Day 89

Yesterday my friend Barb sent me a reminder to check out her Facebook page: Writing From the Heart (http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Writing-from-the-Heart/127562750646902). There was a link on her page to an article titled Permission to Suck by Linda Gerber. It provided exactly the advice I needed. Lately, with so much going on in my life, I am not sure that I have the energy to write. This article was a reminder that it doesn't take much energy to write if we give up the notion of writing well. Writing is easy if we allow ourselves to suck; and, since first drafts generally suck anyway, what do I have to lose? I can't always compose lyrical prose or make profound observations, but I can get something on the page every single day. The practice is infinitely more important than the product.

Day 88

I don't care if you are Protestant, Muslim, Mormon or Pentecostal; gay, straight or queer; a mortician, a bus driver, a school teacher or a biker. My motto: to each her own. I try to reserve judgement, I really do. But tell me that you don't read and I automatically relegate you to a special purgatory, a place where you can stay until you can be made to see the depths of your sin and repent (at which time you will be issued a library card and an Amazon.com account). My judgement is especially harsh when an individual claims a love of words and a desire to write, yet still refuses to make time for a good novel or juicy memoir. My judgement grows out of my own passion for language. Although I am a slow and plodding reader and I often struggle to find the time to do the things I love, I make time everyday to read. Occasionally, I read a passage that is a revelation and a miracle. A few days ago, I was reading Kim Barne's Hungry For the World when I ran across this passage: This is what I know of seduction: it can be flowered and perfumed, or it can spring from sweat and darkness; it can come sweet and slow, or fast and hard like birth. It can find you at work or at home, awake or asleep. It can begin with a kiss or the withholding of a kiss. It's a flower that opens, a bruise the spreads. It is words like these that ignite my evangelical zeal for reading. How could they not?

Day 87

When Bill got sick a few years ago, it was as if he wandered into a dark labyrinth. Sadly, I followed. It didn't take long for us to veer in different directions: each of us alone and lost. It took me a very long time to find my way out. I am so afraid of being lost again. Since Bill's diagnosis a few weeks ago, I have been struggling with the question of how to take care of myself through the coming weeks and months. My instincts say that I should relieve myself of all unnecessary responsibilities: let go of the daily duties and obligations that consume my precious time. But perhaps it is the daily rituals that keep us grounded in times like these. Perhaps now, more than ever, I need to get up each day and sit and write and exercise and prepare the food for a healthy diet. These rituals keep me focused in the here and now; they help me to be present and aware. They are a touchstone when I feel myself being drawn back into that labyrinth.

Day 85

Yesterday I was waiting with Bill in the lobby of the St. Joseph Medical Center in Lewiston. At the reception desk was a small woman who looked to be about 60. She had the kind of far off gaze that is not uncommon in psychiatric patients. I saw her leave the desk with a shuffling walk and slowly return with a paper cup presumably full of coffee. She looked sad, despite her pink smock and yellow nametag that proclaimed: "Hi, I'm Nancy."

She sat her coffee down behind the reception desk and wandered out into the lobby where a number of us sat waiting. She approached a greying woman who was reading Better Homes and Gardens and stared at her intently from a distance of no more than two feet. The woman lowered her magazine as if to say Can I help you?

"Are you alright?" Nancy asked with genuine concern.

A look of confusion crossed the face of the grey haired woman.

"I'm fine," she stammered.

"I'm not," Nancy said, looking even more dejected than she had a moment earlier, "I have degenerative dementia."

The grey haired woman stared at Nancy for what seemed liked minutes before she reached out and touched her arm, as if to say: It's alright, you're not alone.

We have spent many hours in hospital waiting rooms and cafeterias over the last few weeks. It is like having a front row seat in an endless parade of suffering. I find myself asking: Why is there so much suffering? What is the meaning of it all? I think that perhaps Nancy knows the answer. It is the suffering that brings us together and allows us to connect.

Day 84

You can always tell which bible verses are the best: it's the ones on which rock songs are based. One of my favorites is: To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

I"m starting to think that perhaps that's what the creative life is all about: living in the season. I ask myself: What is my purpose now?

Day 83

I didn't blog yesterday. What a relief. One less thing to do. One less obligation. I did journal but there was none of the pressure that comes from knowing that others can and may read the words I put to paper (or to screen). Yesterday I was certain that I should put the blog behind me and in the process unburden myself.

