8

The love of my life has Lyme disease. A Monday morning routine physical and booster shot vet visit for Snickers and his "cousin" Duke turned horrible. The vet tech told me without any fanfare and didn't seem overly concerned. She told me they were seeing a lot more of it this year. I went Crazy Mother on her and asked roughly eight thousand questions. Once I was pacified that it wasn't too serious and that the medication would take care of it I headed home. I was feeling rotten about my poor kiddo having any disease but feeling okay about his prognosis. Twice daily antibiotics - four for Duke and 2 for Snickers. I even managed to find a brilliant way to get pills into a pug and a yellow lab! [Leftover Velveeta shells make wonderful "pill pockets" and cost less than the Greenies treats that serve the same function.]

Wednesday morning I crawled out of bed and shuffled to the living room. The combination of sinus/ear/eye infections had left me exhausted even after a good night's sleep. Snickers was curled up on a blanket, sound asleep and I crawled in next to him and read and napped the afternoon away. It wasn't until around six when my mother got home that I realized there was a problem. A big problem. Snickers barked when he heard her car and started to get up. He immediately fell over. I thought he just had a foot caught in the blanket and didn't worry. Then when he tried to stand up again and fell over... I freaked out. Mum picked him up and set him on his feet. He collapsed again. By this point I was starting to cry and hyperventilate. Mum ran into the kitchen and got pepperoni. If pepperoni doesn't get his attention we could confirm a serious problem. He started dragging himself toward the kitchen with his front legs and his back legs were just dragging behind him. Words could never describe the cold fear that gripped me.

I dialed the emergency veterinary clinic but couldn't speak once the woman answered. I handed the phone to Mum and ran to pull on a pair of jeans. While Mum was getting directions I bundled my pugling up in his favorite blanket and tucked the toy his Dad just sent him in the blanket with him. He seemed out of it by this point but I wanted to give him whatever small comfort I could. The ride to the vet was awful. I put him on the seat next to me so I wouldn't be hurting his legs in any way. He looked so lost and confused I put my hand down for him to rest on. He fell into an uneasy sleep while tears ran down my face. I sang "You Are My Sunshine," I prayed, I kissed his sweet little face. Even when it was his crisis, his little body shaking with pain, my little man did what he has always done, he took care of his Mum. That fevery little pug tongue licked the tears off my face. This reminded me of all the time I had spent during my cancer treatment when it was just me and my pets and I had let myself cry. It never failed that Snick would lick my tears until it made me laugh. Thinking of this made me switch from prayer to pleading. "Please God, help my baby through this, I'm not me without my little dude. I couldn't take it if something happened to him. Please please please please please...."

Finally we were at the veterinary clinic. I bundled him in my arms and scurried in. Pretty sure I cut in front of another couple and their dog who were in line to buy food or something but at that moment nothing in the world existed but Snickers. I was a desperate woman with a hurting pug. They rushed him into an exam room. Bless his little heart, he was so brave. I filled out the paperwork on him while my heart pounded in my ears. I'm really not even sure what I wrote down. 99% of my attention was focused on Snick and keeping him from being too scared. The vet came in and checked him all over. Then my poor little man had to be put on the floor so she could see his legs. She held him up and checked to see which legs he would try to take pressure off of. By this point he wasn't putting any weight on his left front leg either. The vet was puzzled and I felt like throwing up. I was sweating buckets from the stress and I felt like there wasn't any air in the room. She concluded that it was most likely a delayed onset of the Lyme disease symptoms although she had never seen an animal start showing symptoms after they started the medication. Three shots and another prescription later we were sent home with instructions to call if the pain medicine didn't calm his trembling body.

I held him in my arms like a baby all the way home and when we got home I settled him on my lap. I scarfed my supper down and then held a container of wet cat food for him to nibble on. Thankfully he was interested in food again and he finished it. I ended up just listening to the movie that we had put on in an effort to distract me. I couldn't take my eyes off the sleeping bundle on my lap and in my arms. I kept checking his belly and feet to see how hot they were. He had stopped trembling but I was still afraid of the other, far scarier aspects of lyme disease. Kidney or heart failure? I get goosebumps even thinking about it.

