GWEN’S JOURNEY
One month before his diagnosis, Mark made a valentine pizza for me.
“You Have Cancer” – March 2007
“Go ahead.”
Those two words from Mark were all I needed to hear to start the ball rolling on our long-awaited kitchen remodel. After years of waiting and wishing, I finally placed the order for new cabinets and told our kitchen designer which countertop we wanted. At that moment, the most pressing concern in my mind was deciding which sink and faucet to order.
Excitement was in the air!
Over the years, windows, doors, a furnace, a water heater, and a roof have been replaced in this house. Ho hum. But remodeling a room—especially a kitchen—was life-changing, and I couldn’t wait to share the kitchen transformation with Mark.
As I skipped into Mark’s home office, he was just finishing up a phone call from Dr. Saunders. I stopped in my tracks. To this very day, the devastated yet stoic expression on Mark’s face is painfully etched into my memory. It was a horrified, stunned look I wish to forever forget.
“Gwen, it’s not good. I have cancer.”
Mark held me a long, long time as my tears flowed. I was shocked, confused, and very afraid.
“How could you have cancer when so many tests were negative?”
“I’ve never heard of the ampulla. What is it?”
“If only it was your gall bladder.”
“How do we tell the boys?”
Mark insisted that we keep the new cabinets I had ordered, but any thoughts of a new kitchen became unbearable. A day that had begun with such high hopes ended with our family’s worst nightmare.
Mark with sons James and Lane.
Waiting To Exhale – April 2007
Mark’s surgeon entered the family waiting room to briefly describe the procedure and estimated timeline. He also reassured us that he would take good care of Mark. Dr. Sinanan left, only to return with an armload of blankets and pillows. This compassionate gesture could have been easily assigned to any staff member, but the doctor took this responsibility upon himself. He was caring for us as well as Mark, but it was a sure sign that we were in for a long night.
As midnight approached, Mark’s mother, my sister, and I became the sole occupants of the hushed, dimly lit waiting room. Throughout the wee hours of the morning, the three of us waited for the communal waiting room telephone to periodically ring. When we answered, a calm voice on the other end provided surgical updates on Mark’s status and answered our questions.
We were exhausted but couldn’t sleep. Our restless worries kept us on edge. This risky surgery that routinely takes six hours took much, much longer. At last, Dr. Sinanan appeared. I grabbed my pen and pad, ready to take notes. I knew Mark would want all of the details.
The doctor told us that he had successfully removed and resected all of the affected pieces and parts in Mark’s digestive tract. Then he dropped the bombshell. It turned out that the ampulla cancer was far more widespread than they originally thought. It had spread into Mark’s pancreas. As a result, 40 percent of the pancreas was very hard and had to be removed. “Like wood,” explained the surgeon. He also had to remove the gall bladder and a one foot section of Mark’s colon. The rebuilding process involved restructuring the biliary tract and the stomach.
Fear gripped me as I looked down at my notes. Our family was all too familiar with pancreatic cancer—it was ruthless and deadly. We had watched the brutal suffering of loved ones who courageously battled the disease. If you had to have cancer, this is the last type of cancer you would want.
My voice shook as I asked the surgeon, “What happens now?” Dr. Sinanan said that he thought he had removed 99 percent of the cancer. Chemotherapy would target the last one percent.
The next questions were more difficult. “We have two sons. How do I tell them this is happening to their father? What words do I use?”
“I’m so sorry,” he replied softly. It was the one answer Dr. Sinanan didn’t have.
When he had left the room, three shattered women remained. Their shocked and frightened expressions mirrored my own. As we embraced, I thought of the heartbreaking tasks that lay ahead. I would need to give Mark and our sons the bad news.
At University of Washington Husky Stadium
Ziggy – November 2009
“You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.”
~ Tom Wilson, creator of “Ziggy” comic strip
Thanks to the thoughtfulness of my parents, Mark and I attended another University of Washington football game. Believe it or not, spending an afternoon or evening in Husky Stadium with Mark ranks as one of my top dates.
It’s a time warp chamber that conjures up warm memories of my yesteryears. It’s a magical arena complete with a cozy, place-setting of a field show for him and a scenic backdrop for me. It’s a shining opportunity to be fully-present in the day…with my always-and-forever husband.
Our outing routinely begins hours before kick-off with Mark’s pre-game warm-ups:
.methodically packing our stadium bag with hats, gloves, binoculars, and yummies for yours truly
.checking the game tickets secured in his pocket
.double and triple-checking the game tickets secured in his pocket
.transforming into Professor Plum by dressing in purple from head to toe
.riding the team-appreciation express shuttle to the stadium
Before departure of the park/ride lot, the local attendant addressed the few University of Oregon fans on board, “For those of you wearing the ‘other color’, thank you for being our guests. Without you, we wouldn’t be able to win.” Husky fans with sky-high hopes applauded.
Once we arrived at the bustling stadium and found our choice seats, Mark scanned the field.He strategically explained what our QB Jake Locker offense and Coach Nick Holt defense must accomplish to win this important rivalry game. He also included names of key University of Oregon players to track. I grinned and nodded while hearing
his game plan,
his words,
but mostly, I embraced the excited tone in his voice or just the sound of his voice.
By the end of the third quarter, it was apparent that our youthful Huskies lost their momentum. Fans moaned/groaned and groaned/moaned with each botched play.
