The Big Stuff

To begin with, let me say I understand that worrying about what may or may not happen is generally a waste of time. No amount of mental effort spent on weighing all the scary possibilities that we humans have to manage in our lives, is energy well-spent. We all have to realize we can’t control everything. We can’t ensure that nothing bad will happen to us. I know, I know. That’s my good sense talking. Which doesn’t necessarily reflect my emotional point-of-view. I suppose I’ll never 100% know if the ways that I think and feel and manage my life were primarily predetermined by my genetics. If I’d been raised in a different family, might I not have the abundance of worry that has been my daily companion for as long as I can remember? I’m not sure. After spending a lot of time digging deep into myself, I’m fairly certain that the initial source of my nagging anxiety traces back to when I was about four and a half years old. That was when my mother had to be hospitalized for a hysterectomy when she was still a young woman, only thirty-two. My grandmother, her mother, came to stay with us kids. I recall not being thrilled about grandma’s presence, although mostly, the hardest part that I vividly remember, is that she made me wear pigtails that poked straight out from the sides of my head. And they were so incredibly tight that I thought my hair was going to be wrenched from my skull. In addition, she yelled a lot. I really missed my mother. My brother, eight years older than me and intuitive enough to realize I was having a hard time without our mom, got this brilliant idea that he was going to sneak us into the hospital to visit her. I remember clutching a few wilted pansy stems in one hand as I held his other one, during what seemed like an endless walk to the hospital. Somehow we made our way through the hallways, ducking behind curtains and doorways until we eventually popped into mom’s room. In retrospect, I realize that she was still feeling the effects of her pain medication, but back then, I didn’t wonder much about the fact that she didn’t seem surprised to see us. The most memorable part of that visit was mom asking us if we wanted to see her incision. That long, still angry, bloody, vertical abdominal line is something I’ve never forgotten. If I was supposed to feel relieved at seeing her, I’d categorize that effort as a total fail.

From that moment forward, I developed two lasting worries. First, I acquired abandonment issues. When I started kindergarten, not long after the hospital experience, I asked my mom two questions every day. “Will you be home when I get home, “ and, “Will Miss Wyfuls (my teacher) be at school today?” My mom’s repeated reply of “yes,” was a bad choice. When either of those two things didn’t happen, I pretty much lost my mind, becoming impossible to manage. In addition, I developed an irrational dislike of all things medicine, coupled with a deep need to try protecting my parents from being sick. I became a difficult, uncooperative patient, the kid who tossed my pills behind the couch and wouldn’t take liquid medicine no matter how hard my parents tried to treat me. I also carried this huge fear that something terrible could happen to them. And as my mom in particular was frequently hospitalized throughout my life, for one illness or another, I took on the responsibility of trying to be right there for both my parents, any time they were facing a medical crisis. That started as a way to protect myself from loss, but eventually it just became my job. I still recall a conversation I had with Michael many years ago when we were young and our relationship was deepening. As his importance to me was increasing I was worried with mad thoughts like who I’d be able to save if both he and my mother were drowning. He replied, “save your mother – I’ll take care of myself.” I appreciated his permission to continue my personal assignment of taking care of mom and dad. I even dragged my babies with me to Chicago on my many hospital visits. Things got somewhat easier when I finally convinced them to move to my town, finally stopping those lengthy treks.

Interestingly, my parents always told me I was the healthiest of their four kids. I always wondered if that was organically true, or if I simply willed myself robust, never wanting to require the medical attention which dominated my mother’s life. I was in the hospital once when I was eight, just for a day, to fix my broken nose following a gym mishap. I still have my tonsils and my appendix. I was never seriously ill and never broke another bone. My next hospital stays were when I was 30 and 35, both for the births of my children. Another couple of decades later, I had two overnight stays, each one following knee replacement surgery. I blew out of those fast. Somehow, I managed to keep myself healthy while morphing all the scary medical experiences of my family into my secret weapon – using all that information I’d acquired as a frequent hospital visitor, to develop an inverted defense mechanism against my worries. Knowledge was power. I listened, watched, read and studied, eventually becoming a patient advocate extraordinaire. As years went by, I hung out by the hospital bedsides of many friends as well as family members, usually invited along as a supporter and interpreter because I had so much medical information. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked by health care professionals if I was one of them. I developed a fatalistic approach about my own health, always wondering when my turn to be incapacitated might come and how I would handle myself. Would the executive function I’d developed be available to me if I was the patient? Hard to know….Meanwhile, I honed my caregiver role, which continued up to and included being at the death beds of both my parents and ultimately, Michael. I had no idea that what started as fear could evolve into such positive a role for myself.

This past April, I was busy planning and sorting things for my upcoming month-long visit to Colorado, the one to help my son and daughter-in-law welcome their new baby, while also tending to my toddler granddaughter. On my to-do list was the Cologuard colon cancer test, a convenient home screening which is sent off to a lab that ultimately reports its findings to your local doctor. I mailed the test away and forgot about it until a week later, when an “Abnormal” message showed up in my patient information portal. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had a potentially threatening medical problem. I moved quickly, writing my doctor immediately, who responded with a referral for a follow-up diagnostic colonoscopy. Unfortunately, there were no openings in the digestive health department prior to my scheduled departure for Colorado. I made an appointment to have the test a few days after my return home. The guidelines for proceeding after an abnormal result recommended the subsequent exam within a timeframe of 4 months. I crossed my fingers and went ahead with my trip.

