Signing Off

Connie Howard died peacefully at the Norwood Hospice in Edmonton on November 15, 2016, surrounded by her family. She was 60 years old.

Connie was born in Lethbridge, Alberta, on July 19, 1956 to Ann and John Naundorf. She is survived by her parents; her husband of 14 years, Jeff, and his mother Lois; Connie’s three adult children, Byron, Natalie and Geoff; her three step-children Jennifer, Joanna, David and two step-grandchildren Bijou and Edie; her sister Kathleen, and brothers Daniel, Andreas and Martin; sister-in-law Maureen; and many dear in-laws, nieces, nephews and friends.

Connie found joy in connecting with readers through her writing. She published this blog (Sorting it Out), served as assistant editor of Eighteen Bridges magazine, contributed pieces to Alberta Views and the Edmonton Journal, and wrote a popular alternative health column (Well, Well, Well) in Vue Weekly.

Throughout the course of her illness, Connie often found relief through acupuncture and traditional Chinese medicine. So in lieu of flowers, Memorial donations may be made to the Acupuncture Works! Community Fund, 201-10026 – 105 St NW, Edmonton, AB T5J 1C3, an outreach to those in the downtown core who lack the means to access these services.

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Hovering

hard, loud, early morning rain outside my open window
a long, crashing rumble of thunder;
be warm and dry and safe out there, dear child

and you, you heart-broken one,
frightened by the intensity of the grief,
the endless dark tunnel,
try to remember you will emerge
to see the sun again
and learn to live in the space between dark and light

the blue skies of childhood may not return
but blue skies will
the bounce in your hamstrings may sleep a long night
but what returns will be enough

the body remembers

it remembers both the joy and the horror
and it doesn’t know the difference
between the quiet imagined story
and the louder, more apparently real one;
it will respond to both

so tell yourself a story

and remember the hot summer sun,
being mesmerized by the iridescence of the dragonfly

poised and elegant, she hovers,
forward and backward,
upward and downward,
side to side
hovering, she sees past illusions
to the depths

Patron Saint of the Plague

Had I known St. Valentine encompassed anything but Hallmark love, I may not have chosen February 15 as our wedding day. Not only did it land at the end of reading week (I was a student at the time, writing mid-terms and papers), but I expected proximity to be a good thing: St. Valentine was the Patron Saint of love, after all. Had someone informed me thirteen years ago he was also the Patron Saint of fainting and the plague, I might’ve moved our wedding plans to June.

Fainting and the plague have been ours for much of the past five years. We have become raw and bruised, but also humble and tender. We have become more honest and thick-skinned, and sometimes impatient, but also more gentle and understanding, and infinitely more patient.

We know our run may not last the expected decades most of us get, and so we hold hands in the night, and wrap arms, and share our tears, our nightmares, our grief. We also make a point of finding humour daily, of laughing together. We have fallen and felt shamed, but we have also got up again, and felt profound gratitude. We have been in the crucible and had our lesser selves exposed, and we have emerged, and reflected the light. We are in the crucible now, but we’ll emerge again. We’ll do all these again, hopefully many times.

The crucible is unbearably hot at times, utterly capable of destroying love. It is intense, creating chemical reactions that threaten destruction. It tests resiliency, and if we don’t bend, we’ve learned, we’ll break. It is terrifying, as we’ve both experienced the death of love in our first marriages.

Still, before all this, and perhaps primarily during all this, our love has grown. I hope the future holds easier and happier Valentine’s Days for us, but either way, through thick and thin, in the fire or not, I believe we’ll be in it together.

 

Serendipity

It was a morning for feeling needy and pathetic and nearly too proud to permit any kind of love directed my way. I’m still not used to operating at half-battery, and it can make me bristly. Feeling half-productive, half-fun, half-useful, half-decent, half-human can make me decide I’m utterly unworthy. Ahead of me was an afternoon of chemo, which of course was the reason for the bristles, but it also offered up an unlikely and happy little coincidence.

Before the serendipitous conversation could happen though, the one that generated the first genuine smile of the day, I tried befriending my misery by stepping into the role of observer, standing back from my emotions a little, trying simply to see them without judgment, and perhaps even switch the energy driving me to a more neutral and advanced part of my brain. Beneath the surface layer of self-reliance that was telling my husband I didn’t need him to accompany me to chemo, I soon saw several layers of anxiety—fear of being viewed as needy and weak, fear of the impact my being sick has had on what I have to offer as a partner in my marriage, and fear of things not going well on this day, fear of pain, fear of the future.

I’d gone out for a bit to return a poorly chosen bathmat and had a little time before my appointment, so I stopped for a cup of tea and watched this internal landscape of anxiety for a while. I didn’t judge it (anxiety is, under these circumstances, they tell me, completely normal), but I did give it the boot. Nothing personal, just tired of it for the moment. We’ll have tea again soon enough. Not judging is important, but so is perspective, and perspective only comes with sitting back, watching, listening, and deciding what is most necessary for the moment.

