While he has several months’ of sick days to use up before it’s official, James stopped working today is considering himself retired as he knows he won’t be returning.

Despite having twelve or fifteen years before he had intended to retire, James has worked enough jobs in his lifetime to earn him a well-deserved retirement, even if it’s not quite how he wanted it to happen. He started working at 16 years old, cutting lawns for $30 apiece, mostly through people he knew from church. A year later, James added to his workload, stocking shelves at the local IGA. He worked twice a week from the time school dismissed until 10pm. His shift changed later on and he started working at 3:30am on Saturday mornings. (Little did he know that 3:30am would be his start time for most of his professional life!)

During his senior year he began working at the meat counter, where he learned how to cut meat and wrap it. He also began umpiring Little League games, where he made $5 a game. He really liked when he could actually help the kids, getting them set up to bat correctly and putting the ball on the top of his mitt like an ice cream cone for them to hit off of when the tee was too difficult. He was still cutting lawns during this time, which left little room for much of a social life, but he enjoyed all of his jobs (and the money they brought in).

After high school graduation, he took a job helping maintain the course (mostly weed-whipping), so he quit cutting lawns but still worked at the grocery store and he continued to umpire in season. He was taking classes at the local community college, aspiring to go to the police academy and needed as much money as he could to pay for those classes.

A year later, his dad knew he wanted to get on with the local volunteer fire department. James wasn’t yet 21, the minimum age to volunteer, but his dad knew the Fire Chief and his dad was also terminally ill, and so he was granted a position six months before his 21st birthday. He changed to a full-time job at the meat processing plant in Yale. The parents of his girlfriend owned the plant and it was there that he learned how to clean the kill floor, manage deliveries and box the meat. The girlfriend was temporary, but his relationship with her parents continues to this day. If his days and nights weren’t busy enough already, he also took on work driving a tractor for a local farmer. He mostly helped with baling hay and working ground.

He tried several different jobs over the next few years, but every time he left the meat packing company, the owners would assure him he would always be welcomed back if he ever wanted to return. James is certain he could walk in the door even today and she would hire him immediately.

In 1996, James was hired to be an emergency dispatcher. He was hoping that this position might help him get into the police academy. It was a full-time position, working 12 hour shifts that paid $21,000 a year. He took calls for burglaries, armed robberies, accidents and people “just calling to complain about something.” His favorite part of the job was getting to dispatch the fire department. He least enjoyed arrogant supervisors. While he worked as a dispatcher, he started his own lawn-service company. After two years of the stress of dispatching, he quit, opting instead to take on more business with his, “A Cut Above” lawn service company.

He eventually did start at the police academy but a health condition discovered 13 weeks into the program forced him to abandon the dream of becoming an officer and he instead went to work for the USDA knowing they had good benefits and decent pay. He started as a meat inspector for the USDA in Plainwell, Michigan. This is where the early morning shifts began. While it was always hard to get up at that hour, having afternoons to himself was a great trade-off. During this time, he took up driving a limo as a side-job to make extra money. Bachelor and bachelorette parties were the most entertaining he said. The men often reminded James that he “didn’t see anything” and the girls went from primped and proper to barely holding it together by the end of the night.

He made a switch to meat grading a couple years later, moving to Souderton, Pennsylvania. The change meant an easier job and the plant left him alone more than they did when he was in inspection. Following an opening back in Plainwell, he moved back to Michigan a couple years later to be closer to family and friends and he remained there until his early retirement.

We never quite know how some decisions will impact us down the road, but it’s easy to see how James’ work ethic has served him well. His early retirement is only possible because of all the steps he took to ensure his future was solid financially. He has a pension which he can draw from while disabled and he has contributed to social security for over three decades, which will also provide income during this time.

But the places he worked and the people he worked with have been blessed by his work ethic, too. He didn’t just umpire children’s baseball games, he used his time to help them become better at the sport, in a fun, no-pressure way. He has worked for people and had people working for him and he knows what it means to treat people well. He has volunteered to help people during some of their worst emergencies. He as been all-but adopted by some of the people he worked for and he has made life-long friends along the way.