I woke up this morning thinking about the blog. I was nervous about giving it up. I know that the practice is what makes me a writer. I can't give up the practice. For the last year, the blog has been an important part of my writing practice. Not only was I committed to writing each day; I shared that commitment with others.

What I know for sure is that I need to maintain a writing practice now, especially now. How do I decide what form that practice takes?

Day 81

A few months ago I downloaded back episodes of the television show Hoarders. A neat freak myself, I was fascinated with the clutter and chaos that was revealed in the lives of those who were profiled on the show. I recognized some part of myself in them. Although I don't hoard things, I do form impermeable attachments to people, places, routines and activities. I have a hard time letting go.

I have been blogging everyday now for over a year. Lately I have been thinking that perhaps it is time to let go of the blog. It is no longer inspired or inspiring. I struggle to find things to write about. So much of what is happening in my life right now is too raw and deeply personal to share. I lack the energy to write about other things.

On Hoarders a whole team of professionals: cleaners, organizers, and therapists come into the home and move out the clutter, while coaching the homeowner to release the objects on an emotional level. Illness in a family has a way of doing the same thing: it takes a broom to our priorities, it helps us sort out the clutter to make room for the essential work that must be done. I'm going through that process now and trying to figure out of the blog has a role in my life as it is today.

Day 80

Like an overzealous baker who refuses to let the dough rise, I have a tendency to overwork my problems. I knead and think and knead and talk and knead and write and knead and plan, refusing to let the yeast do its work. Occasionally I let go and allow an answer to rise to the surface naturally. This usually happens when I am too tired or too distracted to work the problem myself.

A few weeks ago I found that my writing practice wasn't working for me. I didn't fret over it. I simply put it down and held the intention for a new practice that would work for me now. It is during these times, when I stop thinking so much, that my best plans emerge. First, I had a dream that guided me to consider writing fiction for a time. Then I started to take notice of the ways that Bill and I are being moved by the experience of cancer. The moments that remind me that cancer is a good teacher. I'm not sure why, but I know that these are moments I need to record.

Suddenly, I have a new writing practice. It is like taking a golden loaf of fragrant bread from the oven. I can't wait to cut into it.

Day 79

One of the things that I have been thinking about lately is how I might maintain a writing practice with all of the other demands that might be put on me over the next few months. Writing memoir can be healing, but it is also emotionally draining. I'm not sure that I will have the emotional energy to continue that kind of writing practice.

After being sick the night before, last night I slept hard. I had a long, elaborate dream. It was like watching a movie. The characters were fully developed and there was a strong plot. It was about a teacher who had a son who went into the military against her wishes. He is discharged prior to his expected release and comes back preoccupied and depressed. He refuses to talk about his experiences in Iraq and rarely leaves his room in the basement. One day he meets one of his mother's students: a beautiful little girl of about 10. She is wearing a pick ribbon in her hair when they meet. A few days later the girl is missing. The teacher suspects that her son had something to do with the little girl's disappearance. She decides to search his room and finds the pink ribbon there. She ends of testifying in his trial and her son goes to prison for the murder of the little girl.

When I woke up I was aware of two things. First, that I had created this story in my sleep. And second, that it was a welcome escape from the reality of my own life right now. Fiction may very well be the kind of writing that I need at this point in my life.

Day 78

Remember the chestburster scene from Alien? What about the scene from The Exorcist where Linda Blair's character spews all over the priest? I had a similar scene in my own bathroom last night, or at least it felt like it from where I sat on the toilet, uncontrollably vomiting into the trash can.

In the wee hours of the morning it started to feel as if my body was not my own. I was not in control. At first I resisted. My resistance only made the heaving more violent. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion, but at some point I decided to surrender. I decided to let my body do what it needed to do to rid itself of the poison. Once I surrendered, it became easier. A calm settled over me.

Sometimes I wonder how much easier all of life would be if I could only learn to surrender.

Day 77

All week I have been thinking about the thousands of people who are diagnosed with cancer everyday. I have been thinking about their families. I have been thinking about the millions of hours spent waiting: those hours between the diagnosis and the treatment plan when time seems to stand still and fear is a constant companion.