Somewhere between holding him up on a "pee pad" so he wouldn't have to go outside on the slippery deck and sitting in the rocking chair nervously watching him all night... I realized something. I can handle crisis situations. After I was diagnosed with cancer I asked my Mum if she needed me to drive home. But something happening to my baby man? I can't handle it. I am reduced to hysterical sobs, ulcer pain, and panic beyond belief. Only now, with him next to me and his sleeping face on the edge of the laptop, can I start to relax. I have a lab against my left leg and a pug against my right. I'm pretty sure it's a million degrees in here and being in the middle of a dog sandwich is a bit warm but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

7

Luis Fraile de la Fuente was one of a kind. He had a love for mischief that most of us sadly outgrow. I can picture that little smile and the twinkle in his eyes with perfect clarity. Those twinkling brown eyes with those crazy gray eyebrows above them. Though he was a stranger to me that July, I knew his eyes. He will live on through his grandson’s eyes and all of our memories.

****

In 1955 Rosario Calvo, better known as Sarito, became Rosario de le Fuente Calvo. And Luis? He became the happiest man on earth. I’ve never seen a love like the love between Luis and Sarito. Even after all those years of marriage the love between them was so strong. I cannot think of words that would do justice to the love they had. In almost all pictures taken of Luis you can bet that he is looking at his wife, just as proud as the day they were married. I loved looking at the photos from their wedding day. The years had barely touched them. And yet their house was filled with a lifetime of memories. Everywhere you looked was an example of something they had shared. Whether it was pictures of their children and grandchildren or souvenirs from every country you could think of filling shelves and display cases, you could tell their life together was one that was lived to the fullest.

 ****
I never managed to pay for anything when he was around. I desperately tried to purchase something, anything to repay him for his kindness. I was never fast enough. Once, when we were getting eis, I almost had him. My euros were up first! But the young man looked at me, then looked at him - and took his money. And of course there was my disastrous attempt and sneaking inside the restaurant that day on our trip to Rüdesheim. It would figure the one time I had a chance to pull the waitress aside she would be the one person I met who didn’t speak a word of English. I remember how everyone laughed as I slunk back outside behind her and listened to her tell everyone that I had tried to give her money and she had no idea what I was saying!


****
My favorite story about Luis revolves around his ever-present love of mischief. His work for the embassy took him back and forth between Spain and Germany. The border in-between being, of course, France.  This posed an interesting problem for a man who wanted to stock-up on Spanish sherry but was only allowed two bottles at a time over the border. Somewhere along the line he decided to make a bit more room in his car. Since he had that all important sticker to let you cruise through the border without any need for inspection he decided to get creative. Luis is the only man I know who would rip out the stuffing of their car’s backseat to make room to hide his booze. I can easily picture how he must have laughed each time he cleared the border with crates and crates of alcohol tucked neatly in his backseat.
****
My favorite memory of him is from our trip to Rüdesheim. I still don’t have the pictures from his camera as he snapped boatloads of pictures of me and Christian but I have the ones he took on mine. I still remember trying not to laugh as I posed with Christian in front of Niederwalddenkmal. I was so impressed with it I wanted a picture of me standing with my gorgeous German with it in the background. I relayed that request to Luis through Christian. He had us check it to make sure it was okay the first time he handed the camera back. I had to laugh. We were standing in front of one of the symbols of Germany. A ten and a half meters tall monument was behind us and what did he take a picture of? Just us. When Christian had him take another it was so hard not to crack up. It was the sweetest thing. He was baffled by why we would want anything other than a close-up of us. And you know what? I think that is part of the secret to happiness. Luis knew what was really important.

****

He was the first person I saw when I arrived in Germany. In a month he became more to me than people I’ve known since birth. I love him so much. I am so glad I got to meet him. His life didn’t last much longer after the summer I visited. Pneumonia came and stole a 78 year old man who had previously been as healthy and energetic as any middle-aged person I knew, perhaps more so. His death shattered the hearts of everyone who knew and loved him. Luis Fraile de la Fuente was not actually “Luis” to me. He was my Opa. I was blessed to “adopt” him through Christian. He was the grandfather I had always wished for.

