that in front of him.  I recounted that story yesterday and we both laughed.

In 21 years, Tim has been there leading me through treatments, directing my oncology care—everything. He himself did my first few bone marrow biopsies, marking the insertion spot by pressing down hard on my hip with his medical school ring to imprint my skin. Tim is the one who said to me, over a decade ago, that he wanted me to go to Mayo Clinic for a second opinion, because he was stumped at what he was seeing in me versus seeing in the labs and wanted me to see a specialist. I am still grateful he had the intelligence and the humility to do that. 

We finished the appointment talking about everything from Mayo Clinic to Class B RVs to Beethoven to how much myeloma treatment has changed since Tim and I first met. When all three of us stood up to say goodbye, Tim and I gave each other a tight hug. 

Back in May 2022, I wrote about The End of Your Life Book Club, Will Schwalbe's memoir about the books he and his mother read and shared together in the last months of her life as she dealt with the cancer that was killing her. Schwabe wrote about the hug his mother's oncologist gave his mother at the next to the last appointment, knowing the death was not far away. I wrote then that I had not a farewell hug from Tim yet, but that day was out there.

Well, that day was indeed out there and now I have had that farewell hug from Tim. But for a most wonderful reason. And for that I am more than grateful.

Thank you, dear Timothy, my doctor, my oncologist, my friend. It's been a great trip. 

They Do Indeed Grow Up

Ramona (far right) as Mole in "Wind in the Willows" at the end of June.  

Back in July, Warren and I flew west to spend time with my sons and their families. It was the first time we had been out in Portland and Vancouver (WA, not BC) since 2021 and, with the exception of Ben, who flew back in 2023 when I was hospitalized and again in 2024 with Orlando, I had not seen the Pacific NW contingent for four long years.

And that was when the reality of Ramona, who I last saw as a little girl, hit me: she grew up.

Oh, don't get me wrong. At just 13, Ramona is a teenager, not an adult. But what I mean by "she grew up" is that she was no longer the elementary-age girl who talked and giggled and shared Lego creations and her favorite books (MS level, for the most part) and was, basically, still a little girl back in 2021. And even though I had seen photos over the years, and talked on the phone occasionally with Ramona, it had not sunk in that she was no longer that little girl. 

Nope, nope, nope. Ramona grew up. So much so, in fact, that it took the two of us a few days to figure out how to talk with one another. We finally found a topic that worked for us both: writing, especially writing poetry. She is passionate about the creative writing track at her school, Vancouver School of Arts and Academics, and it was a joy to talk with my new-to-me granddaughter about writing.

Yesterday that same reality that children grow up hit me in the face again. We attended a reception for longtime friend Marilyn, who just turned 91. Marilyn was Ben's preschool teacher for 9 months when we first moved back to Delaware; my connections with her go back even farther (her oldest child was a year behind me in high school). We arrived, signed in, stood looking at the people in attendance, talked with a few, including one whose son had run around with my Sam during their middle school ages ("How did our boys get to be 35, April? How?") and then a young man walked up to me to welcome me and introduce himself. 

"I'm Marilyn's grandson, Beau."

Oh. My. God. Beau. 

"Beau! I'm sorry. I last saw you when you were...maybe three?" I held out my right hand and lowered it from his probable height close to six feet down to nearer my knees, bending my knees to move my hand down. 

Beau smiled and bent his knees down too. Then we both stood back up, laughing a bit.

"Yeah, I know. I grew up."

He and I then had a wonderful short conversation about who he has become, what his life holds, and such. He has a deep commitment to family and taking care of people (a father with health issues, his aging grandmother, a job that involves assisting someone with dementia). I told him that I admired his values and then said, "Let me speak as an elder to you, which I am." We both grinned. "Save some time for yourself."

Beau lit up. "I know! I have learned that when I don't, I get worn down and sad."

We then talked about where Warren and I lived (because I told him that Marilyn and I mail postcards to one another, even though we live about five blocks apart) and he lit up again. "I love your neighborhood," he said, adding that he really loved the diversity of homes in our part of town, then making a disparaging comment about homes in new subdivisions looking all the same.

I cracked up. Telling him that I was a retired lawyer who did a lot of zoning and development law in my day, I explained to him that when developers submit their plans, they spell out in the plan the pattern of facades on the houses, typically either a 3-house or 4-house pattern: a stone veneer facade, a brick veneer facade, a clapboard facade, repeat. 

"Next time you are thinking about it, Beau, drive through one of our local subdivisions and count the facade types. You'll see the pattern really fast." 

He grinned and nodded his head. "I will, I will!"

