A healing place

As I was finishing my Round 2 of chemo in early December, Dr. Blair stopped by my hospital room and offered me a proposition. He was going on vacation in late December and wondered if I'd like a week's hiatus before starting Round 3. (My other choice was to stick with the original plan -- being admitted on Dec. 30 -- and have a different doctor overseeing my care.) I quickly jumped at the chance of another week to enjoy the holidays with my family while the kids were on their winter break from school. Plus, I'd get to avoid ringing in the new year from a hospital bed. Clearly an easy decision, no? Maybe Josh and I could even sneak in a little getaway. Cancer-cation, here I come!

If cancer gave me anything remotely close to a gift this past Christmas, it was experiencing the holidays through new eyes. I found myself enjoying every bit of the magic and sentiment more than I had in years past. Granted, I had to avoid the stores and the crowds for fear of catching something contagious. But driving around to look at lights, decorating our house and tree, opening up all the cards filled with photos of dear friends and their beautiful children, listening to holiday music, watching the classic TV specials and noshing on homemade goodies with our kids -- it just kept me on a high that never went away.

Hard to believe this was the same season that had caused me stress and anxiety in the past. Of course, much credit goes to the amazing "elves" we had this year, who took care of so much of the gift buying, and even gift wrapping. Delivery vehicles arrived bearing gifts from loved ones as near as San Francisco and as far as Ontario, Canada. Our family was spoiled by so many thoughtful souls, our friends and colleagues among them. You know who you are. Josh and I both feel a tremendous sense of gratitude for all the gifts our family received. It's humbling to be on the receiving end of such generosity, and it was a real reminder to us of what Christmas is all about.

Since my blood counts were maintained at an acceptable level by daily shots of boosting medication, Dr. Blair gave me the green light to attend our church's Christmas Eve services. It was the first time I'd been able to go to church in months, and what a time to finally make it. We chose to attend the family service, and the church quickly filled to the brim with little ones dressed in their Christmas best. We listened to the sweet voices of the children's choir and looked for familiar faces as little costumed angels and shepherds paraded to the altar, where they gathered for the reading and portrayal of the Christmas story. The lights were dimmed, and the glow of candlelight and twinkly tree lights felt magical.

There in that church, surrounded by my husband, children, friends and family, I gave thanks for all of God's blessings the past year -- so many of which came to me since I'd received my initial diagnosis. The news from my latest PET scan that my tumor was actually shrinking and the cancer was looking less aggressive topped the list of my thanks. I prayed for each one of you -- my own personal angels -- who've been praying for me all these months. Believe me, I really tried to keep it together but finally got choked up at the last song of the service, which was Silent Night. Anyone who knows me well knows that I've always been sentimental and tear up pretty easily, ever since I was a little girl. What can I say -- that song is just a doozy.

We've never celebrated Christmas Eve dinner with either of our extended families in 13 years of marriage, so I was tickled that someone had chosen this particular day from our Care Calendar to prepare us a meal. When we arrived home from church, I was in awe at the sight of the fabulous dinner waiting on our front porch. Thanks to my friend (and River Park Mothers Club president) Adriane Ahnstedt, we enjoyed a huge, delicious meal of traditional Christmas tamales with all the fixings. Josh's parents joined us, and I set the table and lit candles for the first fancy Christmas Eve dinner we've ever shared. I hope it's the beginning of a new family tradition.

