Life is a Beach

Mom and Pepsi at Higgins Beach

Dear Pepsi,

We woke up Thursday morning and you seemed off - you were panting, coughing and a bit sluggish. I looked at your dad asked him if we should take you to the hospital and he shook his head and said, "Why should we do that? We stopped the chemo, so there is nothing they will do. I want her home with us." I agreed, and then suggested we go to the beach since it was a beautiful day. We all piled in the car and headed to Higgins Beach, your favorite place. I typically take you to the beach when the tide is out so you have more beach to run and play on; however, the tide was nearly in and the surf was rolling in close to the sea wall. You and your sisters were so excited!  You dove into the waves, ran along the shore and frolicked like a puppy. Watching you is so confusing and deceptive, most of the time you appear so healthy, making the cancer diagnosis seem like a hoax.

Dad, Pearly, Pandy and Pepsi

When we got home you had one of your best days. Hardly coughing, energetic, and so happy. I went to teach in the afternoon while Dad stayed at home with you. We huddled together in the living room watching TV until it was time for bed. Dad was leaving the next day to go back to California to work for a few weeks. You slept between Dad and I as always, with us listening to you breathe, ready to soothe if you coughed, but you didn't. We agreed taking you to the beach was a must and should happen as often as possible.  The next day we worked around the house before we brought Dad to the bus. It was unseasonably warm, sunny and no wind. I worked in a tank top and Dad in a T-shirt. You and your sisters enjoyed lounging in the sun. The hard part was when we took Dad to the bus to Logan Airport. Dad bent down to kiss you, tears in his eyes, and whispered, "Hang in there for me Pepsi until I come back in a few weeks, please don't go anywhere until then." We stood on the side of the road as the bus drove away so he could see you as long as possible. 

Dad and Pepsi

Last night you slept in the guest room. I refrained from luring you into my bed. Before you got sick you often slept in there. I need to let you do things you enjoy doing without so much fretting. When you coughed I heard you, and came in to check if there was blood. That happened about three times total. We slept in - to 8am - and woke to another beautiful day. I checked the tides and decided we would go to the beach, just you and I this time. I did some cleaning and laundry, and then we left around 10:30 am.  We arrived at the beach to find another warm, windless day with the sun nearly blinding as it glistened on the sea. The beach was empty with the exception of die hard surfers and a few doggies strolling with their parents. I let you off leash and you made a beeline for the water. We walked at the water's edge, me in my water proof Muck boots and you diving in and out of the waves. I took lots of videos and pictures. I want to document every minute of you, make a permanent imprint in my heart that will never be erased. 

In your glory

Since you got sick I have slowed to a crawl, mostly homebound and focusing only on what is essential, which is teaching. When we go for walks I try never to yank your leash and move you along. We go slow so you can linger and smell all the interesting scents. I wonder why it took you getting sick for me to slow it down. Why was I rushing you when we walked anyway? What was so important I denied you the joy of exploring? Whatever I was rushing to seems trivial now. When we returned from the beach I raked up and bagged the last of the leaves. The afternoon sun gave the illusion of late spring, not fall. I put you on a leash (because you are a runner and you know it) and we sat on the front steps while your sisters stretched out on the lawn. We watched the world go by, which on a dead end street can be quite uneventful. A few neighbors walked by and visited; however, mostly we sat quietly as the few remaining leaves fell from the trees. I try to keep thoughts of cancer cells invading your body at bay; however, the weird reality of you being sick against your mostly healthy self is difficult to reconcile. We are a unit, it has been us against the world since we moved to Texas in 2009. We trekked across the country and back by car and plane. When I moved to Portland in September of 2013 to teach at the university, I rented a room for two months while I looked for a house. You stayed with Dad in California and I flew back every other weekend, thanks to Jonathan working for an airline. It was exhausting but I could not sustain without seeing you and your sisters. It took a few months to find the perfect house and neighborhood, and I lived here for 6 weeks before I came to California to drive you East. When we finally arrived at 3am and you bolted through the door, the house officially became home to me. 