We finished talking, Warren and I talked with a few others, including the Ancient Birthday Girl (Marilyn's term, not mine), we sampled some of the pies made by a friend (the key lime was superb), and then left. As we walked away, I reflected on meeting and talking with Beau, then thought back to July and Ramona.

Children grow up. Indeed they do.

And that is a thing of wonder.

Indeed It Came

While not a major storm, it did indeed snow last night. Let's just say I am glad we got the garden down. This was the view out our bedroom window this morning:

It is unlikely we"ll be eating outside until, oh, maybe next spring:

Table for one? Or two? Or...none? 

Winter poses its own issues: colder (need more heat inside) and slipperier (need more caution outside) being two of the top ones. It was winter when I took the spectacular fall that left my wrist in pieces, after all. 

But, for me, winter's gifts outweigh its disadvantages. They always have. I savor the quiet outside (snow is a great silencer). I relish the early evenings and the warmth of our living room: literally and figuratively. 

I love winter. 

Yes, I know we are still about six weeks from the official start of winter. Here in central Ohio, after the next few wintry days, we are supposed to have weather back in the 50s, proper fall temperatures. Many trees are still holding onto their leaves, although certainly this snow interlude will hurry that process along. I will deeply appreciate those autumn days when they return, trust me. 

But for now, I am savoring the touch of snow and the hint of what is to come:

It's all good. 

This Year's Gardens: Last Chapter

The garden is down.

The garden is officially down and 2025 outside is done, done, done.

We have had a few "light frost" nights and for those we brought some potted plants in from the deck and covered the larger planters and the vegetables. But Sunday is bringing rain changing to snow and temperatures down in the 20s.

The vegetable garden covered

No amount of covering is going to stave off temperatures in the 20s. In short, the 2025 gardening season is over. 

I tackled taking down the vegetable garden.  We had already taken down the Hej Garden back in August, so at least that was out of the way. Given all of the demands on our schedules this fall, and given my currently working through depression, I thought throwing myself into some basic outdoor work would do me good. And it did. I worked an hour and a half on Thursday and two hours on Friday, with good results both emotionally and garden-wise.

I started on the wild jungle of tomatoes. Originally, I had planted three (3!) larger tomato plants and four (4!) cherry tomato plants. Easy, right? Way less than in recent years, right? What I did not count on was all the "other" factors that impacted the garden: my hospitalization in June, for example. Nor did I expect the cherry tomatoes to go hog wild and grow up and over and around EVERYTHING. The three larger tomatoes, in the front row, became lost in the cherry vines. Even with both careful pruning and wholesale hacking on my part, the cherry tomatoes took over everything they could, going all the way over to the garage wall in their exuberance. So I knew before starting that I had a bit of a chore ahead of me.

"A bit of a chore." There's an understatement.

I also knew before wading into the garden that there were still cherries ripening and coming on, so I took along our dishpan to put them in. It filled up:

I also knew this project would generate a lot of yard waste and I was not mistaken on that front either:

The first of two containers

At the end of the Thursday afternoon session, I figured I was about halfway through the tomatoes with the peppers and basil yet to go. I had been at Justice Bus from 9:00 to 2:00 that day already, so I was pleased I had enough energy to get even that far. I also knew I wanted to finish it off on Friday, and so set my sights on getting an early start.

At 7:45 the next morning, I went outside and surveyed the scene. What if I start on the peppers first? I had planted 14 plants back in May, 13 of which were still intact. (The 14th? I had stepped on it way back in the late spring.)  As I had with the first attack on the tomatoes, I made sure to pick all the remaining peppers from the vines. Let's just say there were a lot. A. LOT.

Peppers! 

Plant by plant, I picked and pulled. The stakes piled up. So did the yard waste.

But I finished the peppers and yanked the basil. That left the remaining tomatoes. Again, I gathered many of them, red and green. (An aside: Why the green ones? Two reasons: (1) some of them will ripen inside, and (2) I may (may) make green tomato relish again this year. Maybe. We'll see.)

There were a lot of tomato vines: 

What made me smile the most was coming across several vines still putting out blossoms, letting me know that hope springs eternal even in a tomato plant:

Blossoms on the tomato vines

By the end of the two hours, I had completely filled both yard waste containers. In fact, there was some plants, mostly the basil (which died earlier, even covered; basil does NOT like cold temperatures) that I will go out later today and bag up. While I out there working, I took down the wind chimes and, of course, brought in the ceramics from Ben and Sam long long ago.

The chimes on the deck waiting to go inside

The ceramics ready to move inside

(In case you are wondering or remembering, the pottery fish that got broken back in June after a storm has been gracing our kitchen table ever since.) 