Watching the chatty anxious thoughts retreat, I began to envision being assigned the best nurse and having the smoothest infusion ever. (Not that envisioning it is any guarantee, but it is calming, which is never a bad thing.) I began to remind my body to accept and welcome the drugs that kill rogue cells, remind it to let them do their job before kicking them out, and remind it that it has an almost tireless ability to repair essential innocent cells caught in the crossfire.

So an hour later, when my husband told me on the phone he really didn’t want me going to chemo alone, I agreed to swing by for him on my way to the hospital.

We arrive, and my nurse introduces herself. I miss her name the first time around (memories of painful phlebitis distracting me again), but I like her face; it is warm and exotic and open. In response to her “how are you today?” I return a half-smile, and a half-hearted “fine”. A C-plus, maybe, if I’m going to be generous. She’s warm and attentive though, and wonderfully skilled—no retries on getting into my vein today—so I try to salvage that C-plus. I manage a better smile, and tell her a deeply felt thank you. She’s humble, and shrugs it off as luck of the draw, that on another day that same vein may not have been as receptive. I ask her if she enjoys nursing. She does, though she was terrified of needles and blood and starting IVs when she began her career. Now, just a few years into it, she does nearly a dozen a day in the chemo daycare unit.

I tell her she’s good, and she makes me do the requisite name spelling and birth-date recitation.

“You have the exact birthday my mom does!” she responds, smiling widely. “Same date, same year. And mine is three days before hers, on the 16th.” Why she told me that I don’t know, but it’s funny, because not only do I share her mother’s birthday, my daughter share’s hers.

It’s just a couple of dates, but it’s more than that. The gentleness with which she handles my chemotherapy makes it feel like my daughter is sending me her love, which she probably was.

Another patient on the other side of the room was surrounded at that moment by almost the entire remaining nursing staff in the unit, having a serious reaction to the same drug that had caused mine last winter. Feeling a powerful wave of compassion and empathy, I remember the practice of Tonglen, which others have done for me, and for my daughter, and so, as the nurses do their job with the Benadryl and other tools at their disposal, I begin inhaling this woman’s distress, exhaling relief and compassion and empathy her way. It’s an active, physical, non-desperate form of prayer that I love.

The nurses, from where I was watching, were care and compassion personified, professionals in every way, but human beings too, who understood that it is the little kindnesses that matter as much as anything during a crisis like this. The patient stabilized, and my session, with a few adjustments, went well and ended. On our way home, we stopped for coffee and a muffin on a tree-lined street patio, and though I knew that the effects of my treatment would gather momentum as the afternoon unfolded, it was a lovely moment.

In the days leading up to this one, I’d felt a deep fatigue, an effect of my chemo-depressed blood counts alongside an intense week of extended family gathered from all over to celebrate my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. So much stimulation and emotion packed into a single week. Cousins and aunts and uncles I hadn’t seen since the last funeral I was able to attend, siblings and nieces and nephews I hadn’t seen in even longer.

In the two weeks before the event—before the mixed-bag verdict this week that my treatment is working but that I’m definitely in for another three months of it—it was a happy time of planning and anticipation for this reunion. It was a time of large and lumpy inflamed veins calming down and receding into the background thanks to some wonderful medicine. It was a time of late-summer outdoor lunches and suppers, of new harvest potatoes and peach cobbler, of desperately sad refugee images on our TV screen, of bike rides and sunflowers, of warm, warm winds turning to crisp mornings, of hot showers, of crumbled frozen oatmeal squares, of laundry, dust bunnies, recycling and all other things quite ordinary, and one evening, sitting in the backyard of some friends, an astoundingly full super-moon.

Full, that’s what keeps us going. It’s been a long haul. Nothing compared to the long difficult paths many of you are on, but still—nine months now, and it’s the love that keeps me going.

I plan to settle in for a few days of recovery after this week’s treatment. Sleep is the perfect escape, but always elusive during those first few days. I wake shortly before 4AM. My husband is awake also. We toss and turn for a little while; I read. Then we talk. About our reflexive protections, how we try too hard, or cling, or shut down when we’re terrified. At 6, I’m hungry, and get us both some yogurt. I’m still hoping it might buy me another hour or two of sleep. I read some more, which is usually foolproof. I doze a little after 7:30, wake at 8:30 with a start. My feet hurt, it’s time for my medication. A new day. The mirror tells me my cheeks are flushed, a side-effect, but Day Two is always infinitely better than Day One. Later in the day, I get on my bike and visit the queen of energy medicine. She looks at my labs, and tells me I’m rocking this. It’s a good day.