Hanging out in the front yard

Though it was January, we began going to the beach right away and it became our ritual no matter what the weather. Wherever we lived, water has been our refuge, even in Texas at Walnut Creek Park where you swam in creek beds; however, nothing can compare to the ocean. You have crested waves in the Pacific, swam in the gentle San Pablo Bay near our Pinole house, and now you claim the Atlantic, swimming whether it is 13 or 80 degrees. I grew up going to the beach since I was a young child, it is the place of my best childhood memories. When I dive into a wave at nearly 60 years of age I still feel the delight of my 9 year old self. I have a strange little habit of dedicating the dive to those I love.  Of the three of you girls, you are the one who loves to swim the most, the first to tear into the surf and jump the waves. Pearl likes to chase birds, Pandy running in circles, and while they love to swim, you are the true water baby. When we walk the trail along the San Pablo Bay near our house in California, you always pull toward the path that leads to the bay beach no matter how long it has been since you have been there. I will never be at a beach without thinking of you, seeing you prance toward the water then plow fearlessly into the waves. I will see you at Muir Beach while I freeze in fear that you will get swallowed up by a huge wave, at China Camp where the water rolls gently onto the pebbled beach, your first visit to Stinson Beach when you got sick from swallowing too much water, and your beloved Higgins Beach, which will never be the same without you. 

Our life together has been a beach - wild, beautiful, sometimes rocky, joyful, soothing, full of unbroken blue, and part of an eternal rhythm. Moving forward, as I dive into a wave you will hear me say, This one is for you Pepsi girl, and through that I will bring you with me and we will never be apart. Never.

Love you my darling Peps,

Mom

Down But Not Out

Nap time with Mom and Dad

Dear Pepsi,

You are one tough girl. I thought we might loose you Sunday evening with all the blood you were coughing up. Dad rushed to get here on a red eye form California, Rena came late Monday, and Jonathan Tuesday morning. You showed us what you are made of and that it is not time yet. By the afternoon when we went to you oncology appointment you were perky and happy to be visiting everyone at the clinic. We had a long talk with Dr. Phillibert and we decided to discontinue the chemo treatment. The cancer is fast moving, and despite aggressive treatment, it has gone into your lungs. We are continuing the Yunnan Baiyo (life saver), herbs, and your holistic treatment. I know you have no idea what cancer is, or why you are being subjected to so many medical appointments and procedures; however,  you know something is up. You speak to me with your eyes, and while I know you are tired, I also know you are not ready to leave us. Not yet.  

Waiting for the family to get here

You get lots of rest. You cough but so far no more blood. Your energy spikes and you are ready to play with Pearl or your toys. You bark at dad while he eats, your appetite is normal and most of the time it is still hard to believe you are so sick. The deception makes it hard to consider the reality that you could leave us at any minute. It is cruel and unforgiving. I am doing my best to be in the moment with you, inhale your presence, and bask in your love. Tears fall, my heart is still slowing breaking; however, I am not ungrateful for the fact that you are still here. Dr. Phillibert talked about the roller coaster and how difficult and exhausting it is for all of us. I am drained of energy and go to sleep at 8:30pm most nights. I want to be home with you all the time. We all snuggle in bed and watch TV, read, and doze. I think about taking you to the beach but worry it will be too much. You start coughing when you get excited so I err on the side of caution. I am greedy for every minute with you because the truth is I cannot conceive of life without you. I happily shut the world out and retreat to our little cocoon. 

Napping with Dad

Outside of our little world there are big changes. You know nothing from elections and a new world order. Trust me when I say it is scary and ominous. Watching you fight and hang on against the odds is my inspiration and source of strength. You remind me of what is good in the world, what has always been good despite political upheaval, dictators, racism, and all other kinds of oppression. There is turbulence, yet being with you provides a stillness and connection to an eternal energy that transcends our mortality. You elevate me from the sadness I feel myself drowning in - about loosing you, the bleak prospects in the aftermath of this election, and a general sense of foreboding that is hard to avoid. I want to choose hope, identify an opening, no matter how visibly small the crack may be. You will leave such a void behind for me to grapple with. I want to assure you I will be fine but we both know that is not true. I will; however, take your goodness forward as best I can, put the capacity for love you have abundantly given me to good use.  You are my bringer of joy, of solace, laughter, and steady and loving companionship. You will never not be at my feet as I write and paint, when the surf rolls up catching us off guard, when I walk through the door on a tough day. I owe you so much. In these last hours, days, weeks or months - whatever I am fortunate to have - I will do whatever it is you need me to do. You'll let me know they said, and when you do, I promise to keep up my end of the bargain. Until then, let's celebrate every precious second. 