Christmas morning came soon enough, and we nibbled on more of Adriane's delicious treats of fruit and pannetoni bread in front of a warm fire, watching the rain outside while the kids tore into their many gifts with sheer delight. (After six years in a home without a lit fire, dear Josh had gifted us with a newly converted gas log kit in our fireplace and gotten the chimney swept. Ahhh...so nice!) Later on, we discovered one last surprise from an anonymous elf. There, planted among the roses on the path to our front door, someone had placed three decorative iron garden stakes that read Hope, Love, and Joy. Each was adorned with a pretty bow and a plastic baggie to protect a handwritten message from the rain outside. The messages read:

You are the promise of HOPE

LOVE is surrounding you -- everywhere

You give JOY to all with your laughter and smile

Wow. How did I ever get so lucky to have such amazing people in my life? I quickly rescued those little messages and have kept them on my nightstand ever since. When the children asked who that particular gift came from, I turned the question around to them. They both agreed it had to be Santa. And I couldn't argue with that. I just hope that the special soul who played Santa for me this year can know how touched I was to receive such an uplifting gift. It made my day, topping off a truly wonderful Christmas.

Approaching my new-found week of freedom before chemo Round 3, I began dreaming of my cancer-cation again. I'd been reading in this great book called "Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips" (a gift from my nephew's girlfriend -- thanks Katie!) that it's good to find a place that can become your getaway from cancer, where nature can provide a source of relaxation and inspiration to help heal the mind and the body. For the author of the book, it was a regular getaway to someplace located deep in the forest. Though I wasn't sure of an exact location for my getaway, I hoped it could be somewhere near the ocean.

I looked for inspiration in the practical. The specialists at Stanford wanted me to come back for a visit to check in at the half-way point of my chemo treatments, between Round 2 and Round 3. The only appointment I could get at Stanford was on January 5 -- the day before I was scheduled to begin Round 3 back at home. So that started my quest for an overnight getaway that would be in close proximity to Stanford. In talking it over with my dear friend Susan, she came up with the perfect spot -- Half Moon Bay, a little beach town nestled along scenic Highway 1, and just 23 miles from Stanford's Cancer Center. Neither Josh nor I had ever spent any time there, which is surprising since we'd both lived in nearby San Francisco during college. It wasn't hard to find accommodations for Sunday evening, so I booked a room at one of the many inns featured online.

The day we left on our excursion was beautifully sunny -- such a change from the gray skies we'd been having during most of the holidays. My sister Laurie had arrived from Monterey the night before and was planning to help us out at home during Round 3 along with our sister Donna. She graciously agreed to stay with the kids during our getaway. After what felt like a short drive, we arrived to find a quaint, laid-back town with plenty of visitors also wanting to make the most of a sunny day by the coast. Our hotel was tucked in at the end of an ocean road and connected to a neat walking path that wound around to various beach approaches. We met the innkeeper, a man named Reg who sported a shaggy white beard, quickly checked in and helped ourselves to freshly brewed coffee before heading over to the next building where our room was located.

The sight of our room took my breath away. It was like a beautiful, sunny studio apartment on the top floor with vaulted ceilings. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, it OVERLOOKED THE OCEAN. (Pinch me!) At the far end of the room, a sliding glass door opened out onto a tiny patio with walls made of plexiglass and room for two to sit and enjoy the perfect view. The small ocean road we arrived on was all that separated us from the ocean cliffs below. I quickly threw open the door to hear the sound of crashing waves. Pure heaven.

We unpacked a bit and went for a walk on the beach. It felt refreshing to breathe the ocean air and enjoy this alone time with my husband, uninterrupted by the needs of children (or the distraction of a life-threatening disease, for that matter). I noticed everything around me -- the bicyclers, the stretches of black sand intertwined with the white, and the iceplant with its new yellow blossoms (so different from the fuschia blooms we see in Monterey). The weather was warm enough that I didn't even need the jacket I had brought.

Within a few minutes of our walk on the beach, I found a perfectly whole sand dollar. "Are you going to give that to the kids?" Josh asked. "Oh no," I told him. I felt like it was a sign of why I was here. "This one's coming home with me,” I told him, “and I'm going to keep it somewhere to remind me of this day." I explained another tip I'd learned from the "Crazy Sexy Cancer" book -- to create a personal space for meditation and reflection, where certain objects help to achieve a positive and healing state of mind.

