Boston Report, 19 May 2006

 

 

Boston is beautiful in the spring: frothy pink and white blossoms on dogwoods, pale green, tender leaves on trees, blazing azaleas, picturesque gardens frame New England architecture - as much as we could see through the torrential rain.  Breaking 70 year-old records, rain turned parks into lakes, diverted traffic, overflowed river banks, flooded businesses and homes, closed schools, soaked pedestrians and the graduation ceremony at Boston University.  Still, we had a great time there visiting our sons.

Of course, our trip was not without incident.  We woke before 6:00 a.m. on Wednesday, May 10^th, to catch a 7:45 flight.  Jim drove (I clutched the door handle) to the airport in pouring rain.  Just as we pulled up to curbside service, as if we pressed a switch with our tires, all the lights in the terminal went out.  The porters said back-up generators would switch on in a minute, but meanwhile, they couldn’t check us in.  “Where are you headed?” we were asked.  “Chicago, on the way to Boston.”  His dreaded reply: “Oh, that flight’s been canceled.  You’ll have to change your routing at the counter inside.”  The line for American Airlines stretched to the outside door.  Seemed like half the people were going to Chicago.  We were routed through New York City and managed to arrive in Boston only 20 minutes later than planned, so no worries.  (And, no, to answer one friend’s question, my ostomy bag did not blow up like a bag of Fritos in the microwave.)

We easily drove our rental car from the airport to Whole Foods where both Elliott and Taylor work.  They both are in different departments but see each other almost every day.  Jim and I tried not to appear old or “parental” or embarrass the daylights out of them, but we boldly entered the store, resisted hugging and kissing them in public, and met their co-workers, who without exception spoke highly of our sons.  We were proud.

Thursday, Jim and Taylor toured several universities to check out art departments and sign up for a summer class.  Elliott and I holed up in the hotel room to talk, surf Rhapsody.com, watch TV, talk, nap, and talk.  It was more than wonderful to converse adult to adult; no fighting, no arguing, no falling back into former patterns.  I guess we’ve both grown up.

Thursday evening, Elliott and his girlfriend Supriya invited us to their apartment.  We parked in front of a huge, red brick apartment building, and I saw at least 30 stairs between me and the front doors.  The climb appeared as challenging as Mt. Everest to me.  My left leg is still weak, so I stepped up one stair, lifted my left leg to the same level.  Then, in the same fashion, one more step, holding on to Elliott’s arm for balance.  It took a while to get to the top, but I made it.  Our entourage entered a small lobby, with a chained, out-of-order elevator and a flight of stairs on the right.  Uncomfortable silence filled the tiny enclosure.  “Uh,” Elliott began.  “We live on the fifth floor.”

“That’s OK,” I lied.  “I can do it.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” Elliott asked.

“No, thanks,” I answered as gently as I could, thinking, “Not a chance.  If he drops me, my incision will split wide open.”

I made it – five stories - to a surprisingly spacious, colorfully painted, collegiate decorated apartment. After conversation and snacks of cheese, crackers, and fruit, I made my way down to the car; down was better than up.  The next day, my right butt muscle hurt like crazy.  That’s what happens when you exercise just one part of your body.

Back to Thursday night: When, Taylor, Elliott and friend Tommy were in elementary and middle school, the three formed a band called DAVIS and made their first CD.  (We have several hundred copies left if you’d like one.)  After Elliott and Tommy’s high school graduation, they moved to Boston to attend Berklee College of Music and live together in an apartment.  Then, two years later Taylor moved to Boston after his high school graduation and started working at Whole Foods.  Prior to Taylor’s arrival, Elliott (drummer and key boards) and Tommy (guitarist) formed a new band, adding Supriya as the bass player.  The trio, known as Hat and Glasses, has a website (www.hatsandglasses.com) and a space on MySpace.  All that to say, they gave a command performance for Jim at 11:00 p.m. in their small, carpet-covered rehearsal space.  I opted to stay in the hotel room and recuperate from my expedition to the apartment.  Jim returned after 1:00 in the morning, exhausted and beaming.  “They are really good,” he said as only a proud papa can.

Friday morning started with a jolt of adrenaline.  Barred from showers or submerging myself, I was soaking in three inches of bath water.  I can’t get my right arm PICC line wet or the stomach incision wet yet, but the ostomy can float like a boat.  Getting clean and keeping dry is the challenge.  Anyhow, Jim was helping me wash my hair when an ear-piercing siren went off in our room, followed by a woman’s voice.  “This is an announcement of an emergency.  If the siren repeats after this message, it is not a drill.  Please evacuate your room immediately.”  Jim and I looked at each, silently thinking, “Is this a joke?”   

Nope, it wasn’t.  The siren blared again, combined with the sirens of approaching fire trucks.  Jim used the coffee pot to rinse my hair, ran to the dresser to choose my clothes while I dried off and wrapped my hair in a towel.  Still partially wet, I was frantically getting dressed as Jim quickly gathered up wallets, purses, medicines, charging cell phones, under the now-irritating siren screaming from the ceiling.  “Let’s go!” Jim shouted at me.  “I’m ready!” I shouted back.  Jim put his hand on the door knob.  And the siren stopped. 

We stared at each other.  “You’ve got to be kidding.”  Jim went into the hallway where a fire fighter told him all was safe and he could return to his room. 

What a way to start the day.

