3:30 Wake-Up Call

Hoover became agitated early this morning and woke me up because I am a woman and hear things in the night . He then woofed, and woofed again, and I dragged myself, bleary-eyed and slightly alarmed, out of bed and into my robe, and out to the kitchen where, less than a week earlier, Hoover had announced my arrival to an equally alarmed (but less sleepy) Ian. There was no one at the door, and I went to the window to see if our raccoon had come back. No, but there was a bit of something dark and green dropped just inside the gate, with a scribbled note on it. Craig? I thought, supposing that our crazy friend had been in attendance to return something, but no,it was Ian's jacket--the jacket I had handed to him--with his acknowledgement and gratitude, mind you--as he ran out the door to his taxi. Evidently however, not having remembered to collect it himself, it was not in his mind as one of the things he was taking on his trip, and so he left it in the cab. The cabbie, a wonderful man, brought it by at the end of his shift, with a note explaining that he had picked up a man who worked for NOA and was on his way to Hawaii from our corner and this was his--could I maybe get it back to him?

Hoover was confused about why Ian wasn't in the jacket, but went back to bed anyway, and this time let me sleep until 9. I think we'll be okay, if a little sad, without dad.

At Least He’s Not Off to War

I just watched Ian get in a cab and drive away to the airport, where he'll fly off to Honolulu (between the two of us, we're practically living in warm climates—i.e. not Seattle—these days) for a week-long conference. I chose not to accompany him on this one because I've just been to Hawaii, and I've just been to an additional warm place, and I was in a warm place before, and we were in another warm place before that, and, honestly, one of the things I like about travel is knowing that I have a home base to come back to, and frankly, in recent months, my home base has been so unfrequented by me that it was beginning to feel like a medical shop and that was pretty much all. I want to love my home, not dread it, and so, along with emotional cleansing for the year, I am also working toward rediscovering/discovering how to be free at home, instead of having to go away to be free. To integrate my work/play lives a bit more, if you will, in addition to integrating my spiritual/physical/emotional/mental lives.

It's daunting work, though, trying to figure out how to recognize deeply ingrained, unhelpful patterns of thought and bring them to light, thus letting them crumble and disintegrate in the air and environment . . . and I've discovered recently that I'd really prefer to do those things (and most other things) with Ian at close hand. I like Ian. He's my best friend. He's sweet and funny, he asks really good questions, he's a generous hugger when I'm having an unexpected crying jag . . . and he takes a lot of the dog pressure off by walking them every morning long before I'm interested in getting out of bed. I'm less independent now than I was 9 ½ years ago when we got married and that, like many other things I believe I know about myself, is a change I need to recognize and embrace.

And so, my new more-dependent self was sad to see Ian go this afternoon. Sad enough that I decided I'd rather—I'd better—stay home and not deal with driving him to the airport. Don't worry—I will keep myself busy this week, and the house will most likely not devolve into the pit of untidiness I surprised, along with Ian, when I came home three days early last week. But I'm sad, and he's only going to a beautiful place to work in an office setting for a week. There were a lot of troops coming and going from Seattle and Dallas when I flew last week, and I can only imagine how infinitely harder it must be for their families. My heart goes out to them.

It’s Not All Bad

What I really mean to say here is that It's Not AT All Bad. I'm talking about my recent (and presumably future as well) bouts of weeping and release, and I want you readers to know about the great benefits that I am discovering.

The other night, after watching Glee, I was awake for many hours (until 4:30 am, at least). The first several hours of my wakefulness I was, yes, going over memories of my father and crying, quietly now, as I thought about many more examples of his often unexpected sweetness; his quick temper and irritability; his ability to build anything (not necessarily perfectly well) that he could imagine out of wood, metal or concrete; his skill not only at performing music himself, but encouraging others around him to perform; his rascally (but never mean) sense of humor; and, of course, his oh-so-charming method of praising a child for work well done, i.e. the following conversation:

Me: "Dad! I got a 96 percent on my trigonometry quiz!"