We later watched a gorgeous sunset from our patio, toasted with champagne to the coming year and good health, and then headed downstairs to the inn's main building for a reception of wine and appetizers. It was a pretty quiet gathering, with just a few other couples, and everyone kept to themselves. Josh and I had stayed at a bed-and-breakfast only once before, and I remember how seemingly awkward it can be when random travelers are placed together in a room. Once the room cleared to just us and one other couple, there was no choice but to make conversation. But I was quickly impressed with how genuinely nice they both were. Their names were Steve and Sharon, and they were probably in their 50s. They had stayed at this inn many times before, so they knew the room we had booked and had many others to recommend as well.

Steve and Sharon were from Lodi, where they grew grapes for several wineries, and enjoyed their grandchildren almost as much as their frequent trips to Half Moon Bay. We chatted about family, work, and ultimately what had brought us to this particular coastal town. At the mention of our upcoming visit to Stanford, they seemed unfazed. "What kind of cancer do you have?" asked Steve. Then he promptly shared that he was a cancer survivor himself.

We exchanged stories for what must have been nearly an hour. It felt really good to talk to these perfect strangers about something we could all relate to. Sharon and I talked about serendipity, and how there is a reason people are brought into each other's lives. After a few more glasses of wine, we parted ways -- but not before Steve and Sharon invited us to visit them in Lodi anytime we were in the area. Steve gave Josh his business card and offered their help in any way possible. We knew it was a sincere invitation.

Josh and I walked in the dark down the ocean road, hand in hand, to a restaurant also on the water. It was a beautiful location and such a nice chance to do nothing more than talk. Of course, our conversation touched on the obvious issues at hand, but eventually moved into more of the future -- what kind of people our children would grow up to be, what challenges they might face and how their individual character traits would see them through it.

It's not often that you have a chance to connect with your spouse and really talk about the job you're doing as parents, and how well prepared you'll get these little people to be for the journey that is life itself. We each confided some of the things that challenged us as we were growing up, and wondered how different the world will really be for Camryn and Hayden. Or how much it might just stay the same.

By the time we returned to the inn, we were chilly and went searching for the dessert and coffee that we were promised would be available until 9 p.m. This time, there were no other guests to be seen. As we grabbed our coffee and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, Reg the innkeeper popped in and told us, "I've got some good news for you kids." We both looked puzzled. Then he told us that an anonymous person had "taken care of" our room charges. What? My first thought went to Laurie, the only person who knew exactly where we were staying. Reg insisted it was not my sister. Then Josh quickly realized who it was -- our new friends from Lodi.

When something like this happens, I'm completely humbled by the loving people around us -- not only the ones we know personally, but more strikingly the ones we don't know at all. It was just like the message I'd gotten on Christmas morning -- "Love is surrounding you." We decided to leave a note with Reg to give to Steve and Sharon, thanking them for such an unbelievable gesture, and with hope that we'll get to see them again. It was good old serendipity that brought us together, and with any luck it can happen once more. We know how to find them, after all, whether it's in Lodi or back in Half Moon Bay.

At our visit to Stanford the next morning, I learned from Dr. Wakelee that my surgery will likely take place right after I finish my fourth and final round of chemo. She ordered a couple more tests and asked me to return on Feb. 10 to meet with the surgeons after their tumor board's final meeting to discuss my case. Before we left, I reconnected with Holly, Stanford's director of patient support services, to give her a big hug and say thank you for her words of wisdom the last time I'd seen her.

Admittedly, I was a real basket case back then. I'd been let down by my primary care doc and then learned I’d have to do chemo in Sacramento instead of Stanford because of the difficulty of the recommended treatment plan. While I was apprehensive of that decision, as well as whether to trust my Sacramento oncologist, Holly was the one who reassured me. She reminded me that Dr. Blair possessed the qualities of a good doctor by the simple act of referring me to Stanford. Now I have the perspective to agree with her completely.