I love learning. I have little interest in things that aren’t educational in some way.  My favorite thing to do is read. My goal is a minimum of 100 books a year. I even read textbooks for fun. If I’m watching TV you can bet it’s a documentary. I’m even studying to become a teacher myself. Learning and teaching are what make me tick. When thinking about my education several experiences come to mind.

I dropped out of public school when I was in 7th grade. The reason was simple. I was painfully bored. I was in an advanced reading class but all the teacher did was pop Disney movies into the VCR so he could browse websites about fishing. Which, since I’m discussing boredom, fishing websites also seem painfully boring but hey, that’s just me! Every single day I would raise my hand, walk to the front of the room, and excuse myself. I asked to leave reading class so I could go sit in the library and read whatever book I was in the middle of on that day. Yes, I left reading so that I could read. Go figure. That turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the quality of education in Bucksport middle school that year. In deciding to drop out of public school I learned so much. I learned that having a say in my curriculum was like Christmas. I did in-depth studies on historical people that interested me. I decided to do a Bible study because as a home schooled kid it was expected of me and religion had always interested me. I did the essential courses like math but I had so much more time to do things that I was passionate about. The gift of more time was a powerful learning tool.

Having the chance to study in Ireland was such a blessing. It was the people and the travel that made the memories so special but there are certain parts of the formal education that I’ll never forget. For example, the night I spent studying my Irish Law notes until I thought my eyes were going to bleed. I remember sitting on the cold floor of the apartment bathroom at 4am so I would have enough room and light to study all of the different papers I had accumulated that semester. I was in such a panic. What was I thinking to take that class? Legalese in my own country is hard enough - what possessed me to take what my Irish classmates considered their most difficult course? When the morning of the final exam came I discovered that the school had failed to provide me with a scribe. Four complex essays to write, neuropathy crippled hands, and no one to help. Even worse, I had been planning to walk over with the scribe to the building where the testing was held and now I had no idea where I was supposed to go. Eventually one of the college staff members walked by and asked why I was crying. The testing center was called and I was brought over. With a monkey-grip on my pen I only managed to complete two and a half essays. But with those 2.5 essays? I got the highest score in the class and a professor who said she will gladly give me a glowing reference if I want to go into law. I found out later that to do well they expect you to score around 40%. It’s a good thing someone told me or else I would have fainted when I saw my grades for my semester abroad.

I can’t talk about education without mentioning the wonderful children I help teach three days a week. I’m a helper in the kindergarten classroom and my time there is an absolute joy. It’s a crying shame that I’m doubtful about my ability to get a job in the field once I have my degree. Sadly teaching jobs are getting cut and within my town we’re going to undergo even more budget cuts in the school. The children’s passion for learning and their relentless curiosity energizes me. They are absolutely exhausting so it’s a good thing that something gives me energy! Whether they are making me laugh or want to cry, they remind me what is really important. In return, I teach them foundational things like math and reading. Each minute in a kindergarten classroom can contain frustration, love, humor, and something I can only describe as a type of magic that only children have. Just last week I listened to a 6 year old telling a 5 year old all about rainbows and the sun. And these were not Magic School Bus descriptions! These were descriptions that I challenge most EMCC students to rival. She can’t tie her shoes but wow does she have an amazing scientific mind! On the other side of the coin, yesterday I had to sit down with a student and explain that the toy fruit from the household dramatic play area need to stay outside of our clothing. I never thought I would have to address inappropriate usage of oranges and that, “Lookit my boobies!” wasn’t something we said in kindergarten. It’s fun and it’s always something new. Which is, of course, the best part of learning.

This May I will finally graduate from Eastern Maine Community College. It’s taken me far too many years to compete a two year degree but I console myself with reminders of how much else I have done in that time. I’m definitely ready to graduate and move on though. My first year at EMCC was a blast. I had friends my own age and the classes seemed to fly by. Every time I drive by the cheapest Chinese restaurant in town I think of my first year in college. We would all drive over after our 7pm classes got out and make the most of our money. I don’t think I ever left there without a stomachache from the combination of eating until I felt like I was going to burst and laughing too much. After my medical leave school became incredibly tiring for me. When I first came back everyone was very supportive but the more hair I grow, the more my teachers think I am back to normal. It’s impossible to explain that I will never be back to the level of energy I once was at. A lot of my classes seem like a giant blur. My memory immediately after chemotherapy was terrible but I insisted on going back because college meant so much to me. Lately it just means fatigue. I’m freaked out and I just want my diploma.