Dad: "What happened to the other 4 percent?".

But the thing was, these thoughts were not keeping me awake any more than I was staying awake to be able to think them. I love that time I just had, memory gates open, marveling and mourning and REMEMBERING, a person who has had, and continues to have even in his absence, a huge influence in my life.

The memory taps eventually ran dry for the night, though, or had been running into my bladder; at any rate, I got up to use the bathroom. While I was in there I suddenly thought "I am not actually going to need my anti-anxiety medication forever," and a wave of peace washed over me. I am not an anxious person at heart, and the current need for medication to live my life on an even keel has, ironically, made me the tiniest bit anxious. I'm still taking the medication, and recognize that I'm not in a place to stop taking it right now (and, in fact, had the beginnings of an anxiety attack yesterday afternoon after having my eyes dilated and then an hour and a half of Gyrotonic—talk about induced vertigo) . . . but someday I will be. I am DOING, I really am, the wrenching but also satisfying work of clearing the shuttered, bank-vaulted, nailed-in tight and then tarred-and-buried-deep-in-the-sand-on-an-uncharted-tropical-island boxes and crates and pirate's chests of all my long-repressed emotions.

Why is it, how is it, that we as a culture have come to learn to repress and hide our strongest emotions? How have we learned that THAT is the appropriate way to be human? Stiff upper lip and all? Don't Cry Out Loud? How many people who succumb to "road rage", for example, would have avoided it if they'd just felt free to scream or weep to someone, anyone, about a really awful experience at work, or even a not-so-awful one that just needed a bit of airing?

What are we afraid of?

Watch “Glee” for Catharsis

I never followed through here with the aftermath of my breakthrough at the Witch Doctor's—i.e. that I should forgive myself for getting cancer. First of all, I think that it's not that I feel I "deserve" it, nor do I think it's a "punishment", nor did I somehow ask for it to come. Rather, I think I've been judging myself for being so weak? inattentive? just plain foolish? as to get it at all. How could I, strong, smart, independent, farm-bred, International Woman of Mystery, capable I have somehow acquired cancer? It just doesn't compute. Someone must be to blame. It must be me.

Witch Doctor Dan did open up some physical blockage, for which I am grateful. Ian came home from work hungry the evening that I was writing about the experience, before I was done. I, in the midst of emotional housecleaning, was not hungry in the slightest. Ian fixed himself a snack and fiddled with things until I had posted.

"Okay, I'm done," I said from the couch, which has been doubling as my office during the colder winter months, since low temperatures coupled with our 90-year-old single-paned windows and uninsulated lath-and-plaster walls have made my actual office an unfriendly 54 degrees. "Can I read it to you?"

"Yes, please," said Ian attentively from the easy chair, laying aside his new android phone.

I read, about Dan recognizing my emotions still bottled up about my dad, and tears came. Ian moved over to the couch and put his arm around me while I went on, to the part where I needed to forgive myself for getting cancer.

"Sweetie-pie," said Ian, and my heart center ruptured into gasping, wracking sobs. He tightened his arm and patted me, as I choked and coughed and wept. "It sounds like you needed to cry about this," he said, holding me close.

Cut to last night, episode 3 of season 2 of Glee (spoiler alert!). In the episode entitled "Grilled Cheesus," Kurt's father, a self-employed business-owning mechanic, suffered a serious heart arrhythmia and ended up in the hospital in a coma. Kurt had already lost his mother, and his father, a more complicated and more sensitive guy than "mechanic" implies in our culture (note: much like my father, for those of you who didn't know him), was obviously dear and important to him. After several days of no change to the coma, Kurt came into Glee Club after school and sang a song to his dad: I Wanna Hold Your Hand.