Friday afternoon, the four Chaffees ate together, which is one of our favorite things to do, then saw a movie.  Of course, none of us could agree on what to see, but it turned out we had no option.  Nearly every screen in the theatre was showing Mission Impossible: III, a movie none of us wanted to see.  But we were there, the popcorn smelled great, so we bought tickets to watch a movie none of us enjoyed.  This is what made it great: we were together for two hours and were given a great subject to berate in future conversations.

Saturday, sans drama, Jim, Taylor, and I enjoyed an Eastern Indian dinner with Elliott, Supriya and her parents who drove down from New Hampshire to meet us.  It felt like a weird role reversal.  Jim and I remembered meeting each other parents in 1978 – and it doesn’t seem all that long ago.  Now, there we were, watching our son as part of a couple and meeting her parents.  How did this change happen so quickly?  Thank goodness it was normal and not anywhere near the disaster in the film Meet the Parents.

Sunday was Mother’s Day, which we celebrated in shifts.  Taylor had to work in the morning and Elliott in the evening.  Jim and I also had to change hotels (not because of the fire alarm, but because of a booking mistake on HotWire), so we packed and drove in pouring rain to Cambridge.  On the way, Elliott pointed out a diner that has a performance room upstairs.  His band hopes to play there one day.  Perfect.  We stopped there to celebrate Mother’s Day...in an absolute dive, complete with a long counter with swivel stools on one side of the room and worn, red vinyl booths on the other.  I ordered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.  Champagne and orange juice with lox and bagels couldn’t have been better.  I was with my son, who gave me a crystal necklace and asked that I wear it everyday.  I promised. 

Sunday night, Taylor and four of his friends met us at a Thai restaurant where animated conversation and platters of appetizers, crab cakes, satay, tempura, and soup crisscrossed the table.  Taylor’s good friends were charming, friendly, and in the process of becoming well-educated (all four are photography majors).  Taylor gave me a black onyx and silver bracelet to match the necklace I received from Jim.   I was spoiled and loved all day.

Sadly, Monday came quickly and with it, Jim and my flight back to Nashville.  Because of the flooding, the news advised travelers to get to the airport early.  We woke at 6:00, left at 7:00, made our way to the airport easily only to learn that our flight to New York was delayed.  Naturally, by the time we arrived at LaGuardia, our plane to Nashville had departed.  So we waited from 1:30 until 6:45 to fly home.  (Note:  airport food is too expensive to be so awful.)  On paper, we were to arrive in Nashville at 2:20 in the afternoon; but we weren’t flying on paper.  We left Boston in pouring rain and finally landed in Nashville at 8:30 in a light rain. 

It was about 9:30 when we pulled into our driveway, dead tired and dragging bags.  “Is that a package?” I asked, looking toward our front porch.  As we went up the steps, we stood beside two terra cotta pots filled with beautiful flowers.  “How nice,” I said.  “I wonder who brought them?”

We went inside, dropped our luggage, checked phone messages, then turned on the back porch light to call in Pouncer, our cat.  That’s when I saw that the back deck had been transformed.  Someone had filled 30 pots of all sizes with ferns, plants, flowers, and herbs.  The secret gardener(s) rearranged tables and chairs and created a vision worthy of publication in Garden Beautiful.

I stood in the rain, admiring the creativity and efforts of unknown angels.  And I began to cry.  Jim came out and led me into the kitchen.  “You’re not supposed to cry,” he said as he hugged me.

 “I’m crying because I’m happy,” I choked out.

 Then we found a note on the counter.  “Happy Mother’s Day, Janice!  We loved loving on you and look forward to enjoying the flowers on your deck with you!”  It was signed by Marilyn, Cindy, Judy, Martha, Tom and Dori, Nancy and Don, Sue, Sam and Cheryl.  Then I really cried. 

The next day, I found out that Cindy sent out invitations to everyone on my Nashville “sisters” e-mail list, inviting them to a Pot Party.  Some who couldn’t come sent flowers or contributions and those who came mowed the lawn, blew leaves off the driveway and decks, washed lawn chairs, filled the herb pots with organic soil making them safe for me to eat, added new pots and filled them with an amazing array of plants and flowers.

This was one of the best weeks of my life.  I had a few rough mornings in Boston, which a pain pill and a nap healed, but I spent individual time with each son, cherished the hours the four of us were together, admired the maturity of both Elliott and Taylor, and loved being able to love on them.

So, now we are happily home, back to my “normal” routine.  Yesterday, I returned to the clinic for a skeletal survey which was compared to former surveys to see if the myeloma has caused any new holes or lesions, if the original holes are the same size, larger, or smaller.  Today my doctor’s assistant called to report that a small spot on my skull (right forehead) looks a tad bigger, and there seemed some development of former spots in my left thigh.  I was prescribed with steroids and melphalan (chemo) in pill form.  No more IVs!   I’ll take five chemo pills a day for four days with one steroid, then return to the clinic on June 1^st for tests.   Return in two weeks!  Freedom!  But, once again, I’ll wait to see how my body responds, if my hair falls out, if my hands and feet swell, if my mind gets foggy, if I can continue the pill regimen.

After a week with my boys, I am more determined to do whatever it takes to get well.  I want to dance at Elliott and Taylor’s weddings (not until they’re in their late 20’s), and hold grandbabies.  I want to finish writing books, visit my New Zealand family, travel with Jim, and spent time with friends. 

I can’t think of a more appropriate close to this update than with the sentiment printed on a Mother’s Day card that Jim gave to me.  “Love doesn’t make the world go ‘round.  Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”

 Thanks for being on the ride with me.

 

Janice 

 

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