Yesterday we saw the oncologist for the first time. I had already imagined what he might say. Even before he had a face, I could hear his voice saying: Stage 4. There is no hope. Go home and take care of your affairs. Words from a movie. I knew that they were not grounded in reality but they frightened me none the less.

My fear began to dissipate the minute he came in the room: this little brown man with an East Indian accent. He was stern, but polite. His first question: "Do you know why you're here?" So any possible answers: Because we did something wrong? Because the world is full of pain and suffering? Because cancer is a change agent in a world where everyone and everything is impermanent? Bill avoided the philosophical pitfalls and stuck to the medical facts instead. He provided a detailed description of the chain of events that led us to that moment. The doctor listened and then he said: "I think that your cancer is stage 2. I think that you are a good candidate for surgery. I think that we can cure your cancer."

Stage 2 cancer: cause for celebration. Who would have thought?

Day 76

I have been writing most of my life but I didn't become a writer until very recently. It happened as I was working on my dissertation. For many months, I would go to Bucer's everyday, order a pot of tea, crank up my ancient laptop, read what I had written the day before and start putting new words on the page. I developed a writing practice.

Since then, my writing practice has changed. Reading Julie Cameron's book The Artist's Way encouraged me to develop a writing practice centered on the morning pages. I would get up each morning, eat my oatmeal and tea, pull out my college lined notebook with butterflies on the cover and being writing: whatever came to mind, that's what I would put on the page. I would usually write three pages, put the notebook aside and pull out the thick journal I was using to record pieces of a memoir I was working on. I would dictate at least three pages of the memoir before I went on with my day.

I have ignored the morning pages and the memoir for the last few weeks. Each time I try to return to the morning pages, I am overwhelmed, flooded with emotion. The memoir seems less relevant than it did a few weeks ago, trumped by new concerns. Still I recognize the importance of maintaining a practice. The practice is what separates a writer from those who simply write.

Day 75

I remember as a kid having contests with my friends to see which one of us could hold our breath the longest. We would face each other with rounded cheeks and bulging eyes as the seconds ticked by. Time miraculously slowed down. Just when it seemed that the hands on the clock would stop all together, one of us would give, releasing a gale on the winner before gasping for another breath.

It seems that I have been holding my breath for the last week. It was just about this time 7 days ago when we got the verdict on the mass in Bill's lung. We are still waiting for more answers. Tomorrow we see the oncologist. We are hoping for clarity, hoping for a chance to take another breath.

Day 74

Spring arrived on the Palouse yesterday. I was driving home from the store when I suddenly felt warm. The air was humid. I wanted to drive with the window down and feel the warm wind against my face.

As I was unloading groceries from my trunk, tiny white marbles of ice started to fall from the sky. I stood in the driveway for a moment trying to remember the specific atmospheric conditions that give rise to a hail storm. Finally, I gave up and decided that it was a gift from the gods: a sign that spring is here.

This morning when I looked out the window I was surprised to discover that the snow was all gone, melted sometime in the last week. The ground was wet from a recent rain: the kind of rain that ushers in new life. I saw a rabbit wiggle out from under our patio and hop across the street.

It's so easy to get caught up in our own little lives ; we forget that life is always beginning again.

Day 73

It has been 5 days since the man on the other end of the phone muttered Cancer. Since then, the days have expanded to make room for our fear and anger and uncertainty. Mostly there is uncertainty. Everyday there are new questions: What will happen? How long? What then? Waiting for the answers is hell, especially because we know that the road ahead will be filled with more uncertainty. Somehow we have to find a way to stop waiting and start living again.

This morning I woke up to the pressures of a new week: a week that is totally unaware and unsympathetic to cancer. There are groceries to buy and food to prepare and papers to grade. I was thinking about these obligations as I walked into the kitchen for a caffeine fix. There was a puddle on the floor around the dishwasher.

"It's leaking," Bill said.

I imagined myself sitting on the floor in front of the dishwasher, sobbing. It's not fair, we don't deserve a broken dishwasher. I can't deal with a broken dishwasher, now! I imagined myself dragging the old, broken down piece of shit out to the yard. I saw myself swinging a sledgehammer, busting the thing to pieces, pulverizing it into tiny bits of plastic and metal. I imagined how good it would feel to destroy the damn thing.