When my dad went into anaphylactic shock and was airlifted by the US Coast Guard from Stuart Island to Victoria, and my mom taken by cutter, the charter company we'd been renting our boat to for the summer was contacted by one of my aunts (who were on board for our mid-August San Juan Island boat trip), and the company sent someone out to meet us and bring in our boat.

I was annoyed by this. At 19, I was already more skilled at captaining than my mother (who, granted, had no real interest in running the boat anyway), and I desperately wanted something to do, while we waited to hear something, anything, from Mom. The adults didn't think I should have to be in charge, however, or didn't trust that I could be, or who knows what, and so I sat on the flying bridge next to the rep from the charter company and focused all my attention on holding my father's hand.

His hands were stained and the skin of his fingers cracked from years of working with grease and oil and heavy, filthy car parts and not wearing gloves (although, I think you probably do better as a mechanic without them)—and not being at all vain, so his attempts at cleaning up were notably imperfect. His fingers had grown large and rugged over the years, and I never saw him wear a wedding ring; it would've been dangerous in his line of work, and his strong fingers grew out of it, anyway.

The same hands, though, gently held newborn lambs to be fed, intertwined with kids' hands to comfort and protect, and fluidly manipulated French horn keys so that Dad could share his soul through music.

On the boat that August day, in my mind, I held my father's hand from Stuart Island back to Anacortes, barely seeing the glowing northwest summer, the glinting waves, the green and rocky islands that we passed. "Stay with me, Dad," I repeated silently, over and over. "Stay with me."

We were just coming into port in Anacortes and I was on the bow, ready to jump off and moor, when our giant, early-90's brick of a cell phone rang from where I'd stuffed it in my back pocket. It was Mom. "He's gone," she said.

.

In Glee, Kurt's father of course regains consciousness near the end of the episode, with Kurt holding his hand. The tears, they started, and Ian said "do you want to watch another episode?" and I said "YES, of COURSE," and then Ian said, "but do you want a minute?" and I said yes, and then suddenly I was sobbing, gut wrenching sobs. Hoover came over to minister to me, while I, again, as fresh as yesterday, lost my dad. He never got to meet Ian. He isn't around to help me through difficult times now. I will never again make music with him. He can't tell me he's proud of me, or even disappointed. He's gone. And I miss him. I always will.

I can still remember the feel of his hand in mine.

Conversation Circa January 1989

Me: "I'm not afraid to drive in the snow."

Dad, instantly infuriated: "Damnit anyway! You SHOULD be afraid to drive in the snow! How long have you had your license? THREE MONTHS???"

Me: "DAAAad! I'm not an IDIOT! I drive cautiously in the snow. I look at the environment, and I feel how the car is responding, and I drive according to the conditions. FEAR would just get in the way, and keep me from making good decisions!"

Dad, begrudgingly mollified: "Humph. Well, alright. That makes sense."

Surprisingly wise for untested 16.

The Most Important Lesson

In my post the other day I mentioned remembering my lessons--live in the moment, be grateful, walk the dogs, hug Ian.

Well, my Xeloda arrived this morning at 10:00am, before I was even ready to take it (must eat breakfast first), heralded by a grrr-ing Hoover, who recognizes the sound of a UPS truck pulling up to disgorge people who will flagrantly invade his territory without his permission. Yes, alas, he hears this sound a lot.

The lesson I had forgotten to mention was this: There is ALWAYS enough time.

11.99999999999th Hour Success

So Xeloda, the chemotherapy drug I've been taking for the last several months, is an expensive drug. At my last insurance company, it was $3000/week, which equals, of course, $52000/year. For the most part, that was the drug company's part—I had a $50 copay that was unrelated to my out-of-pocket maximum: i.e. I paid it anyway. Xeloda is taken on a 3-week schedule of two weeks on, one week off. On January 4^th or 5^th, half-way through my first week of the latest cycle, and the last one paid for by my old insurance, I finally received my insurance membership number for my new insurance, contacted the insurance company, and emailed my nurse to let her know that a new prescription would have to be written, and where it would have to be sent. She did that by 6 Jan.