I am thrilled that James is able to officially retire and to enjoy his days doing whatever it might be that will bring him the most joy. That is a blessing indeed. But I know that the biggest blessing is his impact on this world, not just through his professions but through the man he was in every one of those roles.

I don’t know how people north of me do it. Honestly. I’m angry that the calendar says “May” and the high today never got out of the 50’s. I’d never make it if there was still a chance for snow.

Despite the heavy rain yesterday and the cool temps today, I still managed to get outside and spend hours with my hands in the dirt. It’s not quite as much fun as planting the garden, but putting perennials in the ground is a close second. I thought by now I’d have established beds with huge hostas, ferns and coral bells growing under all my oak trees, but I’ve apparently instead been designated as the one to keep the garden centers and nurseries profitable, as every year I’m back buying replacement plants for the ones that didn’t make it from last year. I’ll get it right eventually.

I didn’t get mulch yesterday and so I had to just plant and clean out the beds without adding the finishing touch of fresh black mulch. The girls in the coop were not in the least bit amused that I was out scratching around in the dirt and they were left in the run, but the hens are not the least helpful with cleaning up the beds, so they are in for the summer now. Once I started bringing bucketfuls of dirt, leaves, twigs and old mulch from the beds into the chicken run, however, they were quite content to scratch away even if it was inside the chicken wire.

There is a peacefulness to being outside in the country. The hens clucking in the run, the splash of a robin in the birdbath, and the songs of all the migratory birds returning for the season. Trudy does a great job of staying nearby. She will follow James to the barn, but when he starts up the chainsaw, she trots herself back up to the house to see what I am up to and supervises the cleanup while keeping an eye out for deer or rabbits that demand a quick chase off the property.

Even without the finishing touch of mulch, the beds I was able to conquer today look significantly better already. As always, I am excited and optimistic about the new plants and hope they will fill in and grow and save my bank account from more purchases next year (but even as I type that, I know I’m just kidding myself. I can’t stay away from garden centers and nurseries in the spring!) Over the next few weeks, the temps will rise, the sun will shine more often than not and my sprouts will move from the basement to the porch and then to the garden.

But for today, I enjoyed the time I spent in the dirt. A collection of worms in a jar made the chicks happy in the end, the cleared beds are all prepped and ready for mulch and my soul found peace in the feel and smell of damp earth, the delight in things growing, and the yearly progress we make on the farm. Simple spring chores are anything but when they soothe the soul like they did today. A blessed little thing indeed.

“Live in each season as it passes; breath the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”

– Henry David Thoreau

A couple years ago, I shared with friends a funny story about James coming home one day with the volume so high in his truck that I could hear the music from the road, a good distance from our house. As he pulled up closer to the garage, I could see him just singing away to the song and I laughed out loud when I realized it was Katy Perry he was rocking out to.

The story became legend and the song was played at several of our bonfire nights, always giving James the opportunity to show off his unabashedly funny side as he would belt out the lyrics (getting at least some of them right) to the crowd. That friend of mine still can’t hear the song today and not think about James singing his guts out to the tune.

I was wrong, in my last post, apparently my plate was not, in fact, yet full. The night before his third scheduled immunotherapy treatment on Tuesday, which we were pretty stoked about because the oncologist had been quite concerned about the first two treatments initially, worried that James would have a severe reaction, and so hitting the milestone of the third felt like a major win – but no, on Monday night, just as he was going to bed, James got his third COVID test results back and this time they were positive. Two negatives but now a positive.

Treatment was canceled, our entire trip to see the oncologist was canceled and our feelings of success were canceled as well.

But we did not let it get us down. We turned it around and decided this was actually good news. James has been absolutely miserable the last week or ten days. It seemed like his symptoms from treatment or just the cancer itself had just worsened over that time but now this diagnosis gave us new hope. Perhaps these symptoms were just COVID symptoms and that was very fixable! It might take a couple of weeks, but there was hope that this cough, this complete exhaustion might just be from COVID and not new or growing tumors. THAT felt like a win.

And even today, after a trip to the ER when his breathing got worse again, causing concern and alarm, we are still trying to see it all as a win. The respiratory ER doctor didn’t hear anything in James’ lungs that was worrisome (at least with regard to COVID, we know there are tumors in there), his oxygen levels were good and the CT scan came back with great flying colors (again, at least as far as COVID is concerned). And even better, tomorrow morning, James will go get the antibody therapy for COVID which will hopefully help eliminate some of these problematic symptoms entirely.

