October 4, 2006

 

 

 

The temperature is finally cooling and the smell of fall permeates the air.  The flowers and foliage in the pots on the back porch are full and luscious.  That is, all of them are but for one.  A beautiful, huge hosta filled one terra cotta planter – until a young buck turned his gorgeous brown eyes to it, pressed his strong neck against the deck and ate the variegated leaves of the plant down to a nub.  Seeing the naked, striped stalk, my irritation grew and my sarcasm formed the question of why the cloven hooved rodent hadn’t gone ahead and eaten all the other greens and/or why the forest bush isn’t enough – it’s not like he doesn’t have acres and acres to forage

 

Later in the week, a new ambling sound crossed the stairs and deck slats.  I looked out the living room windows and was startled by a two-prong buck standing ON the deck.  Not behind the deck, not near the deck, but ON it.  Never, not once in the 12 years we have lived here, has a deer of any age or size braved such proximity.  Startled, I leaned forward and my reflection through the glass panes startled him.  I froze, curious, wondering what he would do.  Nothing, at first, then after a few minutes, he arrogantly strolled off the porch and into the forest.  Any idea that I might have been taken by the beauty of that beast got smashed when I noticed that the #(%*#&! white-tailed animal had taken me up on my earlier questions of ”why not eat everything?”  And had.  Nearly every lovely green thing that grew from a beautifully arranged assortment of pots and planters – gone!    Arrrghh!

 

A deer traipses across my deck, a greatly anticipated voice traipsed across the slats of my soul, the voice of my bone marrow donor.  We had sent a few e-mails back and forth to introduce ourselves, but when I heard his voice for the first time, I was nearly giddy.  He and his beautiful wife live back East with their “girls” – two massive great Danes.  He set me straight on my blood heritage:  he grew up in the Bronx, a child of Sicilian/Jewish/Irish heritage, and because my blood is now completely his blood, I am a certified Yankees fan. 

 

After a few conversations and more exchanges of e-mails, we are planning to meet in December.  Jim and I will fly to Boston for Christmas with Elliott and Taylor, then spend a day with this generous couple - to meet, to talk and take pictures, allow me to profusely thank my donor, and to eat – pizza, of course. 

 

A deer’s delicate step, a donor’s dear voice, and finally, a dreaded feeling crept through my body over the past two weeks.  It started with a small stomach ache which escalated into severe abdominal pain.  Here is the short version of a very long hospital stay:  a multiple myeloma plasmacytoma is growing on my pancreas.  Because of the level of toxicity in my body, it was decided not to treat the tumor with radiation.  Surgery was ruled out, as it is a major ordeal (taking out the spleen and gall bladder, removing half of the pancreas, then re-routing ducts and veins and the small intestine) and the side effects – brutal enough already - can include diabetes. 

 

So it was decided that I would once again take Melphalan (chemo) with steroids for a short period of time and then wait to see if the tumor shrinks.  I’m also hooked up to a 12-hour daily infusion of TPN (nutrition with vitamins and insulin).  We’ve done all this before.  It almost seems casual.  But I know the consequences are not casual; they are life threatening.  And I hate them.  This cycle of almost full recovery followed by a crisis is taking its emotional toll.

  

Still, today is a great day and the sound of music fills my hearts.  Today, my baby son turns 21 – a legal man in the State of Massachusetts.  I will miss blowing out candles on his birthday cake; I may have to get out the photo albums to review his past birthday parties.  His fifth was the best of all – a pirate theme!  I’ll probably shed a few tears and then thank God those “baby” days are over, that now I enjoy the company of a “man-child.”  I’m glad we’re all here to celebrate his life – and mine – and listen for the next sounds of love and hope.

 

Janice