Since then, we've discovered the following things: for normal drugs, my mail-order pharmacy is Medco. For special drugs, i.e., Xeloda, Medco has a high-end pharmacy called Accredo that they contract with. For EXTRA special drugs, i.e. the ridiculously expensive Xeloda, a "preauthorization" is required from GEHA, the parent insurance company. This is a lot of levels to go through.

Once all of these levels and tasks have been successfully accomplished, the pharmacy calls me to extract my copay (in this case, almost $130 per three weeks), and set up delivery, which is overnight UPS.

Not surprisingly, accomplishing all these steps was not as easy as mounting a short, shallow marble staircase up from an infinity pool overlooking a Tahitian paradise. It was rather more like climbing an ancient ladder in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, with most of the rungs eaten out by poisonous giant termites. First, Nurse Deb spent a couple hours on hold trying to reach the preauthorization people so that she could get a form to fill out. Then the form had to be officially "received," days after it was faxed in. I called daily to check on progress; at one point they finally said "we'll call you at . . . well, it looks like we don't have a number for you. Where should we call you?" The day before yesterday the authorization hadn't quite been accomplished but looked like it was going to be by the end of the afternoon; yesterday, the authorization was accomplished and now the actual pill-pushers had to package everything up and then they would call me. That should've happened by the end of the day yesterday, as I need to take the drugs TOMORROW, SATURDAY, AND I AM LEAVING FOR HAWAII ON SUNDAY. I made this known to everyone I spoke with along the way.

Could they, in fact, send the drugs to me in Hawaii, if the process continued dragging on (I called and got a mailing address on the house we're renting)? Yes, but they only ship to Hawaii on Mondays and Tuesdays because the pharmacy is in New York and UPS doesn't guarantee one-day delivery except for the contiguous 48, and it would be the end of the week—i.e. about one week late—by the time they arrived there. Okay, can they ship to me, here, on Saturdays? Well, yes, if UPS delivers in our area on Saturdays. Well, do they? Well, I'll do my best to get things sent out today so they'll arrive Friday.

In the event, I did not get a call yesterday (SHOCKER), and so as soon as I hauled myself out of bed this morning and made my coffee (I'm not a total idiot), I put on my headset, got comfortable, dug in on the couch for a long siege of the Accredo customer service people (I was not getting off the phone until I knew I could get my drugs either by mail tomorrow, or somewhere within the city limits), and dialed.

One nice thing about the insurance company is that they almost always answer the phone before you go on hold. Ian, the nice-sounding gentleman this morning, picked up on the 2^nd ring. I explained what I was after, and he asked the necessary questions (birthdate, spelling of name), and said "Well, let me put you on hold and contact UPS and see if they can do a Saturday delivery in your area. Should be two minutes."

A couple minutes later he was back. "They do a Saturday delivery, and will have the drugs to you by noon tomorrow morning. It'll be $126.49 copay. Would you like to pay that now? And set up an automatic payment for the rest of your prescriptions this year?"

!

I was, of course, greatly relieved—I can now continue to take my drugs, perhaps only a couple hours behind schedule (we have to take the dogs to Maple Valley tomorrow morning and so I probably won't have a chance to have my morning dose until early afternoon)—but also a little incredulous. I had been working on this prescription every day for a couple weeks. Everyone I talked to at Medco/Accredo claimed that they understood the urgency and marked in my account notes about what was going on, and yet—they did not have my phone number. They did not know that UPS would deliver to me on Saturday and, I can only assume from the absence of their call to me, would not have bothered to find that out. In all, I was almost deafened by the screeching grind of rusted, un-oiled, un-maintained gears, but I persevered to the last of my strength, and won. And I am STRONG.

I'm suddenly really looking forward to a week in Hawaii. I could use a vacation.