Next week, after the initial cold blast is over, I will go back out and rake things around. The zinnias and the agastache I will leave until the early spring, but everything else is gone gone gone.

All that is left to bag up

Over the next few days, I will look through my gardening notebook and make some notes following up from my earlier decision to rein in the gardens and just do the kitchen garden in 2026. Things to think about, things to remember, things to swirl around in my mind. I have peppers to cut and freeze. I have to make a decision about the green tomato relish. 

And I will enjoy every last bite of every last ripe tomato, grateful for the very last tomatoes until next summer's garden. 

P.S. After I wrote the above words, I went outside and finished bagging the vines, basil, and miscellaneous stalks, filling a yard waste bag. I then brought in the remaining gardening and summer items on and around our deck: the watering can, two stray pots, the deck chimes (not to be confused with the wind chimes), and such. I carried them down to the basement, making multiple trips. There are four pots of flowers we are wintering over inside, so I made room for those and brought them in; the other four pots (two LARGE deck planters make up half of that) will stay outside and end their season in a few days. The bees are gone; I have not seen one, despite the sunshine or warmth of the day, for over a week. As I type these words, Warren just mowed the backyard one last time. 

Time for winter.

The Moon, The Moon

Photo by Abdullah Ahmad on Unsplash

 

Warren and I went to see Macbeth last night, which the OWU Theater Department was staging. Macbeth is my very favorite work by Shakespeare and I was excited to see it performed live.

Yesterday was a rainy, cold, gray day. Before going to the play, we ran an errand nearby, getting in and out of the car quickly. Clouds were scudding overhead and both of us, looking up into the darkening sky, said, almost simultaneously, "There's the moon." 

And indeed, there was the moon, well on its way to a full moon next week, hazy behind a scrim of clouds. 

As Warren knows well, I am drawn to the moon: not as an astronomical feature, not as an astrological predictor, but just because it is the moon. I have been tracking it in the sky for decades, seeing it in its different phases from various points from the east coast to the west coast, but mostly from my own backyard.

I love the moon.

Shakespeare noted the moon more than once in his works. The one most quoted is when Romeo prepares to swear his love to Juliet by the moon and she admonishes him:

O, swear not by the moon, th'inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb,                      

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

October's full moon was a super moon, rising even larger and brighter than a regular full moon, because the moon was closer to the earth than usual. In writing to my friend Tani, I referenced Juliet's lines and said that if ever there was a teenager's naive statement, it was hers. The moon inconstant? The one thing the moon is, "in her circled orb," is very constant. Yes, the moon changes its phases, but it is always, always constant.

It is not coincidence that both the Jewish and the Muslim calendar are lunar calendars. 

As we exited the play last night, the night was darker and colder. (The theater was cold too, so both of us were chilled even before we opened the exit door.)  We were parked within a half block of the theater, and the walk was cold, wet, and mercifully short. All the same, before we got into the car, we both looked up and once again saw the moon, misty and hazy, but all the same there.

In Act 2, Scene 1 of Macbeth, Fleance says to his father, "The moon is down." 

It wasn't last night. 

It's a Good Life

In the tangle, still some tomatoes! 

"It's a good life," my dad said as he and I parted today, Dad to go up to lunch in the dining room and me to walk home.

I about fell over when he said that, but recovered quickly enough to say, "It is indeed. See you soon." My surprise was that I had never ever heard him say anything even remotely resembling that thought. But he clearly meant it and today I needed to hear that message. 

My morning emotions started out grayer than they have been as of late (and they have not been bright and sunny in recent days). How gray? I got ready to walk out the door to run an early morning errand, then came to a standstill in our living room. I took the car keys out of my pocket and took off my jacket. I plopped down on a chair and called up to Warren, "I'm not going to Kroger." "Are you okay?" "No." Warren came down the stairs with concern. "What's wrong?" "I feel like I'm ready to cry."

No specific reason. I was just ready to cry.

I did not cry. I "pulled myself together" and did some small chores: collecting all the fans we had used during the summer (five total) to ready them for their winter hiatus in our attic; collecting, folding, and putting away the fabric we use on our east and west windows in the summer to cut down on the direct heat from the bright sun (nine pieces total). Then I walked to Dad's apartment and spent time with him until, as I got ready to leave, he surprised me with his comment about this being a good life.

I thought about my dad's words as I walked home. The sun was out, the temperature was cool, fall is definitely setting in.  Just being outside in the sun lifted some of the grayness. I ran into one of my long-ago DI kids, now on the edge of 40 (40? How did these kids get to be 40?) and we hugged one another. "Tell Ben I said hi," she said as we parted.