Love you Peps,

Mom

Never Can Say Goodbye

Dear Pepsi,

As I write this you are laying beside me, struggling to hold on. We have had some difficult days but also some great ones. We went to the beach, took lots walks, you snuggled in bed with Dad and I, played with your sister, and you rolled with me just about everywhere. The staff at Nordstrom's Rack went crazy over you and even posed for a picture. Last Monday we took you in the ER, and sure enough, your white cell count was very low and the tumor was bleeding. You were admitted and after fluids and antibiotics, you bounced back. A bump in the road your oncologist said. Overall the week was good - and we resumed your chemo pills. You saw your holistic vet, Dr Stuer, and while he said your vitals were not as strong, you still looked good and perky. I continued to maintain high alert status and I am sure you found me annoying as I listen to your breathing and stared into your eyes.

Saying goodbye to Daddy

  The staff at Nordstrom's Rack loving Pepsi 

The past day or so you have been coughing more frequently. I wondered if I should take you to ER last night. I hate to traumatize you with constant poking and prodding and unnecessary visits to the hospital. I doubt my ability to know when to take you in or leave you in peace at home. Today though I felt you slipping. I took you for a walk to the little park you like so much a few blocks away. You were lively and happy but the coughing became more frequent. I took you to the store with me and as soon as I got back in the car the severity of your coughing told me to head straight to ER. The doctor was a wonderful and kind women, she kissed and held you. While there was not another pericardial effusion, the chest x-ray showed the cancer had spread into your lungs and airwaves. You started coughing up large amounts of blood. The doctor said there is nothing to be done but give you love and comfort. And let you know it is OK for you to go. They said you would tell me when it is time and for the first time I am seeing it your eyes. You have fought a good fight. But you are tired.

I asked Sara, our neighbor and a Pastor, if she would come over and say a prayer for you tonight. She came and brought grace to us. Her words soothed us and gave us strength. You turned to look up at her.  Dad is on his way from California and will be here in the morning. I told him don't be mad if you can't hold on. He said he won't but hI hear the pleading in his voice for you to be waiting for him when he walks in the door. He wants to say goodbye but how do we do that? How do I let you go and live in this life without you? Every place in this house is filled by you. Higgins Beach is you. Riding shotgun is only for you. Three toy Peps is only you. There is too much vacancy without you, holes too deep to plunder and still be able to crawl out of. When my mom died this summer she waited until I got on a plane. Fifteen minutes after I landed they called to tell me she passed. I stood outside baggage claim trying to process her death. I felt frozen and confused. The world made no sense. I was with her the entire day before laying next to her in bed watching Netflix as she went in and out of sleep. I watched her chest go up and down and listened to her labored breathing as I am listening to yours now. In my head I know what's going on here but my heart is refusing to accept it.

Pepsi at Higgins Beach last week

Don't worry sweet girl, I will not let you linger in pain. Let's see of you can hold for Dad, but if not, we will be okay. It is nearly 11pm. I will sleep on the floor beside you, whisper how much I love you, and rather than goodbye, let's say goodnight. Sleep tight baby girl, mom is here, now and always.

I love you so much my darling Pepsi,

Mom

The Roller Coaster Ride Called Cancer

Daddy and Peps at the ER

Dear Pepsi,

I took a few days off from writing to you in the blog. Once your dad got here and I could share my mental high alert with someone, I slumped into a state of exhaustion. I wanted to stay in bed Tuesday morning, preferably for the entire day; however, I had to teach two classes and meet with students. At least I didn't have to drag you with me all day since your dad was here to stay home with you. Overall, he was impressed at how well you were doing, perky and ready for your walk at any minute. I went off to teach with the whole crew in bed, and when I came back it seemed no one had moved. Your dad worked four back to back shifts before he got on the plane so I knew you all would sleep in most the day and that's fine with me. All the students asked about you, disappointed you were not in class with me.