I was immediately busy in Colorado. I cooked, I rocked, I shopped, I pushed strollers, I chauffeured, I read, I laundered and I sang. I even gardened. My days were full and varied. I felt lucky that at age 74, I still had the ability to do the things required for taking care of a young family. That fact was a positive as I tried staying present in what I was doing, rather than indulging in the worry about a potential cancer lurking in my body. I didn’t feel sick. But I’d had a lifetime of learning how stealthy disease can be. And my own oft-repeated line about that was “we’re all just a phone call away from bad news.” Yup. I’d been a frequent witness to those moments. So I worked hard on staying mentally balanced. Aside from the nerves about the potential diagnosis, I was also uncomfortable about my first time being accompanied to a medical procedure by my daughter, who’d volunteered to be my ride and companion the day of my upcoming test. I was always so glad my kids never had to bear the caregiver responsibilities that I took on when I was so young. This of course, was my issue, not theirs. But an extra piece of the puzzle that is me, nonetheless.

In the evenings, I spent time holding the baby, after my granddaughter was asleep, and when the tired new parents were grabbing naps to prepare for the wakeful nighttimes that come along with a newborn. Holding a small baby, so vulnerable and innocent, is always enough to make me ponder the big stuff of life. Little humans are so amazing as they begin their journey, each day bringing change and surprises. I marvel at the idea that these experiences are tucked away in everyone, and wonder if our inability to remember our beginnings, is a built-in tool to keep us from being overwhelmed. Being with an infant as an elder is quite the juxtaposition. As they begin to expand, mentally and physically, we oldies are contracting in those very same ways. While in the midst of this fresh start, I was not only contemplating my own potential devolution, but witnessing what’s becoming a more frequent part of my life, the winding down in the lives of people who’ve been part of my life for a long time.

My friend Peg lives in Denver. I was supposed to visit with her in late 2023, when my kids first moved to Colorado. But that visit was canceled when she got Covid. Some time passed. I wrote her in December to check in, but was stunned to receive her harsh news that she’d been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She preferred that I didn’t call her. That was a tough blow. I continued to send her texts and photos. When my birthday came around in late May, I was surprised to receive a message from her. I responded and asked if I could visit her. So we set up a meeting. I was quite nervous as I had no idea about the extent of her disease progression. My son, who also knew Peg, went along with me. She knew us both, but was clearly struggling with complicated short-term memory issues. We talked, had a sentimental lunch at one of her favorite restaurants and expressed our feelings for each other. She is still somewhat like herself but her memory deficits were obvious and pronounced. Within three days of our meeting, she forgot that we’d seen each other. Peg spent her career as sharp, dedicated public defender in Chicago. Seeing her losing herself was painful and disturbing and so undignified. I think brutal is the operative word. What a contrast between being with the babies and the young people. And wondering what was ahead for all of us. There are no guarantees or protections for anyone in this random world.

The other person I’d hoped to see on my trip out west was my old friend Brian who lives in New Mexico. We go back to my college days. He was close to Michael and me without ever having those times when you fall away from each other because life has done its thing and distance happens. Both of our kids call Brian “uncle” and rightly so. He is family. This past year has been a rough one for him, health wise. He’s had two major surgeries recently and just received an unexpected leukemia diagnosis. I guess all leukemia diagnoses are unexpected and certainly harsh. Currently he’s waiting for staging results and a treatment plan. We all wanted to get together for a visit but in the end, Brian wasn’t feeling up to it, so we passed on a gathering for now. We were all disappointed but we understood that in this moment, things are feeling pretty uncertain and a visit is too much extra. Having moments like these with two close friends while in the midst of my lively family and my own personal concerns was a lot. The big stuff, indeed.

My month-long trip finally came to an end. I spent the first few days back home, scurrying around, catching up with all my obligations and trying to stave off my nerves. Then it was prep day for the colonoscopy, not the world’s most fun activity, and finally the test day itself. I do not have colon cancer. I had three small polyps removed and was informed by my doctor that I won’t need another exam for seven years, absent any unexpected surprises. Seven years? Maybe I’ll still be around then, or maybe not. In any case, lucky, lucky me. This “abnormal” turned out to be a dry run instead of the real thing. I am grateful.

The weather has been brutally hot since I returned home, but I’m back to work in my beloved garden. Being out there is good for me, even when it’s exhausting. I’ve been spending my time mulling over all the big stuff that I’ve experienced in the past two months. Soon it will be behind me except for what I keep in mind to inform my choices in daily life. I hope I stay able to rely on my brain to guide me through whatever is ahead of me. But if I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that we can count on today rather than tomorrow. I’m thinking that like it’s my job.

Tonight after dinner, I took a nap, falling asleep to the sound of rain. When I woke up, I knew there was a good chance that the sky would be putting on its post-storm color show, so out I went. Suddenly, I heard “Mom!” My kid was on her front porch, as I was on mine, right across the street from each other. We met up in the middle of the road, both outside for the same reason. Whaddya know? These are the best moments. Treasures. My daughter and I got to the other side of my new role as the parent who needed help. There were no further repercussions.

I will gladly settle for that.