BABY BROTHER

I may have pinched him.  I won't admit to it, but I do admit to it being possible.  I mean, he sort of materialized out of nowhere and to my 4-year old sensibilities, it was like waking up to an alien invasion.  I don't think the pinch would have been malicious -- just curious.  "If I do this, what will he do?"  Oh!  Cry!  And Mommy will come running and assume I'd made a nefarious move on him.  Well, maybe I did.

I just know that, oddly, my aunt and uncle showed up on Davy Crocket night (not on Sunday afternoon, like usual) and talked all through the show with my grandma while my mom and dad were out.  The next morning Mom was still gone which was terrifying, but Dad said I had a baby brother and she was with him.  Grandma helped me make paper chains to decorate Mommy's hospital room, since she would be there for almost a week (the norm back in February 1955).

This memory came to me out of the blue on Saturday.  There are so many memories I could have chosen, but that one seemed so sweet, so innocent.  I just sat with my coffee cup and thought about that and the ensuing 60-plus years.  I wanted to go back to the beginning; to remembering the announcement that I had a baby brother.  That memory still held a lifetime of possibilities.

My little brother's lifetime ended last Friday, January 22, a month and a day before his 61st birthday.

So many families have cancer stories to tell.  They each include emotional shock and physical horror. They all include courage and perseverance.  Many end in a reprieve and a joyful appreciation of a battle won.

Some end in grief.

The cancer story in our family ended in grief.  The details aren't important but people are curious so the cursory outline is this:  My brother was diagnosed in late 2010.  He had surgery in January 2011 and a round of "just in case" chemo, since they were pretty sure the surgery "got it all".  All tests were normal until out of the blue on a routine exam in late 2014 he was told the cancer was back...and bad.  He underwent aggressive and absolutely horrific chemo regimens to no avail.  In June he elected to withdraw from treatment.  He hoped to make it through the holidays.  He did.  And then through his daughter's birthday, then his wife's in early January.

In recent weeks the decline was precipitous; comfort and reassurances were the orders of the day,  until in the wee hours of January 22, when, as my sis-in-law said when she called me:  "He slipped out during the night..."

As adults we didn't live near each other.  As families do, ours has scattered from one side of this huge country to the other -- he ended up in Georgia and me in Washington.  Hub and I traveled to visit him and his family in late August.  I am grateful for that visit even though it was hard to see him looking and behaving so differently than how he'd always been.  But that was just the disease, not his spirit.

Now I think about the brother I always knew:  a big-hearted, fun-loving, family-loving guy.  I see the twinkle in his eyes, hear his big laugh, feel the welcoming hug, and note the tenderness of a man who also shed a tear when his heart was filled with pride --  I saw this on his daughter's wedding day.  He didn't want this disease; he didn't want to be restricted from living large; he certainly didn't want to leave his family behind:  wife, children, grandchildren.

Yet, I hope he found healing and peace in his final journey.  If near-death experiences are to be believed, it seems there's a place of enormous love out there waiting for us.  What I know for certain is that those left behind hold a place of enormous love in our hearts.

As for me, I just wish I could reach out and pinch him....this time he'd laugh, I'm sure of it.

As least that's the view from here...

My brother was a stained glass hobbyist.  The last piece he created, as a gift for me of a
 quintessential Northwest scene, is something I'll treasure forever.  Isn't it beautiful?

HERE COMES THE SUN...OH NO!

You don't have to tell me this is an ugly hand.  I think I have written before about looking at the ends of my arms and seeing my dad's hands attached.  Twist of genetic fate.   Ruddy, wrinkly, and a shared  disregard for protection from sun, water, detergent...you name it.

But I should have taken a photo at the height of my recent regimen of topical chemotherapy to treat pre-cancerous lesions (keratosis).  This photo is actually one week out from discontinuing the treatment.   Keratosis has the potential of turning into a form of skin cancer -- basal cell or squamous cell.  I've had both already -- a basal cell on my nose and a squamous cell on my leg.  When I was examined recently, my dermatologist detected teeny little red discolorations on my hands and forearms.

So, not wanting to take any chances, she had me smear this creme stuff on the backs of my hands for 3-1/2 weeks.  She said the medication would cause the "bad" cells to show up as red, blotchy areas, a rash perhaps resulting in oozing and scabbing, itching and burning.  I was so looking forward to that!  Of course I went on the internet and treated myself to some truly horrifying stories and photos of what looked like burn victims with skin peeling off.

So, when my hands got some red blotches, a bit of a burning sensation that lasted, oh, about 5 minutes after applying the creme, and a few teeny tiny scabs, I figured I was at the beginning of the descent into hell I'd seen and heard described.  Then, when that didn't happen, I figured I was doing it wrong and the medicine wasn't working.  Have I said I always expect the worst?

Going back for my scheduled re-check, I was declared "good".  My case wasn't so severe and the medicine did exactly what it was supposed to do and I could discontinue it and start on a multiple times a day moisturizing routine as the rash healed.  And I was to never, ever, never again let my skin be exposed to the sun.  Thank you Scandinavian and Northern European heritage.