So, as I sit here and reflect on recent events and all the ways I feel like we just cannot catch a break; and I think about my day today, worried about James, at home, barely getting out of bed – I know how miserable I was with COVID just a week ago, and I don’t have tumors inside my lungs to make matters worse – even today, when I had a missed call from James on my cell and then my classroom phone rang and I knew he needed me right this minute; even then, running out of my school, offering prayers of gratitude for such amazing colleagues and administors, driving faster than I should have to get him to the ER, even now, thinking about all of this, I don’t feel exasperated. I don’t feel powerless. I don’t feel victimized or weak. I feel quite the opposite.

If this is the plate that life is serving up for us, if freaky weird, scary cancer wasn’t enough last year, if it must come back with a vengeance this year, and if on top of that we not only both have to suffer miserably through COVID, but we have to reach the point of drop-everything pray I don’t get pulled over drives to the ER, then I say BRING IT ON!

We are warriors in this house. And we have an army of people praying for us. So BOO-YAH COVID! You are not taking us down today. And BOO-YAH cancer – get it in line because you are next to be defeated!

The next person who says, “God only gives you what you can handle” is going to get an earful, even if that is The Man Himself.

I came home Friday from school not feeling well. I wanted to be certain I wasn’t putting James at any additional risk, so I took a home COVID test when I got home and it came back negative. But, I was worse overnight, so I isolated myself and scheduled an “official” test at Walgreens on Sunday. And, because my plate apparently appeared to have some empty spots on it, it came back positive.

So far, James hasn’t had any COVID symptoms. He was tested as well and it came back negative, but his oncologist had him take the PCR version today to be certain of the negative diagnosis (it would, after all, make quite a difference to the man undergoing immunotherapy,) and so we await those results, but at least so far, he seems to be symptom free (that’s really hard to say with any authority as COVID symptoms and the side effects of his treatment have many similarities) but, he has at least one semi-official test say he is negative.

I have have lived in the guest room for the past four days. Up until today, I have barely gotten out of bed. I have never been more sick in my life or felt more miserable (well, other than when I was four days past due with Jacob, but that’s a whole ‘nother kind of miserable.) Today, I seemed to have rejoined the land of the living. I even checked on the girls in the coop and I think they were genuinely surprised to see me.

For now, James’ next treatment is still a go for Tuesday (every two weeks), but that would change if he has a positive diagnosis. The way I see it, God can allow me to have the damn COVID virus and I’ll take it, but if he allows it to affect James, That Man and I are going to have some very serious words.

Two years ago, perhaps even to the day, James was diagnosed with COVID. That’s all the way back to what felt like “the beginning” of the pandemic. We were scared out of our wits. With the exception of one night when his breathing was worrisome, he came through it unscathed. Looking back now, as worried as we were then, we had no idea what would be in store for us in the upcoming months. A year later, just about this time, he found out he had melanoma. And now, here we sit, praying that he doesn’t have both at the same time.

My plate, Lord, is quite full. Quite. We could sure go for a large helping of grace and miracles, though.

We had errands to run today. Grocery store, credit union, Menard’s. A very typical weekend to-do list, we were crossing items off one by one.

He waited in the car while I ran into the credit union. When I returned, we bantered our usual routine about our imaginary team of thieves and how the heist would surely go awry due to this or that. We would sound like idiots to anyone listening, but it entertains us each and every time.

I don’t usually go to the grocery store, but whenever I accompany him, it is almost always without a list and with only a vague sense of what it is we are really after. It’s a good thing we only take a small cart as we end up impulsively buying this and that, unsure of what we will be hungry for later. Today was no exception. We had an idea for dinner but then another thought came to mind so we got ingredients for both. By the time we left, I think we had enough for four different meals, depending on what sounds the most delicious at the time.

Menard’s was much the same. We joke about the oddities you can buy there now. It’s becoming more and more common, but it still strikes me as odd that you can buy ribs, cat food, motor oil, a tent and a chainsaw all in the same place. That wasn’t what we purchased today, but our handful of items would have made for a difficult round of a “name-the-category” party game.