Snuggled together in bed

Everything seemed to be going so well until this afternoon. I was at the mural site finishing up an interview with a reporter and saw four missed calls from your dad. I called him back frantically and he told me you had coughed up blood. I jumped into the car and got home in under 10 minutes. You ran to greet me, which is better than the last time we rushed you to ER; however, nothing ever seems completely right anymore when it comes to you. Dad kept the paper towels with the blood to show the doctor, which scared me to look at them. Your holistic vet was at the desk when we bolted in and when I showed him the blood he said to put you through ER. You had no fever, no fluid around the heart, and heart rate was steady. When the doc wanted give you an anti nausea shot I felt paralyzed in making a decision. I asked her to check with your holistic vet, which she said she understood and went to consult with him. He had no problem with you getting the shot so I agreed. The problem is we are not sure if it was a cough or vomiting. In fact the vet could not really say what the problem was because it could be any number of things simple or complex. We got you home and you were drooling profusely. You ate the boiled chicken but not the pumpkin with your Chinese herbs. You seemed off to us and we debated about bringing you back to ER. After a while you bounced back a bit, no drooling and barking at your dad for his dinner. She's back, dad said, but in our hearts we know that's far from the truth.  

Riding home from ER in the front seat with Dad

I scolded myself for feeling too good about your tolerance of the chemo and letting myself venture back to "normal", whatever that is anymore. With your dad here I was able to go about my regular routine solo, and while I missed you, I had a brief glimpse of life as it was before you got sick. Last night your dad woke every 30 minutes or so to check your breathing. For the first time in a few weeks I slept deeply. I warned him he would need his strength during the day - high alert is stressful and exhausting. Your dad is keeping up a good front; however, his face betrays him and I see the strain and worry. He loves you so much baby girl, and being here by your side is all he wants. You are his heart.

Greeting Dad at the bus

As I walked out the door to bike to school, I was greeted by a shower of autumn leaves cascading from the trees. I stood on the lawn and looked up at the bursts of yellow, red and orange falling in slow motion. In that moment I felt the energy of earth swallow me up. It was both foreboding and ecstatic. I saw us though the years - California, Texas, Maine. Puppy, toddler dog and now senior. We are not bound in time or space, rather in synchrony without weight or care. I thought, you and I are in the leaves as they delicately carpet the ground, in the crisp air with no longer a trace of summer, in the dark quiet night that makes no promise for tomorrow. I feel you in all places and times - when we drove 22 hours straight to Austin, joyously swimming in the ocean on the West and East Coast, in late hours of the night while writing my dissertation when you refused to leave me in my office alone. Its been us for so long I don't know how to do life without you. 

My phone wallpaper since 2011

We will keep riding the roller coaster of good days and less good days like today. I will continue to look deeply into your eyes for you to tell me what you want. Everyone says I will know but honestly Peps I am full of self doubt when it comes to you. I am not one who lets go easily, which is my asset and liability. Talk to me girl I whispered as I pressed my face against yours. Your eyes were watering and breathing a bit labored. I shut my eyes and saw those falling leaves, thinking them to be a silent symphony serenading us in a sealed vacuum of time and space. There is no leaving or staying. There is only us. Before, after and always. 

Love you,

Mom

The Anatomy of Grief

Rena and Pepsi

Dear Pepsi,

Last night Rena called after reading the daily blog. She was sobbing, talking about her dread at losing you, how unfair it is that you are sick, and she also mentioned the death of her grandmother this summer, realizing she had not taken time to grieve. Your illness triggered her sorrow. She sounded like I did when you got your diagnosis. I cried for days and at one point I wasn't sure if the source of my sadness was you or the loss of my mom. Or the loss of Frank Quan, my surrogate dad. I repeatedly said It's too much loss, I cannot take another one. I was so busy before my mom died and after, covering up the hole inside me that was too deep and painful to dive into. I painted a window and wrote two poems in a slight pause before moving on to teaching, working on the mural project, and the basement renovation. I have yet to write and send a card to Frank's cousin Georgette because it would mean confronting my profound sadness and devastation about his death. Anticipating another loss has all our heads and hearts in a tailspin.