Occasionally I find myself thinking about this commitment I have made to the creative life. It seems impossible to create in the presence of a diabolic enemy like cancer, an enemy that threatens someone you treasure. And yet, the sad and simple truth is that I can do little else. I can't take a sledgehammer to the cancer. The only thing I can do is to pay attention and try to make something beautiful from the tiny bits of plastic and metal left behind.

Day 72

Several years ago I was reading a book by Marianne Williamson. She said that people often come up to her after speaking engagements. With desperate voices and pleading eyes they ask for guidance. She asks them: "Do you have a spiritual practice? Do you meditate or pray on a regular basis?" knowing full well that they do not.

It became clear to me then that if I wanted to have peace in my life I had to establish the kind of practice Marianne Williamson wrote about. I started sitting: 20 minutes a day. I didn't have a zafu or a fancy meditation timer. I just sat and it did bring me peace.

Recently, I started a writing practice: what Julie Cameron calls morning pages. The writing is another form of meditation. Both the writing and the sitting make me more aware of my thoughts; they both clear out the clutter in my head. Over the last few months the writing has replaced the sitting as my primary form of meditation.

Now I find myself avoiding the morning pages. I am avoiding my thoughts and feelings, preferring instead to be engaged in mindless activity or conversation. I don't want to be alone with myself on the page. I can feel my anxiety mounting in direct proportion to the avoidance.

Seeing my rising anxiety, Bill suggested the perhaps I should return to my sitting practice. It took me most of the day to build up my courage. During the first few moments of sitting I was aware of my racing thoughts: What if...What if...What if...My awareness dropped down into my body and I was aware of my nerve endings, I had the distinct sensation that there were ants crawling just under the surface of my skin. In the pit of my stomach was a hard knot, the size of a baseball. I just continued to breath. After several minutes, I could feel my consciousness drop down to another level, as if all those other sensations were merely on the surface. Below the surface was an oasis of peace. It was the first truly peaceful moment I have experienced in over a week.

Day 71

I have been wrestling with fear a lot over the last week. I have been observing it, watching the way it rises and sets, waxes and wanes, comes in and moves out, like the tide. What I have noticed is that fear is always a reaction to some imagined future event.

Suppose someone has a gun to my head. I am likely to feel fearful. But it is not the gun that I fear or the person holding the gun. My fear is a reaction to the scene playing in my head, a scene in which the person holding the gun pulls the trigger.

Fear never lives in the present. Right now, that's where I need to live.

Day 70

"Are you going to write about it?" he asked.

"What?" I replied, as if I didn't know.

"You know, what we're going through..." he answered.

I didn't share my first reaction which was NO! Hell, no! There are enough blogs, and books and stories and articles devoted to cancer. I am more interested in writing about those moments of grace when I am present and aware and certain of my place in the universe. I do not want to turn my life over to cancer. I do not want to sacrifice my peace of mind on the alter of fear.

I've been thinking a lot about the time 9 years ago when Bill developed a serious illness that put us on a medical merry-go-round. We had only been married about a year. We came home one day from a round of medical appointments and as I was making dinner I looked down to discover that my wedding ring was gone.

I searched frantically in the crisper compartment of the refrigerator, in the garage where I had been cleaning earlier; I remember sorting through the garbage with tears streaming down my face. As a last resort I got back in my car and drove to the office of Bill's doctor. The office manager met me at the door, she was just closing up. I was crying hysterically at this point, trying to explain about my ring between gasps and hiccups.

What I couldn't explain was the certainty with which I felt that losing the ring was a bad omen. I had read once about a superstition that associates a lost wedding ring with the death of a spouse. As crazy as it seems in hindsight, I feared that my carelessness would cost Bill his life.

Our wedding rings were made for us by a family member, an artisan who specializes in metallurgy. On the surface of each of our rings he etched the Chinese symbol for grace. Grace is a gift. To live in grace is to live in gratitude. The only way to do that is to be fully present and recognize the fullness of each moment. When Bill got sick, we stopped doing that. That is one of my greatest regrets.

It's funny how life gives you do-overs, even when you would rather take a pass. I don't know what lies ahead for us. But I do know that I am committed to maintaining my peace of mind and to being present for Bill. I refuse to see cancer as an enemy. Instead, I am trying to welcome it, as an opportunity for grace.

