Trish and I were married on a rainy day, November 20, 1971. Yes, we were young, unaware of just how young we were. Then. We know now.

My wife of fifty-four years is going for her seventh (of twelve) of the once-a-week chemo sessions today. Friday.  The worst day for her will probably be Sunday. Weakness, vomiting, lack of taste, inability to eat even if anything tasted like something other than (based on her description) metallic snot. I should mention the diarrhea, another awesome side effect of chemicals meant to, designed to kill invasive cells without killing the host, the victim, of Cancer, the Big C, and, not that it’s necessary, but “Fuck Cancer.”

Bear in mind that Cancer is the disease, Chemotherapy is the cure; that it will someday be seen as brutal… maybe; it’s the cure for now.

As a bonus, Trish has a very low (like, next step, hospitalization) white blood count (the ones desperately trying to fight off the invader; this making it necessary for her to make three additional trips to the hospital to get shots that go (again, by description) “to the bone.” As a bonus to the bonus, someone with a cold or in the grip of any sort of germiness, should not be around Trish. So, like me… I should maintain a safe distance.

And I have been. Like twenty miles. Trish is at our daughter’s, I’m in Quilcene.

Trish went over to help Dru in her struggles (ongoing because Cancer never, it seems, actually fully surrenders), and now Dru is helping her mother. Meanwhile, I, tasked with some major repairs on our house, continue to choose working over repairing, not to mention writing or drawing, (occasionally surfing), and phone calls and texts between my once-or-twice-a-week in person visits.

And yes, I’m complaining.

The truth about cancer, and other life-threatening illnesses, is that, though we can assume that everyone has been critically ill, there is nothing we can do, really, to alleviate someone else’s pain, their fears; if words of support and expressions of love, and assertions that faith is part of the struggle; if all that were enough, we would all reach out to those who are sick. Or injured. Or lost. Suffering. And there’s a chance it’s helpful, appreciated.

I shouldn’t have to add that, witnessing just how horrendous being this ill is, I feel some amount of guilt in not being more involved in the situations friends have been in. And I’m not going for sympathy. Okay, maybe, thinking about specific instances where I have not been the friend I could have been, I have more guilt than I would like to admit.    

If I’m preaching (God forbid) to anyone, it’s to me.

Still, Trish will get past this. She’s tough enough, resilient enough, stubborn enough to survive 54 years plus with me; hopes and prayers and chemo.

We keep going.