It's just there is a landfill of sadness inside and I don't know how to paint it

Since my mom died I have been trying to get my arms around the enormity of grief. I thought about my conversation with Rena a good part of the day. I tried to explain to Papa how the sadness and aching grief comes in waves, pounding the shore and then receding, but only momentarily. I am still on high alert with you, in fact, this evening I had a slight panic attack and called Rena to share my concern that perhaps I couldn't tell anymore what your former "normal" looks like or when I should be concerned. Overall you seem to be doing quite well - tolerating the chemo, maintain your appetite, perky, and happy to be out with people. You always had low energy at night but now I read a potential pericardial effusion into it. However, I actually left you at home I went to the store and stopped by the mural to talk with Muhsana and Kansi. I felt guilty because it was nice to be out by myself. I rarely leave your side, and love having you with me, but taking a short break from the visual worry was relaxing. It is a momentary smoke screen to the underlying fear of loosing you that prevails at all times. 

Pepsi's car bed

There is an anatomy of grief that is complex and baffling. While I was pushing the cart through the grocery store I had an image of a grief skeletal system, similar to the human adult comprised of a network of tendons ligaments, and cartilage that connects 206 bones. The skeletal system performs our body's vital functions and is basically our internal framework. We know it's there but we go through our daily lives not seeing it. The anatomy of grief feels much the same to me, it's structure is part of our vital functioning, effecting all our systems, connecting a network of loss, and yet until it erupts, like your effusion, we pretend it doesn't exist. When I learned you had cancer, I could not determine where one loss ended and the other began. The overlap of my mom and Frank's death with your cancer had bled into a big pile of pain that was mounting faster than I could process. 

Birthday cookie

I have to remind myself that I am the not just the one who is dealing with your illness on my own everyday, I am also the one who gets to be with you, hold you, laugh with you and see you happy. Your family in California have to plan and schedule visits to see you. When they head home they will wonder if they will see you again. I don't envy them at all. While the days are good, and I hope they will be many, it can seem as if noting has changed; however, if it takes a turn then those who love you will clamor and plot and plan to get here. For us it will be part of a more seamless process. You and I are in a rhythm, two parts of a whole moving through time and space with a sense of destiny. Because of you I am writing daily, the house is quieter, the unessential has been eliminated and I am focused and present. When my mom had her stroke I had two choices, to let the bitterness of the past turn me away from her or to find my better and more compassionate self. I chose the later and I have no regrets.  The complex and confounding anatomy of grief may remain an unsolved mystery that lives and breathes in me with each loss; however, because of you I understand gratitude and being present like never before. Listening to Rena last night I realized despite my constant fear of your loss, I also feel a strange sense of calm. Being with you these past days has opened my eyes to living life with a different lens, we are lock step in our destiny and that is what is sustaining me. 

Love you,

Mom

  

Oh the Places We've Gone

Pepsi at the airport waiting to board the flight to Boston

Dear Pepsi,

I thought about all our travels today while we were driving in the car running errands. Our first long journey was the move to Austin. I was so nervous about leaving the Bay Area after nearly 40years and venturing to a new city and starting a PhD program at 52 years old. Having you and Pearl with me meant I was not going it alone. We drove 13 hours to Scottsdale AZ the first day. Everyone at the Fairmont Resort (off season rates). To my relief the staff loved you guys! The manager had a Golden as well and they offered to watch you both so I could go the pool and relax. We got a later start than hoped and the plan was to spend the night around El Paso. We developed a rhythm of driving and stopping every few hours to top off gas and give you a pee break. I scouted out parks and ball fields from the freeway so you could be off leash to poop. Pearl will drop and go anywhere but not you, it has to be your desired conditions or nothing. When we got to El Paso I didn't see a hotel I felt comfortable parking a fully packed car. We were spoiled at the Fairmont with valet parking at a gated resort. I kept thinking we will stop at the next larger town and find a place but that never seemed to happen. I ended up driving 22 hours straight through to Austin. We arrived at our new home at 6am exhausted. You explored the yard for a few minutes and then we three fell into bed (the only piece of furniture) and slept like logs.