Ouch, it was another UW loss to the Ducks. Final score: 19 – 43
Since parenthood began 20-plus years ago, Mark has been able to easily transition and shrug off any Seattle sports team’s loss. This Coach “Sark” game of growing pains was no exception.
Of course, our yearnings were heard with every cheer for a win but in the much bigger picture of life and love…“19 – 43” was only a g-a-m-e.
By the time we returned to a somber busload of home team fans, Mark and I had already emotionally moved-on from the disappointment of the thorny loss and silently rejoiced in the rosy-ness of yet another cherished date – the gift of more time together.
Every day is a Thanksgiving.
Gwen's mom and dad
Corn on the Cob – April 2010
Now I lay me…
Bedtime rituals – we all have personalized routines to end the busy-ness of the day and to welcome the peacefulness of each night.
…down to sleep.
The warmth and blanketed security of my comforter at home needed a helping hand. When Mark was hospitalized overnight after overnight, sleep did not come easily if it came to me at all.
Dreamy distractions were activated to set aside the pancreatitis events of his hospital 4th floor stay. Instead of counting sheep, counting backwards by 3s from 300 seemed like a better plan:
300
297
294
291
288
250
125
50
0
So much for mental math. Go figure.
The calculations were too dull. The numbers were simply numbers, simply things. The human touch to tuck me in was missing so thoughts of happiness and kindness were summoned. Instead of butterflies, rainbows, and roses, my lullaby appeared in the form of corn on the cob.
A peaceful recollection of a sunny afternoon two years ago gently floated into my frenzied thoughts.
Their car was parked in their garage so someone should be home, “Hello!” No answers from the basement.
“It’s Gwen! Hey, is anyone here?” No answers upstairs. Where could they be?
A second convincing sweep throughout all the rooms stopped the interior search for a third attempt.
How could they have been inside their house when they were in their backyard. Of course! Turning the doorknob then opening their back door was a “Dorothy entering Oz” moment in living color.
The stressful weights from my caregiving life dissipated once I crossed the threshold into the wunnerful, wunnerful world of my mom and my dad. The stability, security, and love from my blessed childhood reminded me how to breathe and once again, experience first-hand how life as I always imagined should be.
“Oh, hi Gwennie! Do you want to eat some corn? It’s really sweet!”
“No, that’s okay. I just ate.” Where was my camera? There on two lawn chairs sat my 80-ish year old parents-side-by-side, quietly nibbling on their cobs of fresh corn. The music playing was a melody of birds. The view was their victory vegetable gardens and a yard in full bloom.
Theirs is the deserved retirement that I am so very, very grateful for them to enjoy and to enjoy together. It has the pleasures and leisurely pace that I would wish for all. It is the charmed life of the hopeful future I dare to envision for my 50-year-old husband and me.
This couple who has overcome life’s challenges, worked multiple jobs, raised siblings, children, and grandchildren, cared for their parents and siblings, gives to their community, and traveled by ships, trains, planes, and automobiles were in deep thought and in conversation on another relaxing afternoon with each other while savoring their bites of corn.
So now, when life in the fast lane needs an emergency exit and when I am alone with my thoughts in bed, I rely and accept the comfort of my folks and their sweet offers of corn on the cob.
Mark designed this memory blanket for me.
More than Fair – May 2010
March 2010 was Mark’s third “cancer-versary”. It was three yesteryears ago that we received that devastating phone call, “I’m sorry to say that you have cancer” placed the jagged, final piece of the puzzling symptoms of a weakened immune system, digestive difficulties, abdominal and back pain, jaundice, excessive fatigue, and abnormal stats.
Traumatic flashbacks to that diagnostic moment are still capable of making my head spin and heart ache. So revisiting that life-altering period is avoided whenever possible, if possible.
In grainy terms of a pancreatic cancer hourglass, we count our daily blessings as we have been able to speak in y…e…a…r…s. No words nor actions fully express appreciation for the
length of our family of four’s continuing journey.
How does one show thankfulness for time? For it’s taken this long to exhale, “Life has been more than fair.”
No longer am I wondering, “Why Mark? Why did cancer invade the life of such a great guy? My guy?”
Frustrated, skewed notions of “life being unfair” have been replaced with occasional head nods of “cancer can be unfair”.
Pancreatic/ampulla cancer has a past and a presence of stolen normalcy and two shortened-carefree childhoods. Healthy choices accept this fate. Acceptance offers peace.
I can breathe.
On the larger flip side of reality, life is more than fair. How fortunate are we to have found someone special to love and in return received unconditional love for nearly 30 years and counting?
The precious gift of parenthood is oh-so-sweet with two caring souls we are incredibly privileged and constantly proud to call our sons.
The truest of kinships continue to lift us. Your huge hearts have offered more caring support than we could have ever, ever imagined. Multiple ways will present themselves of
how to best repay all of your TLC…forward.
The highest of the joyous highs in life trump the lowest of the lousy lows. Believe it!
Life has no guarantees. Proven
Hard work does not ensure success. True
We don’t always get what we wish for. Okay, okay.
But…prayers are heard and answered. Amen
Yes, the uneven scales of blessed life are tipped and they are more than leaning in our favor.
“Happiness is an inside job.” ~ Eileen Allen
