The Stars Overhead

 

 *Milky Way image courtesy of NOVA (PBS). 

Six years ago today, at about 2:45 in the afternoon, I learned I had myeloma, which is an incurable bone marrow cancer. My amazing friend and doctor, Pat Hubbell, had been honing in on what was "wrong" with me, and she called to say that, from everything she saw, the diagnosis had just changed from "might be" cancer to "it looks definitely like" myeloma.

I was sitting in my law office when we talked. I remember watching with a sort of shocked detachment my hands shake as I hung up the phone.

My life changed irrevocably in one phone call. It has never been the same.

I've blogged some about how cancer changed my life and what it's like to live with one that will never go away. Just look at the labels on the right: "cancer" pops up 20 times (and that's just all the times I remembered to tag it).

 

Ham and eggs, salt and pepper, April and myeloma.

I continue to be grateful and amazed for the support and care my friends and the community immediately, unhesitatingly, and freely gave me from that moment on, starting with Pat. Family, friends, and even strangers stepped forward, wrapped their arms around me, and never let go.

Six years ago today, I wasn't sure I would even make it to the first anniversary, let alone any more beyond that. It has been an amazing journey.

I just today started corresponding electronically with a young woman who just a few weeks ago received a diagnosis of Hodgkin's lymphoma, stage 2. We were connected through a mutual friend. In my reply to her initial email to me, I told her: You are at the start of a long journey, Loise. I'm here on the path too. We can travel it together.

Thank you to all of you who have kept me company on my own travels in Cancerland. Whether you dropped off a meal, sent me a note, gave me a hug, made me laugh, slipped me some money, commented in support on my blog, or even went so far as to marry me (thank you, dear Warren), you are the stars in the heavens overhead, lighting the path over which I still journey.

One Year

Last night, Warren and I raced to our downtown movie theatre to watch "Julie and Julia," which I had wanted to see and which I enjoyed immensely. Our last minute movie going was a small celebration sandwiched in between a busy weekend and a busy week, because tonight there is a Symphony committee meeting that we both are attending and any celebration tonight will be of a silent nature while we share homemade apple pie and ideas and thoughts sitting around a big table.

Our reason to celebrate?

Just one year ago today Warren and I were married on an early fall evening at an outdoor setting here in town, with two of our four children, our "almost daughter" Amy, and my parents in attendance.

My boss, who is a Municipal Court judge, presided. The groom and his son arrived more than fashionably late, so much so that I wondered whether Warren had gotten cold feet at the last minute.

Lucky for me, he had not. Son David had a last minute fashion crisis that resulted in switching from jeans to slacks (his dad's), borrowing a belt, then punching a new hole to make the belt work.

The ceremony, once the other key player had arrived, was short and, as they say, sweet. Everyone was smiling, starting with the judge. Afterwards, we fed the three kids, then drove David back to Akron, where he attends college.


Our one splurge for an otherwise almost free wedding (the license being our only expense) was that we had our wedding rings made by a local artist, Sharon Abood. Before we met with her, Warren and I talked about what we wanted in rings. We were in agreement about plain bands, but differed on materials. I want a brass ring, like a carousel ring you grab for another ride. (I haven't written yet about carousels, but trust me, that post is coming one of these days.) Warren wanted one of bronze, as cymbals and gongs are made from bronze.

Sharon is very warm and funny and we had a lot of fun working with her. She listened to our ideas about materials and then suggested a compromise: make the ring of "new bronze," which is a brass/copper mix. It seemed a fitting blend of our two lives.

Sharon is also a romantic. As we talked, she suggested a silver lining, to prevent allergic reactions to the metals. Sharon then smiled and said that perhaps we could consider the silver "symbolic of your wedding - that it is a silver lining in your lives."

It certainly has been. And continues to be.

Always.