 Loving the new yard in Austin

Our Austin adventure lasted four years until 2013 when I graduated with my newly minted doctorate degree in social work. I don't think I could have done it without you, Pearl and later Pandy. The first year was hell. I rented a room to a fellow student for extra cash and often took a shower so she wouldn't hear me cry. Every time I left the house to take a data analysis exam I looked at you guys and said Wish me luck girls. When I passed the final exam I came home and exclaimed We did it! You three were in my dissertation acknowledgements. I spent most of my time studying and working in my little office with you and Pearl at my feet. We made it through the first year and while it remained difficult, I hit my stride and Austin seemed more like home than California. I loved our house, the neighborhood and our frequent trips to Walnut Creek Park. When school became to stressful I came home and loaded you in the car and off to the park we went. You made me smile to see you so happy and free. You always give me perspective. We sold the house when I was offered a teaching position in Portland Maine at University of Southern Maine. It was a bittersweet departure but the next chapter was calling us East, where my story began in New England. First; however, we had to go back to California while I scrambled to find a  new home for us.

Back at the fairmont on our way to California

We made the trek West with your dad. Going solo that first trip from California to Texas was enough for me. We set our sights for the Fairmont, taking advantage of off season rates again. We were greeted with the same hospitality for our pack, this time increased from two to three. We had our own suite away from the larger hotel complex, almost like an apartment. There was a pool for our cluster of suites, which were largely empty. The staff said they would turn the other way if you guys somehow jumped in the pool. We had so much fun we stayed two nights. After a grueling four years it was my first hint at a break and I enjoyed every minute of it. After two days of fun and rest we loaded up the car and headed to the Bay Area with our Austin life pushed further into the horizon.  

The California pack swimming in San Pablo Bay

We returned to a life that was no longer ours in California. We were in limbo. I think you missed our large yard in Austin and the feeling of being in our home. I know I did. I was flying back and forth to Maine to look for houses, visiting my mom in her nursing home and trying to prepare for teaching as a new professor. Thank God Jonathan worked for an airline and the trips were free. By mid August it was clear I would need temporary housing and rented a room for the first two months, flying to California every other weekend to see you and your sisters. I was used to being away from my kids but not my girls. My emotional center collapsed without you. It took me until November 1st to move into our new home and by then it made sense to wait until winter break for us to drive East. Your Papa and I made the journey in three nights and four days, pulling in at 3am to Portland exhausted but we were finally home and a family again. My real life in Portland could commence now that my girls were with me. 

Higgins Beach romps in every season

Our first Maine summer in the backyard with your big sister Rena

Kisses

 Dripping wet beach babies

Snuggling at home

Come on Papa, let us out!

Your adventures were not over quite yet. I rented the house for two summers on Air B N B and we went to the old house in California. While the family in California was happy, particularly your dad, I longed for our house in Portland and a settled life. On top of the disruption and confusion of not being home, your Bubi died in mid July. Every week for three years I brought one or all three of you to her nursing home for visits. Her stroke left her without speech or the use of her right side. When you visited she would pet you with her left hand and close her eyes in ecstasy. You brought her joy and peace. After all since you don't talk it was even. The other patients loved seeing you as well, calling to you and reaching to pet you. I can't prove it; however, I swear having weekly visits with you and your sisters was a factor in why she stayed alive for four years after a massive stroke. 

Pandy and Bubs

After two summers I vowed it would be our last away from Maine. I renovated the basement for an Air BNB rental and swore off leaving my house ever again. The first summer you flew each way with me and the second we drove with Papa. Those road trips were brutal; however, you and your sisters handled it like champs. When we got home in mid August I thought, this is it, we are finally settled and next summer will be ours in Maine. I no longer think that far ahead. I have no idea what will be next summer, and while I hope you will be joining Pealry, Pandy and I for sunrise and sunset at the beach, there is no way of knowing. Is there ever a way to know though, cancer aside?  The sober truth is we have no idea what comes next. Planning is great, as is being prudent and trying to minimize risk; however, safety is an illusion and we are promised nothing. And while I thought I knew this, I had no idea until you got sick and my false sense of our foreverness was shattered in to a thousand pieces. Now, being with you in the moment fills me with more joy than thoughts of the future. When I watch you play with Pearl, make room for Pandy in the chair, roll with me on errands, curl up close to me at night, and make it though another day of chemo in good spirits I am humbled and grateful. When I scooped up your 5 week old self at our first encounter, I could have never known you would be my salvation, bringing me back to myself and what really matters. Thanks my darling girl.

Love you,

Mom