Paul's Heart

Life As A Dad, And A Survivor

Last Christmas, Or The Next Stage?


It was inevitable really.  This memory came up for me today.

2013 was a difficult year emotionally for many reasons.  My father had been recently diagnosed with cancer.  My health had been struggling for the last year and a half, more so than prior years.  I had also initiated my second divorce.

This would be the last “Santa” photo taken of my daughters, an annual tradition.  My older daughter, the trooper since discovering that I was Santa Claus, still went along with these photos anyway.  But this was also the year that my younger daughter began to have her doubts about the man in red.

And that is when it started, the need to “cling on” as hard as I could.  You could see how much it meant to her to have that one thing that while so impossible to believe was real, still wanting to give all she could, to believe in the impossible, that maybe things that had been going on around her, though seemingly impossible, might be possible.

Although a baptized Christian, I do enjoy the Santa Claus lore.  I like the meaning.  And as I had one daughter who no longer believed, and another wanting to, I felt it was time to change, to adapt what the story of Santa Claus was really about, giving.  And so, I instilled in both of them, that Santa Claus while in the presence sense may not be real, his spirit definitely is, and it is something we all possess.  My daughters learned the importance of the season of giving at that moment.  Santa Claus would live on.

Like many households dealing with divorce, another change would come with observing Christmas.  The goal still to be as enjoyable for the children.  Clearly different than what they had experienced previously when they were younger.  For some, it is part of the day with one parent, part of the day with the other.  Then there are those who actually split the Christmas holiday week between parents.

But hold on.  Then the children turn eighteen, graduate high school, and move away to college, perhaps find a significant other.  Another change.  And in the world of divorce, time already split to a minimum with either parent, the holidays morph into yet another stage, perhaps not even making it home for the holidays, while your child, the one you have spent every holiday with, informs you that they are going to meet the family of their heart’s interest.  This is the stage that I am preparing for next.  One daughter near that age, another not far behind.

And peering into my Norman Rockwell crystal ball, eventually, I will be the one making the annual holiday trips to not only see my daughters, but their own families as well.

And who knows, maybe I met get to dust of the red suit once again.

The Power Of The Pet


I have always believed in the power of pets and healing, at least comforting, which is just as important.

This is one of only two photos I am aware of, from my Hodgkin’s Lymphoma days over 30 years ago.  Just prior to beginning my chemotherapy, I adopted a calico kitten and named her “Pebbles.”

There was just something so soothing about the purr, close to your ears, the feline vibrations soft enough to massage the physical stress away.  And though she spent lots of time doing “kitty things,” it was her behavior once I started chemotherapy that I will never forget.

On a regular basis, as I entered the door of my apartment, she always rushed to greet me.  But after my chemotherapy appointment, I “rudely” rushed by her, ignoring her, to get to the bathroom to deal with the nausea that as expected, was about to hit me.

She followed me to the bathroom, like many pets do.  Only, you could see, she was confused that I did not seem to be using the toilet like I normally would.  I was unable to pet her or give her attention.  And there she sat, just staring at me.  When I was done heaving, exhausted, it took every ounce of strength I still had left to get to my bedroom, and crawl into bed, shaking from the physical tension and muscle tightness all over.  Everywhere hurt.

As I lay in bed, Pebbles came up onto the bed, laying on my wife’s pillow (to be clear, 1st wife) until she came home from work, keeping watch over me.  This became the ritual for the next eleven treatments, every time.

Pebbles was not the first pet to have an impact in my treatment and recovery.  I had a golden retriever named Pollo.  Unbelievably loyal, Pollo went everywhere I went.  Except one time.  And that was in 2008 when I had to have open heart surgery to save my life from damage caused by treatments years earlier for my Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

We were known to roughhouse with each other, battling over who would be “alpha.”  This made me nervous as I made the trip home from the hospital, after six days recovering, my breast bone, still precariously sore and obviously not healed.  I had no idea how to prepare for Pollo, because when I came home from work, he often jumped on me to greet me at the door.  This could not happen when I walked in the door.  But how would I control his excitement.  We had never been apart.

I could feel my heart race as I opened the door, and here he came, he was definitely happy to see me.  And then his pace slowed, soon approaching my side, and standing there, allowing me to have the opportunity to pet him calmly.  As I was assuring him that I was home, and I would be okay, it would be as if he was trying to let me know, he was there to take care of me.  No matter where I was sitting, he would lay at my feet.  If I was laying down, he was laying by my side.  I could always count on him being there for me.