We decided to grab a late lunch out, at a sister branch of the restaurant we met at. It wasn’t our first choice, but lunch out is rare enough for us that we didn’t realize so many other places were closed on Saturdays until later. Sports were on that we had no interest in; the people around us were reminders of how much we do not miss the bar scene; and we came home with more than we ate, but it was nice to be out.

Back home we watched a movie recommended by Jacob and enjoyed the humor. It’s rare for me to find a comedy truly amusing, so this was a treat. Much later, we had pizza, James offering his usual trade of his deep dish crust for the center parts of my piece – a trade we both willingly make each and every time.

He went to bed around 8, typical for most days, not maybe so much on a weekend, but it wasn’t until I was alone that it struck me. Today felt almost normal.

Immunotherapy is the embodiment of “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Unlike chemotherapy, the side effects are far less predictable – in timing, severity and even what may come. We’ve been told, and we’ve researched enough to know, that everything may appear fine and be far from it, or everything may be fine for a while and then suddenly be not. Everything is a symptom and everything gets reported to the doctor. The diagram and potential side effects they shared with us at our last visit covered maladies from head to toe and everywhere in between. But, we focus on the positives, and today, other than the ongoing coughing that makes James sound like a two-a-day lifer, and his wife’s constant questioning to ensure he is okay and not overtired or in any discomfort – today was indeed, as “normal” as I think we might ever be again.

“The new normal” has been greatly overused in these pandemic years, but the concept surely remains. What was, never will be again, and we must embrace the changes with open hearts and positive mindsets. That’s how I feel today. A good day. In fact, two good ones in a row. Today, James felt as much like his usual self as he has in several days. Two days feels a bit like a streak right now.

And this streak is a blessing larger than I can explain. To hear him laugh, to hear him joke, to banter and snark and wink – that’s the life we know and love. Cancer can’t take that from us. Our new normal might include bi-weekly trips to Ann Arbor, and constant contact with the nursing staff concerning every little bodily change, and it might include frequent naps and keeping the gas tank full “just in case,” but it cannot take the life from our lives. Our “new normal” is going to involved some really crappy days, we know that. But this “new normal” also means that days like today aren’t taken for granted anymore. They are seen and cherished as gifts. Precious gifts.

Blessings, indeed.

It was not all that long ago during a conversation with my dad, that I expressed my concern about only writing the positive stories for my blog. “I’m Facebooking my story,” I explained, comparing my posts to the similarly rose-colored ones people put up on social media. “It’s not accurate,” I said. At the time, I was discussing my professional blog, and asking for his advice on how to remain professional but still share an accurate view of what teaching is really like. The sentiment, however, more so than ever, pertains to my personal writing as well.

“Stay positive.” If I had a dime…

Believe me, I know that being positive is the only way through this, I know. But where exactly is the positive? This diagnosis cannot be saved with “silver linings.” I can point out and even celebrate each and every small victory – the brain MRI was clear of tumors, for example. Yea! The BRAF mutation we were praying for came back exactly as we had hoped, positive – yea! But the more we learn, the more even those silver linings don’t feel like victories. The brain is clear, for now, but melanoma loves to travel to the brain – it may be only a matter of time. And that BRAF mutation? Yes, it may give us an additional treatment option later on, but it also means the tumors grow faster. Doesn’t really feel like a win.

My husband coughs like a two-a-day smoker, sleeps more than he is awake and feels completely powerless over what is happening to him. Nothing tastes good to him, his appetite is down and we haven’t even gotten started with treatment side effects yet.

Treatment starts later today. We head once again, to Ann Arbor where we have an hour-long class to teach us about the treatment, an appointment with the oncologist and then his first immunotherapy. All the research we have done has basically said there is absolutely no way to predict how or if he will respond to the treatment.

But “Stay positive!”

James and I have realized the urgency with which we need to have some difficult conversations so we’ve started the “one hard question per drive” game. It’s lovely. Whether we drive to the grocery store or all the way to U of M, we try to discuss one hard topic. And while I drive and we talk, my heart just falls to pieces every single time. Out of these discussions have come tasks like calling the lawyer just to make sure the will is good to go; reevaluating the way we have the cars titled; follow-ups with financial advisors; and believe me when I say, far worse topics as well. We hold it together and talk like it’s a Saturday morning discussing the bills or upcoming vacation plans, but it’s anything but.