Warren was getting ready to leave for class when I walked through the door, so talk was brief and most of it would have to wait. I did manage to tell him what Dad said about it being a good life, and Warren smiled. "Sure is."

After Warren drove off, I could feel the grayness starting to gather again. So after a quick lunch, I focused on concrete tasks, some inside and some outside. After starting a load of towels, I retreated to the kitchen garden and spent time in bee therapy. There were not a lot of bees in the basil today, but the ones that were there were hard at work. As for me, after sitting on the bee stool for a bit, I turned to my own outside tasks. Okay, I was not collecting pollen, but I did trim and clear out overgrown tomato vines, as well as repair the bee stool (it had come into our life broken). Will the duct tape hold it until the bees are gone for the season? Probably.

Somewhere between cutting and cleaning out many of the overgrown tomato vines (and finding more tomatoes within) and folding the now dry laundry, the grayness lifted a little more.

It is late in the evening as I type these words. Other obligations and events filled the rest of the afternoon and early evening. I have stayed steady. The big event was a community gathering to discuss food, food security, food insecurity. It was an emotional discussion for those of us in the room (some representing local non-profits, others there because of their own passion and commitment to help others). It is a topic close to my heart. In many ways, it was the absolute best way for me to spend an hour, talking with others (we broke into groups) about how this community (our city, Delaware) both sees and does not see the hurdles and issues for making sure all have access to food and, in a larger sense, all are welcome at the table. Warren was there beside me, adding his observations about the greater community and its needs. I saw familiar faces, I saw new faces, and it was a welcome and needed affirmation that giving my time and heart to this community is what sustains and feeds me.

Afterwards, we ran that Kroger errand I had set aside this morning. It was cold, it was rainy, we were both chilled and exhausted. "Turn into KFC," I said. "We need something warm and ready to eat." [Note: Yes, KFC is a guilty pleasure that we very occasionally indulge in.] Once home, we hurried into the house, turned on the furnace for the first time this fall, and ate our supper quietly, grateful for the heat, the warm food, and, most important, one another.

It IS a good life. 

Bee Therapy

My basil patch in full flower

I have been writing a lot (A. Lot.) lately about focusing on small things to center myself. There is a lot of noise and overload on many fronts, and some large family matters (my side of the family) that have really hit hard and, in my case, triggered my PTSD. Warren has been giving me support and comfort; we earlier this month passed our 17th wedding anniversary and I am daily aware of how much light and joy and love and strength he gives me. 

Even without a wedding anniversary, I am so grateful for what he has given me; he lifts me up. All the same, and this is one of those times, I sometimes stumble and fall back into those outside matters. So I think I caught him a little off guard yesterday when I said that I had thought of maybe going back to therapy.

After saying that out loud (as things sound different when spoken outside of our head), I thought back to the things I had learned 22+ years ago with my brilliant therapist. Can I do this, "this" being work through where I am, using those lessons? 

Later that afternoon, as I turned over the therapy question in my mind, I said to Warren, "I have an idea of how to move forward." 

Warren looked at me. "And...?"

"Bee therapy."

Bee therapy? Yes, bee therapy. 

I always let the basil patch go to flower in the fall and this year is no exception. As we move deeper into the fall, the bees take over the basil flowers.

So after announcing that, I grabbed a garden stool (thank you, Amanda!) and set it in the garden in the recently cleared lettuce patch, which is right next to the basil patch. I then sat down and waited.

But not for long. 

A Sunday bee

At this time of year, in the basil patch, bees fly in, bees fly out. Bees burrow their heads deep in the basil flowers then pull out, go sideways or up or down to another. Repeat.

I repeated therapy again today, albeit early afternoon when the sun was on the patch and it was considerably warmer. Yesterday in the cooling air there were perhaps a half-dozen bees. Today, in the full sun, I counted over two dozen. 

A bee today

Bee therapy.

As I watch them and their singular focus, my mind slows down. My body relaxes. Bit by bit, I find myself letting go of the emotional bundle I am holding.

I hope we are in for a very long autumn. As I mentioned in my last post, we just had our first frost. It was a light one, but frost is frost. I know at some point the bees will disappear for the year. Some of them are already showing their lifespan is growing short.  I even petted a bee yesterday. It had landed on a stem before I got out there and was clearly too tired and worn to lift off. I touched it very gently and it wiggled, slowly, one antenna, but did not move.  

Bee therapy. Who knew? 

"I'm ready for my closeup..."