We have all heard that a lifetime of sun exposure causes cell damage in just about anyone.  For those of us with red hair and blue eyes, the sun really isn't our friend at all.  I never purposely "laid out" in the sun.  I was always too hot and uncomfortable to do it and saw no result other than red.  I never really tanned...not like my blonde and brunette friends who I envied for their bronze, smooth-skinned beauty.  My skin has always been marked by freckles, moles, bumps, and discolorations.  I don't look hideous, mind you, but I still literally stare at women with smooth, flawless skin and wonder what that would be like.  I still envy.

I did get a couple of blistering burns in my 20s.  One on my first trip to California when I fell asleep on an LA beach.  Another on a trip to Georgia when I just stupidly didn't think of putting sunscreen on and got the worst burn of my life.  Duh!  Those were bad.  And we lived in South Carolina for two years in my early 30s and I figured going to the beach every day had inoculated me from damage since for the first and only time in my life, daily exposure led to a teeny tan that didn't seem to burn after awhile.  Ignorance.

I'm paying for those indiscretions now.  And even after living in the Pacific Northwest for 33 years I guess enough sun comes through our infamously cloudy skies to contribute to the problem.

Plus, on the very day I was given the "all clear" on my hands, I also had an eye appointment where the optometrist detected "very early, not to worry yet" changes that could lead to cataract.  WHAT?  "Why?" I asked him.   Seems family history plays a role.  (Thanks Grandma and Mom), as does...sun exposure!  He recommended wearing sunglasses most days -- even those of "bright cloudiness" (This is what we call sunshine during Washington's rainy season -- October to July).

With my new lens prescription I got new regular glasses and new prescription sunglasses.  I have stocked up on odorless sunscreen.  (Yes, I have read recently that the chemicals in sunscreen are also harmful and there is a movement afoot to eschew those products and just let the healing warmth of the sun have its way with us, within reason. So I don't know about that.  I think I'll stick with the sunscreen.)  As for our annual trip to Hawaii...well...you'll find me under the palms, in the shade, wearing a burka.

At least, that's the view from here....©

LIFE AND DEATH

Well.  Damn.

You know it is inevitable when you have aging pets.  You see the slower pace, the stamina waning, the  resting time increasing.  And still our Toby, at 10 years old, has retained his tail-wagging, ball-chasing, paper-fetching, food-scarfing, biscuit-begging, human-loving enthusiasm for life -- melting our hearts as only a Golden Retriever can.

In late-May we noticed he was sort of coughing; sort of panting a lot for no reason; sort of hacking as if something was caught in his throat.  A vet visit in early June didn't reveal anything much on exam or x-ray.  We tried some "what not?" antibiotics and something for respiratory issues.  We thought we saw some improvement, at first.   We were sure that if it was the heat and maybe an allergy, the changing season would make it all go away.  But no, in fact, lately it was getting a bit worse again.

Last week we saw our regular vet, who recommended a specialist who could do an endoscopy (tube looking down the trachea and esophagus) and see what might be going on down there.  Couldn't see or feel a thing from the outside.  So on Wednesday we took him in for an early morning procedure, sure that a quick and easy test would reveal a fixable problem.

Ninety minutes later Hub, our two sons (who had rushed from their jobs) and I huddled around the cage where Toby lay as he slowly came out of anesthesia.  We were struggling with the news and what to do.  A tumorous mass on Toby's trachea was the "throat problem".  It was inoperable and likely fast-growing.  One option was to pre-empt what would likely be eventual suffering and choose to let him go then and there, before the anesthesia had fully worn off.

We were all in shock.  Hadn't he been perfectly fine (so far as we knew) just a couple of hours earlier?  Hadn't our lives, and his, been typical for a Wednesday morning?  What were we doing there, holding each other's shock and grief, listening to a stranger tell us our precious Toby was not going to get better?

But we are a pragmatic and compassionate family.  We will not prolong the suffering of an animal companion just to avoid our own grief.  We have been here before, with two other dogs and cats.  It is always heart-wrenching and incredibly sad.  We have always known when it was time and that it was right.

But this time....the longer Hub talked to the vet the more I could read shades of doubt on Hub's face.  One advantage of Hub's profession in medicine is his ability to discern the many layers of truth that can accompany a diagnosis.  I could read concern/skepticsm/doubt on his face as the vet talked about what he saw, what he guessed, what he was unsure of.  There were just too many unanswered questions to risk losing our Toby without another shot at saving him.

We are not inclined toward heroics.  We won't spend untold thousands of dollars on cancer treatment.  But we decided we would bring him home and try to reduce the inflammation, run another course of heavy-duty antibiotics, and pray to some canine diety that this could possibly be something else.

Are we in denial?  Sure, maybe.  But it's not time yet and it's not right yet.  Toby is still Toby, with a cough (which has actually calmed a bit in the two days since his procedure).  He ran down the stairs this morning and straight to the front door to trot out and retrieve our morning paper, as he does every morning.  He ran to the treat cabinet waiting for his reward.  He wiggled and wagged when we bent to pet him.  He lay in his doggie bed in the kitchen, his perch from which he keeps tabs on us all day.

If that thing in his throat really is a tumor, it will grow.  When it reaches a size that even just a little bit starts to interfere with his breathing, it will be time.  We will not watch him struggle or suffer.  We will know and we will do what has to be done.  For now he is loving the TLC we are showering upon him, blissfully unaware of the reason for our newly dedicated devotion to him.  We are holding our grief at bay.  We are grateful for his Golden spirit and how it has shone upon us, and will for as long as he lives.

At least, that's the view from here...©