I’m sad that I’m at a point where education has become a drag. I desperately want my energy back so that learning can become fun again and not something that stresses me out so much. I think that getting my diploma may help because I will finally have something to show for my efforts. I’m also hoping that going to the University of Maine in the fall will be the change I need to refresh my attitude towards college. I’ve decided to branch out and hopefully get a degree that will be useful to me in charity work and I’m leaning toward majoring in Communications. At the very least I can say that I’m incredibly excited to minor in German. That is at least a step back in the right direction towards joy in my education.

Our anniversary is next month. Four years of this crazy relationship.  You’re mad and you want to give up. I know that. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But, I’m not going to give up on you. I know I’ve cursed you out over the years and said horrible things but I didn’t mean them. I woke up every hour last night and hated you so much. Yet another trip to the fridge in the middle of the night to try to dull the pain. You have caused me so much pain. I can’t think about anything but you when you hurt me and yet I callously forget all that you have sacrificed when you’re not causing me pain. So I want to take this opportunity to thank you.

I could never replace you. There will never be another you. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You did what others could never do. You know that! You know that they left. They couldn’t do their jobs. They were poison and they tried to get to you but you were too strong for that. You not only stayed strong but you stepped in and filled the void. For almost four years you have carried me and shielded me from their absence the best that you could. I appreciate it, I really do. You’ve given me support for so long. It’s too easy to forget that while you may cause me pain, you also prevent it. You have kept me from so much.

My shame over showing you to people embarrasses me. It’s not you though, it’s the neighborhood. The last boyfriend I had didn’t appreciate you but this one does. Yes he flinched when he saw you. Yes he was scared. But he took photos of you that night in Ireland. Yes yes, you can say that that was only about me. And I know you’re right but I bet he could sketch you from memory. Christian realizes how much I need you and how much I love you. I’m sorry that I don’t shout it from the rooftops. But, at least I don’t have to be embarrassed anymore. He’ll certainly be mad when he gets off his plane and hears about your recent behavior but he’ll get over it. So will I.

That’s why I need you to stay. Please stop this insanity. You’re beautiful. I’ll continue to take care of you. I can even do better. What more can I do? What can I buy you? What do you need? I can’t accept your leaving. I hope that isn’t really what this fight is about. I know that I cut you down. This relationship is brittle. I wish things weren’t so fragile. But darling, even when you’re half of what you used to be you’re still more than I ever expected possible.

Tonight I’m going to close my eyes and pray for you. I’ll wash my hair tonight and we’ll sleep on any decisions. Tomorrow if you’re still angry I’ll do what needs to be done. We’ll go to the hospital if that’s what you need. We’ll get more drugs for you. We’ll make adjustments. I’ll get a phone number for someone local and find someone who can make you more comfortable. We don’t even have to drive to Boston. We’ll make it through this. I know that I can’t keep you forever but I’m not willing to give up on you yet. I love you. Please get better. I love you so much Hero Tooth.

get off your "high" horse

There is a commonly held belief about having cancer that drives me insane. I hate it. Every time I hear someone talking about it I want to scream. And yet, it never fails, in any class whether it is ethics, speech, or just a class where the discussion can circle around to it - someone is going to say it. It is always said with the utmost conviction and the last time it came up and I politely tried to "myth bust" I was told that I had done something wrong. They had the facts right and me, the person who underwent cancer treatments, had it wrong.  I didn't do it right apparently. I wish that people would get off their "high" horse. Yeah, I had cancer. Yeah, I've smoked pot. I'm here to report back that the only thing it did for me is waste time that could have been spent on the couch half-watching TV or perhaps counting ceiling tiles (arguably things that one does after smoking pot and not instead of). It did not cure my cancer. It did not in any way shape or form help alleviate any of the symptoms and side effects I was suffering from. I wish that it was the drug that people want it to be. I wish I could have had relief. But I didn't and that, surprise surprise, isn't uncommon among cancer patients.

