Anchors

A friend who beat endstage cancer wrote that work and his colleagues pulled him out of the disorientation of his unexpected second life, and anchored him to his future. While I’m not facing the emotional confusion of stage 4 cancer, I’ve been thinking about what anchors me to life.

Clearly, my children are the unbreakable link. I distinctly recall, upon learning of John’s death, feeling that I was now the one remaining lung, the one kidney, and had to guard my life that much more carefully. I thought of our friend’s daughter, born with with only one functioning eye. She wears clear eyeglasses to protect her good eye. The risk calculus changes when there is no back-up, and I have made more conservative decisions than I otherwise might have, turning back in uncertain snow conditions, avoiding small planes. I have been keenly aware that widows have a high rate of death, especially in the early years, from disease, accidents, self-destructive behavior.

Wanting to stay alive for my children is a given. The question my friend’s email precipitated was, what anchors me to my past and future self? I am currently in a sort of limbo, without my usual home, work, community and even family as Rosie will be with my parents for the school year. (I had to laugh when I read a book given to me by and for young breast cancer patients in which I am advised to keep all routines as normal as possible for the children. What routines? What normal? Ha!)

The outdoors has become, at least for the past few years, my anchor. I miss the landscape of Juneau fiercely, the mountains, shorelines, beaches, the endless wonder. After John died, I was determined to continue to raise the kids active and close to nature. It took a lot of help from friends to get us skiing and camping and hiking when Alder was three and four, but we got up Mt. Jumbo, spent magical nights at John Muir cabin and Pt. Bridget and Eagle beach, hiked and biked and picnicked. This summer Rosie can carry weight and Alder can hike longer distances. More importantly, they have internalized the routine.

When you lose your co-parent, you lose that person who stands with you, doubling your strength when you proclaim, “This is the way things work in this family.” It’s harder to establish the family values, to hold to a vision, when you are one reed weathering the winds of two children, And so it means more to me perhaps than it should, to be with my family in the mountains and wilderness. To me, it's our anchor to our family identity, to our past and our future.

As for cancer, it was a good week. I did three relatively hard runs Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and chemo was no match for me Wednesday afternoon. My white blood counts were high and my energy didn’t plummet, cementing my conviction that exercise is the elixir of life. Alder and I are heading to Mt. Rainier shortly for two nights of camping and hiking with KK, one of my earliest Juneau friends, now living with her family in northern Idaho. 

Have a great week, friends...

My mom, Rosie, Katie and Alder, who has learned to loathe the camera...

Wednesday chemo. Oh, thank you for the poison Kool-aid!

My kids, friends from Juneau, my niece and nephew! An impromptu post-chemo party definitely helped allay any side effects. 

Rosie and Portia at the top of Mt. Jumbo yesterday. Proud of my girl, it's as good as doing it myself. (Yes, she is getting around this summer!)