Stay positive.

And while all of this is happening to us, I think back to my parents. They must have had the same conversations and then some. We were young, then. I can’t imagine those that have to worry about children in all of this.

Stay positive.

A friend asked me recently how’s my faith? My all-too honest reply was “nonexistent.” My anger, however? That’s pretty prevalent.

My mother, I expect might be disappointed in me. She never ever seemed to waiver during her battle with cancer – not in her faith, and not in her confidence. Maybe she did privately, I was, as I mentioned, young, and surely she wouldn’t have let us kids in on her own grief, but she never seemed to doubt God. If I am forced to “silver lining” her death, it is that I am certain she brought more people to those pearly gates with her testimony than were originally headed that direction.

I also realize, of course, that there are far worse things happening to millions more people in the world. Our struggle, despite all that it is, would still be a welcome change for the atrocities some people are currently suffering. I know that. I do. But I still selfishly want more for us.

This afternoon, we will have yet again a “hard question” drive. And our return trip will be full of even more unknowns where patience is the only way through. Our spring break “vacation” next week will hopefully be uneventful at the farm, and we will remain hopeful that side effects are minimal and the impact on the tumors is significant. We will, as much as we possibly can, stay positive.

But, I will also be angry and resentful. I will also be frustrated and irritated. I will be impatient and anxious. I will be worried and fearful and stressed. We will fight this disease. We will give it every ounce of energy we have to defeat it and all the while I will pray for miracles. I will pray. But my words will not always be kind or grateful. And He is just going to have to forgive me for that.

She had heard the news yesterday and came straight to my classroom this morning to talk. Through tears, she tried to explain how all of what James and I are going through is taking her back to her mom’s battle with cancer, a battle she sadly lost a few years ago.

“I’ve known you for a long time,” she said, “since before you met James. And I know that he is the love of your life,” she sobbed, “just like my mom and dad were. And I just… I just…” she couldn’t finish for the tears.

“He is the love of my life,” I agreed, “and this is our story now.”

I have used those same words more than once with James since the diagnosis. “This isn’t your battle alone,” I reassured him, “this is our battle, this is our story. We are in this together.”

I remember a lifetime ago, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen, after she and my granddad had moved off the farm and “into town”. Granddad was in a wheelchair and Grandma spent her days as his nurse and companion, with little more to do that look after him, cook the meals and keep the home clean. Sitting at her table, I was asking her about how they met and what their early years together were like. Sharing memories with me, she grew quiet and then added, “I didn’t think it would be like this.” My heart ached for her that day and every time I have thought of it since.

I have always said James and I had a great “how you met” story. Two people at a bar in Michigan figuring out they had lived two miles apart in Pennsylvania without meeting there. That night was full of laughter and joy and since then, we have built the life we dreamt of. But now, staring down the barrel of treatments without a cure and a pre-existing condition that greatly complicates immunotherapy options, I have to agree with Grandma, I sure didn’t think it would be like this.

As I talked with James tonight I said again, “this is our story,” but I added, “I don’t want it to ever be a sad one.” I have to figure out how to bring joy into every moment that we have. None of us know how many days we have left together, we just happen to have a doctor who is putting a slightly more precise number on it for us. I don’t want to spend that time in tears, I want to spend it laughing, the way our story began.

This is our story, afterall. If anyone can decide how it goes, it’s us.

I have forgotten how to do small talk. I find myself standing there, or sitting there and I hear what the people around me are discussing but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to respond. I normally enjoy the easy conversation with my hairdresser, but hearing her talk about her upcoming trip to Cancun tonight, and how she’s been at the tanner in preparation…all that runs through my head now is, “Cancer! Cancer!” And so I sit, in awkward silence, not knowing how to form shallow words of polite conversation.

People at work have heard the news now and stop to offer their love and support but I have trouble even standing there, trouble accepting the hugs, the sympathies, the sincere offers of help. I just want to run. I want to be alone. No, I just want to be with James.