We decided to see what pot would do for me after my doctors suggested it as a "worth a try since we've done everything else" kind of thing. I was no longer eating and had been on a liquid diet for about two months. Because I am so blessed I  happen to be allergic to most of the medications they give you during chemotherapy to treat nausea. I learned this the hard way after several allergic reactions during treatment. The hope was that it might entice me to eat and help my constant nausea. As it stood there were only two medications that I could take for nausea and two is definitely not enough. So I figured, why not?

After acquiring some Vermont homegrown from an extended relative, we set about preparing the bathroom for this adventure. This involved close inspection of all the ventilation fans in the bathroom and towels being tucked around them and the bottom of the door. It also involved my father rolling his eyes and going out on the balcony until we were done. Even at my doctor's suggestion my father wasn't going to endorse something illegal. Those darn substance abuse counselor dads! My Mum, the nurse and woman who had spent roughly eight million hours holding my head while I vomited and another eight million trying to get me to consume food to vomit up later, was all in. My brother thought that it was too funny to pass up. He's a police officer and sat on the edge of the tub the whole time with a towel over his face so that he wouldn't breathe anything in but I don't think he would have missed it for the world.

My relative, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that giving me marijuana and a pipe would be the way to go. I was 20 years old and had never smoked anything in my life. I also had the added complication of not having a sinus. My surgery, in a nutshell, means that my right nostril is simply open down all the way through the opening that is the roof of my mouth. I can't use straws, I hold my breath to blow my nose, etc. 

So we settled in. I sat on the floor, Mum on the toilet seat, and my brother perched on the edge of the tub. I stared at the pipe in bewilderment. Mum realized she needed to show me how it was done. Then it was passed back to me. I tried and the smoke went right out my nose in spite of the cries to, "Pull it to your lungs! Hold it in!" Mum showed me again. I tried again and again did the straight out my nose routine. I realized I had to do something to keep it from escaping through my sinus. This time after Mum handed it back to me I plugged my right nostril with one finger while holding the pipe with my other fingers.  It's a small wonder I didn't burn myself with the way I was balancing that pipe.

Okay! That worked much better. My lungs were on fire! My lungs were on fire! I started coughing like it was my job. With tears streaming down my face I asked what on earth the fuss was all about. It went something like, "What -hack hack hack hack- is -hack hack hack hack- wrong - hack hack gag gag - with -gag choke hack- people? This.... is..... so -cough- gross!"

I waited a few minutes to recoop and didn't think I had done it properly so I tried again. This attempt was followed by, "IT HURTS! IT BURNS!" and coughing so hard my eyeballs nearly fell out of my head. As soon as I could stop coughing I would try again. It felt like I was dying when I held that smoke in my lungs but I was determined to make sure I did it right so it would work.
One more try and I was going to give up. I was starting to think if this was what I had to do to feel good than it wasn't worth it.  I did my crazy finger grip on the pipe and plugged my nose and held it in my lungs for what felt like three years. It was probably closer to three seconds. This time it burned so bad I had to jump up and lean over the sink and heave while I coughed.

Once I was done dry heaving I did what every sophisticated woman of the world does after smoking pot. I pulled out my prosthesis and then shouted unintelligible profanities as I frantically brushed my teeth. Now, I will grant you that someone looking at me cross-eyed made me nauseous that year but the taste of pot is not something that anyone can possibly enjoy. I have never tried it but it's what I imagine cat urine must taste like.
So pot didn't cure my cancer. I didn't get the munchies. I didn't even get any relief from my nausea.  I resent being told that pot is a wonder drug for cancer. It may work for some patients but among all of my survivor friends I only know one person who managed to get any relief whatsoever.

 It wasn't an entire bust though. I did gain a story that will last a lifetime. While I happen to be a pot smoker failure - my Mum? She's a champ. In teaching her daughter how to smoke pot we discovered that my Mum doesn't even cough! She is what you could call a natural! She spent the next four hours in the bathroom because she was too embarrassed for her children to see that she accidentally got high. I thought it was great that my hardworking and overstressed nurse got to take a vacation. Marijuana transformed my Boston apartment's shower into the "rain forest."  It sounded like quite the trip. I'm really quite jealous - all pot gave me was a funny taste in my mouth and a huge stain on the top of my first obturator.