Day 69

Yesterday, it was a relief to write: an escape, an opportunity to slip into an imagined past, a place where I was young and naive and invincible. The empty page is, for me, a recently discovered refuge. Yesterday, I needed one and it was there. For that, I am grateful.

Today, I am too exhausted to write. It is such an effort to put together words, to form sentences, to conceptualize phrases. Today, the words seem empty, hollow, meaningless. Today, I want to go to the pool and float on the surface of the water and let my mind be completely empty. I want to bake banana bread: mashing, sifting, stirring, as if it is my reason for being. I want to sip tea and watch the people at the co-op as they buy yogurt and eat kale salad, completely oblivious to cancer. Today, I want to rest.

Tomorrow or someday soon I will feel renewed. Then I will write.

Day 68

When I was in high school, my best friend Donna and I used to cruise Columbia Park. There was a strip that ran the length of the large park and kids would drive from one end to the other checking each other out. We would occasionally pull into an alcove of trees to smoke a joint and offer ourselves like bait to the guys who passed by.

John was one of those guys. He pulled up next to my white Chevy Nova and offered to get us high. We smoked his weed and laughed at his jokes. He was hooked: he practically begged us to meet up with him the next day. He would bring his friend Steve and we could all hang out.

Donna and Steve did more than hook up, they developed a serious relationship which got in the way of our cruising and put me in close proximity to John on a regular basis. John had a crush on me that he expressed by giving me replacement parts for my car which he ordered from the dealership. The fact that John was a drug dealer precluded me from having any kind of relationship with him, but I was flattered by his attention.

John and I were sitting alone on the sofa in the living room at Steve's apartment one night, trying to ignore the grunts and moans leaking through the crack beneath the bedroom door. I was rambling about something: sexism, my pain-in-the-ass history teacher, lip gloss, whatever it is that teenage girls find interesting. John looked at me through bloodshot eyes and said: "You know Debbie, ideas just don't seem real to you until you say them out loud."

I thought it was the most profound observation anyone had ever made about me. At that age, my mind was like a high speed pitching machines: shooting off ideas, rapid fire and haphazard, most failing to reach a target. I longed to be heard. It took me another 15 years to find someone who really listened with his whole heart. What an amazing gift. It is a gift I am still trying to learn to reciprocate

Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I were in the living room when the phone rang. Even with the phone pressed to Bill's ear, I could hear the deep, excited voice of Dr. Gordon, the radiologist who did the biopsy last week. Even then, as we waited, barely able to breath, there were formalities to dispense with. Then he said: "Well, it's not great news." My heart sank.

As the light from the setting sun dimmed our living room, Bill and I cried and talked. We shared our darkest fears and our deepest hopes. We opened ourselves up and invited each other in. Once again, I was reminded of the sacred place we have created for each other, with each other. It is a place where cancer cannot go.

Day 67

Every so often I find myself up to my neck in a pile of dung. My tendency is to whine and complain and bitch and moan. Other times I just plug my nose and close my eyes and pretend that I am wrapped in a warm blanket, ignoring the fact that I am smothered in dung. Even worse is when I try to fight my way out: I end of flinging dung on everyone around me.

I am learning that even when I find myself up to my neck in a pile of dung, I can stop and pay attention. When I do, I sometimes find that there are gems buried there in the dung with me. I have to look closely and I have to be willing to dig in and pull them out. It may be difficult to see their brilliance when they are covered in dung. It's up to me to receive these precious gifts in a spirit of gratitude, in spite of the dung.

Day 66

Sometimes I think that my mind is like a big old Victorian house. It is three stories high with a half dozen rooms on every floor. On sunny days it has a certain quirky charm with its lacy gingerbread trim and ornate towers and turrets. It changes appearance, however, with the weather. On stormy days it it cast in darkness; the peeling paint and sagging porch seem suddenly sinister and foreboding.

There are so many rooms; I find myself wondering from one to another. There are rooms where I can imagine and create. There are rooms for more practical things like making biscuits and mending clothes. There are rooms for rest.

Occasionally I find myself ascending the narrow stairs to the attic: the place where the memories are stored. If I am not careful, I can get mesmerized by the contents of the old trunks and dusty boxes. When this happens it is difficult to find my way back.