In all fairness, I’ve never known what to say to someone in tragic situations. “I am so sorry,” has never had weight to me, and yet beyond that, I never knew what words could even do to help lighten a load during difficult times. I don’t begrudge anyone for their attempts to show concern or to offer support, I just honestly don’t know what to do with it. They get to hug me and say they are sorry and then they get to walk away and discuss it all over dinner or a glass of wine with the people they love who are not going through this at all. They get to be sad for a moment and then they get to get on with life.

“How is James feeling?” people ask. “Well, he’s been better,” I say.

“Well, yes, but I mean, how does he feel?” they will persist.

“Terrified,” I respond.

I’m sure there’s a better answer, and I’m sure people with better filters than me have those responses at the ready, but I applaud myself for not screaming, “How the hell do you think he is doing? He was fine a month ago and now he knows he has Stage 4 metastatic melanoma. It’s in his lungs, his spleen, his liver and his bones. How the hell would you be doing?” I mean, I don’t say that.

But I want to.

Two younger women walked into the salon. They had a six pack of White Claws and a $200 straightener that they wanted the other stylist to show them how to use. They sat and chatted about their lives while getting highlights and color, about lives far wilder than mine has ever been. “Ah, the freedoms that come with being kidless,” my stylist, a mother of four who keeps taking in foster children said. “Ah, twenty-somethings who haven’t had a difficult hand dealt to them just yet,” I thought.

I came home and James was already in bed. I curled up beside him and sobbed. He held me and understood far better than any that words can’t fix this. There wasn’t any small talk between us, just tears.

He didn’t want to send it as a text, but he knew a phone call would have been worse. Waiting until I got home might have made logical sense, but he knew I was waiting just as much as he had been.

I had already alerted my class as I don’t ever have my phone notifications on and I’m never glued to it like I was. I explained I was waiting on some news and I promised them it would be turned back off the moment I heard.

But when it came, as prepared as I thought I was and as vague and nonspecific as the results still remain, I couldn’t breathe. I read his words and stood frozen in my spot. More tests. Back to U of M. Concerns but without diagnosis. I turned around and stared out the window of my classroom at the playground and forced deep breaths in and deep breaths out, but it wasn’t helping. There’s too much history. Not just because this is almost a year ago exactly to when he discovered a sore in his ear that led to removal of the malignant melanoma a few months later, but because of my mom, his dad, his sister. It’s a well worn path of cancer diagnosis that doesn’t feel easier because of the familiarity but instead feels all that more terrifying – even though we don’t know for sure.

I thought about calling the office and asking someone to cover my room for a few minutes but I honestly didn’t think I could speak. I picked up my water bottle and walked out of the classroom, tears rolling down my face by the time I reached the door. I saw a colleague in the hall, but didn’t look up or speak and she didn’t stop to talk. I struggled just to walk to the refill station and fill my bottle back up. I just stood and tried to breathe, tried to calm myself, tried to push it all down. I wasn’t ready to return to my room so I stopped at the copier and let the rhythm of my copies lull me back into a more rational and less emotional state.

When I returned to my room, I dried my eyes before entering and did everything I could to smile and act normal. The kids were still working quietly, God bless them for that gift, as I had been gone longer than I ever am.

At lunch I called James and he explained exactly what had been said and exactly what tests were being ordered. A full-body PET scan, a head MRI and a lung biopsy at this point, but perhaps others to come. Concern over the lungs for sure, but also the thyroid. Orders for the tests were put in as asap, so the urgency wasn’t just something we felt but was a concern to the surgeon as well.

The rest of the day was a blur. I finished comments on report cards but I don’t know if I could tell you what I wrote. I updated my emergency sub plans and put together lessons for Thursday when I know we will be in Ann Arbor for at least one of the scheduled tests. A co-worker told me about something for one of my students and I stood and nodded but I struggled to have any interest in what she was saying.

At home, we spent the evening helping each other focus on the positives, but the ghosts are alive in our house. We both have more experience that we’d like with the processes and procedures that come with the diagnosis we don’t know for sure and so we didn’t say out loud.

For now, we need to breathe. Just breathe.

Only sometimes, it feels impossible to do even that.