It did not have to be my own dog either.  During one of my many trips to the hospital, I was often visited by fur friends who stopped in just to say “hi.”  You can immediately feel the weight lift off you when you are approached by one of these four-legged caregivers.

Yes, medicine plays a big part in your care.  So does faith, if that is what you believe.  Support from family members, and of course, your actual caregivers from nurses to doctors are important.  But just as important, in care and recovery, are our fur friends.

A Rare Moment Of Vulnerability


The other day, I wrote of the passing of my friend and fellow Hodgkin’s Lymphoma survivor, Tammy.  I did as I often do, wrote a tribute to another long term survivor how had passed away, though this time was more difficult.

I am known personally and beyond, as someone who is pretty much in control of his environment and situations that arise.  I am not an emotional person which affords me to be able to think clearly, precisely, and quickly for each situation that I face.

Over recent weeks, 2020, in typical fashion, has been cruel.  Several of my fellow survivors that I have spoken/met with over the years had passed away, complications of their health from the treatments that cured them of their Hodgkin’s decades ago.  Of these three, and really among all of my survivor friends, Tammy was one that I knew the longest.

When I received the news of her passing, I did something I had not done in nearly thirty years, I broke down.  I lost it, emotionally.  As I mentioned, this happened only one other time in my life, decades before.

Since that time, I had put up a wall, because otherwise, the emotions that I struggled with at that time, would have prevented me from carrying on with things that needed to be done.  I had patients to counsel.  There were crisis and tragedies that I had to respond to, car accidents, fires, and even a few years ago, the ultimate pressure of getting through Hurricane Irma.  And there are the countless others that I have conversations with, often on a daily basis, helping them as they face various struggles in their survivorship.

Don’t get me wrong, I can shed tears, though admittedly I had not really done that.  But following my heart surgery in 2008, all of a sudden tears could flow more freely.  But what I am feeling right now is more “paralyzing.”  I am struggling to concentrate on things that need to be done at the moment.

I have received many comments from friends who attempt to do what even I cannot, try to figure me out.  Tammy was a good friend to me, but she was also my role model for survivorship.  Tammy was my inspiration of life.  I felt obligated that I could never complain about how I felt, because she never complained, and admittedly, her conditions were far more serious and advanced than mine are.

Her passing however, reminded me of our mortality.  We fight so hard to survive cancer, and when we do that, we spend the rest of our lives fighting the “cures” that saved us.  But Tammy was proof it was worth it.  There was so much that she got to experience in the decades that we knew each other, that she otherwise would not have.

I have been reminded by those closest to me, that I have a lot on my plate that I am dealing with, and then there is Covid19 complicating things.  Being hit with these feelings, along with the recognition that I am mortal, I am reminded that I am also vulnerable.  And it is okay to be vulnerable.  But there has to be an end at some point.  And I want it to be now.  Normally, I could just put it way back on the back burner, and move on.  Not this time.  I have gotten through others passing away, and I know that I can eventually get through this time.  But the longer I grieve, the longer I feel it will take me to get beyond the grief.

These feelings were described to me by another fellow survivor as “monsters”.  But then she also stated it is during these times, that when we defeat these “monsters”, that is when we demonstrate a true state of courage and strength.  This is what happens when we compartmentalize our feelings, and then get hit with a “gut punch,” with a passing of someone in a similar situation as us.

I remember an incident where my “first” wife, had been in a horrific car accident.  She was truly fortunate to have survived.  My mother had arrived at the hospital at 2am, and commented on my calmness all things considered.  I told her, “I will fall apart later.  Right now, I have things I have to get done.”

But later never came.  And for thirty years, I guess I always saw this as a good thing.  If I didn’t deal with the emotional issues connected to the events, I could spare the heartache.  The surprising thing, I have suffered losses of those even closer to me than Tammy, and I did not react the way that I feel now.  Then again, there was no relating the common bond that Tammy and I shared, the difficult health issues of the various systems of our bodies, that lead to daily struggles, struggles that for the most part, I never let anyone see.  All anyone gets to see is the “shell” that I let you see.

Well, now there is a crack in that shell.  In a rare moment, not only can you see that I am vulnerable, so can I.

 

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