The one place I try to avoid is the basement. It is dark with walls of grey concrete. The dirt floor is damp. The air is dank and murky. I wandered down to the basement once and allowed the door to slam shut behind me. I stumbled from room to room, looking for an exit. Just when I had given up all hope, I laid down against the damp earth and looked up to see a sliver of light. There was one tiny window that provided an escape to the outside world.

These days I prefer the sunny parlor on the east side of the house. It has a big bay window. I like to sit in my rocking chair and look out at the parade that is my life. There are so many amazing things to see and hear and feel. And they pass by so quickly.

Day 65

I heard a story once about a man who was saved by a book. A bullet, aimed at his heart, was deflected and became lodged in the book he carried in his breast pocket. It was probably just an urban legend but it seemed so real to me, perhaps because I could remember all the times I was rescued by books.

The first books I ever owned were given to me at Christmas: the whole set of Little House on the Prairie books. I was eight years old and living with my mom and dad and little brother in a trailer park. The tiny trailer my parents rented sat at the edge of a gravel road that was more dirt than gravel. My room was no bigger than the closet I now share with my husband, but it had a sliding door and a built in bunk where I could lay down and read. Laying there, I began to imagine a world that was so much bigger than anything that could be contained in a 12 x 60 metal box.

On Friday they took a small sample of the tumor that sits at the base of Bill's right lung. Now, as we wait for the results of the biopsy, I find myself wishing for a book to show us the way, a book that will save us. There are moments when I feel that I am inside a tiny metal box and the walls are closing in. I need a wide open view of the prairie.

I can't seem to concentrate to read much right now. Yet I am certain it is a book that will save me. So I think back to some of the books I love, the titles that saved me once before. Jane Hamilton's Map of the World reminded me that sometimes our lives can change in an instant. We are thrown off course. We become bewildered and lost. We have to start over again; we have to find a new map.

I suppose that is what I am afraid of what now. I am afraid of news that might alter our lives in unimaginable ways. It is frightening to travel a new road. I'm not sure that I am strong enough. Bill has a book on the shelf that I have never read. It is titled How You Do Anything is How You Do Everything. I suppose in some ways it really is that simple. Whatever happens, we will handle it the same way we handled all the challenges that came before. We will do it together.

I am certain that the problems ahead will also come bearing gifts. Alice Walker wrote a book called Possessing the Secret of Joy about a young African women on trial for killing a tribal elder who was performing female circumcisions. From that book, I learned about the kind of joy that can flourish in spite of incarceration. It is the same kind of joy that lives in spite of sickness and even death. As I reflect on that book, I am reminded that whatever lies ahead, there will also be joy.

Day 64

It took me a long time to become a writer. It took me a long time to learn to pay attention. A writer who cannot pay attention, focus, remain aware, has very little to write about.

Over the last few days, as I followed Bill from doctor's office to hospital, from his room on the critical care unit to radiology where he was wheeled by a fast walking young man with a hint of facial hair, from the second floor of to the front door of the hospital where he was escorted by the wise-cracking red-haired nurse who hugged him before she sent him on his way, I was watching and listening, not only to people and places around me, but also to the drama within me: the anticipation, the confusion, the fear.

When I pay attention it is easy to see that each moment contains a whole world of possibility: pain, suffering, joy, gratitude, love, hate...it's all there waiting to be written about...

Day 63

Bill is in the hospital. Last night when I came home alone my imagination started weaving all kinds of new plots. I imagined myself living here alone: getting up in the morning to an empty kitchen, the bar stool he normally fills while he drinks his coffee and reads the morning newspaper empty. I imagined going to the co-op alone: sitting by myself at a table eating deli food made bland by the lack of conversation. I imagined myself watching television alone at night: staring blankly at the screen wishing for a some witty commentary, the kind Bill is so good at. I imagined sleeping all alone in our big king sized bed, the one we picked out together, the one that was never intended for one person.

I used to think that I didn't have much imagination. Yet I have always written these kinds of stories. They are stories grounded in fear. I see now that imagination can be a dangerous vessel. It can take me to the darkest corners of my soul. It is up to me to navigate and steer. It is up to me to be aware and use my imagination to create something that is grounded in love rather than fear.

Day 62

I went to the doctor yesterday with Bill to get answers to the question of a syndrome of vague symptoms that he has been plagued with for about a month. Tests were ordered to rule out the more troubling possibilities. Neither Bill nor I flinched when the earnest young doctor used the word Cancer. We listened and nodded and did the next thing.

I followed Bill to the lab for a blood draw and sat in the waiting room reading an well-worn issue of Sunset while he had a chest x-ray. I found a couple of good recipes and thought about donating the stacks of old magazines Bill has stored in his office.

We left the clinic and went to the co-op for a late lunch. Over kale salad and sweet potato fritters, we talked about illness and death. What if? How would we care for each other? How would we cope? I remember feeling so grateful for the intimacy: an intimacy made sweeter by the reminder that the future is not a guarantee.

The phone rang while we were putting away the groceries from the co-op. It was the doctor. I handed the phone to Bill and opened the pantry door to shelve the rice noodles and the Tangerine Orange Zinger tea. I felt surprising detached as I listened to Bill's end of the conversation, although a winced just a little when I heard him ask: "Is it painful?"

He got off the phone and relayed the conversation to me, in much the same way the pretty young anchor people report the news. The results from the tests were back already. There was a cause for concern. The doctor was ordering more tests. He had to be at the hospital tomorrow at 11:45.

I remained calm and detached throughout this whole course of events. I didn't allow myself to catastrophize. Each time my mind tried to hurl me into some imagined catastrophic future, I refused to go. I took a deep breath and stayed grounded in the present: the place where Bill and I are together in our home. It is a safe place.

I was doing so well. I started to feel rather smug about my spiritual progress. Here I was faced with a potential crisis and I was at peace. I was a frickin Buddha. I sat down at my desk to check my email. There was a message from a friend full of simple kindnesses. Suddenly my face was wet with tears.

Almost immediately I had a name for the place these tears came from. I thought: pain-body. It is a term coined by Eckhart Tolle to refer to the pain we carry with us: unresolved grief associated with past events. The events of the day had reawakened in me the pain body that is linked to past abandonment.

There is only one way to deal with the pain body. You have to name it, honor it, nurture it, invite it to tea. Like a baby, it needs to held and rocked and sung to.

Day 61

I spent the last two days grading papers. Not long after posting the grades, I started receiving complaints:

You said that I didn't clearly respond to the questions posed in the assignment instructions. I think that I did.

I posted my paper 3 minutes late and you imposed a late penalty. Unfair!

I followed the recommendations of the grammar checker and you still found grammatical errors. What's the deal with that?

I found myself getting increasingly irritated with these messages. It was difficult to respond with anything other than defensiveness and anger.

What I really wanted was appreciation. I wanted the students to see my intention: to help them learn and develop the skills they need to be successful in the future. I think it's what we all want: to know that our efforts make a difference in the lives of others.

In my own life, this need for appreciation comes second only to my need for self-expression: to be heard and understood. While I recognize that writing can help me meet these needs, I also recognize that it may not.

What I write may never be heard or understood. It may never be appreciated. It may never contribute to the world in any kind of meaningful way. What then? Do I try to fill my cup from a different stream? Or do I stare at the empty cup and allow the frustration and anger to well up in me and then write about that?

Day 60

Last night as I was making myself dinner, I listened to an interview with one of my favorite authors, Joyce Carol Oates. She recently penned a memoir: On Becoming a Widow. It has been three years since her husband died. She talked about the empty place in her life that was left with his death.

It seems trite to use words like best friends or soul mates to describe a marriage. Her marriage was clearly so much more than those words can convey, as is mine. Listening to her, I naturally thought about what it would be like to be without Bill. My eyes begin to sting even as I type the words.

Just a year after we got married, seven years into our relationship, Bill got very sick. I remember waiting in the sterile hospital waiting room while he had surgery. Anyone who has ever waited in one of these rooms surely knows just how alone one can be in a cloud of people. I remember sitting there, thinking: I cannot go on without him. I literally could not imagine my life without him in it.

Last night as I listened to Joyce Carol Oates talk about the day her husband passed and how certain she was that her own life was over, I realized how much I have changed since that day in the waiting room. I have learned to live with pain. I am less inclined to resist and avoid. I choose to feel. That choice is a road of opportunity. I am learning to take care of myself. The writing is a good example. I have found a companion in the empty page.

Joyce Carol Oates fell in love again and got remarried two years after the death of her husband. Our stories just keep changing and evolving...