I headed into chemo Round 3 with a feeling of calm. My body, mind and soul had been nourished during that little ocean getaway. My sister Laurie accompanied me to the hospital this time. As we trudged into the admitting area with our overnight bags, I had those same familiar feelings as before -- like I was going on a trip again. Talk about deja vu.

While I did have some anxiousness about the prospect of the chemo making me sick again, this time I had a plan. I decided I would listen to my body and eat only those things that I felt like I could tolerate. These instincts alone kept me to a very bland, vegetarian menu. I refused all the classically heavy hospital food, usually after just one look at it. My last meal before chemo was veggies delite with tofu served over rice – delivered by my favorite Chinese restaurant. (Good thinking, Laurie!)

This plan actually worked, because I suppose it was what my body needed. Once my three chemo drugs were administered, I became nauseated at the very smell of hospital food. Pretty soon, the nurses posted a sign on my door that said no food was to be delivered by hospital staff. I ate veggies that Laurie got from nearby restaurants, and finally could only tolerate the pureed veggies from the Magic Mineral Broth – generously created this time by my friend and super-cook Heather – which was heated up and delivered to me by many shifts of caring nurses. (I’m still amazed that this healing soup has saved me through all three rounds so far. If only the hospital could offer something so fortifying and nutritious on its own.)

My days spent in the hospital went by more slowly this time, as I was less hampered by the haziness of tranquilizers I no longer seemed to need. Twice, I was wheeled out of my room (while remaining in my bed) and into other areas of the hospital, first to get a heart scan and later a chest CT, which Stanford had requested for its Tumor Board. But mostly Laurie and I just talked and talked, something we usually only get to do on the telephone with so many miles between us. Josh relieved Laurie for a night, which was nice because I actually missed his company. Had we really just gotten away to the coast a few days prior? It was starting to feel like so long ago already.

My dear pal Amy arrived on the third day, bearing the gift of a beautiful Silpada necklace with several engraved charms – two of which were hammered silver discs monogrammed with the names of my kids. We had fun hanging out, talking up a storm while she worked on her first serious knitting project, a blanket for her younger brother's first baby. I could tell she was happy to watch a DVD from my Chick Flicks collection instead of watching me throw up like last time. (My small way of saying thank you…)

On my last night in the hospital, I was holding steady with the Miracle soup when Dr. Blair dropped by. The good news is he told me that my tests did not show anything unusual. Overall, he seemed pleased with my status, but announced that I needed to “step it up” with the food. Alright, I thought, so I need something more…but what sounds good? It reminded me of being pregnant, when there was so much importance placed on how good things tasted (and, alternately, how bad certain things smelled).

Right away, I got a hankering/craving for angel hair pasta with butter. Laurie suggested that I call our sister Wendy, who lives just a few blocks from the hospital. Within a half hour, Wendy arrived, warm pasta in hand. Together, the three of us watched goofy TV shows ("California's Gold" with Huell Howser, anyone?) while I dove into the noodles. It was exactly what I needed.

Friday, I came home to the best surprise yet. While I was away in the hospital, my wonderful husband somehow managed to conduct his own version of an interior design makeover show. His partner in crime was our ever-supportive friend and cheerleader Lisa Menzmer -- the awesome woman behind my blue book of love letters. These two transformed the room formerly known as our office but closer in comparison (yes, I’ll admit it) to an actual firetrap. Josh was all smiles as he proudly explained how Lisa had come over in the evenings, helped shop for furniture and accessories, and then worked with him to arrange it all into a meditation room, a healing place, a “Zen den.” And it was just for me. Seriously, these two deserve some sort of award. (I'm still thinking of what to call it -- maybe Biggest Heart Ever.)

I couldn't believe my eyes -- and not just because of the tears that quickly welled up in them. Was it really the same room? The walls were still the same taupe/olive color as before, but it looked as if someone had physically enlarged the space. Our mammoth L-shaped desk, which had previously overpowered the small room with outdated computer equipment and stacks of endless paper, was gone. Where was all the junk? The Rubbermaid tubs, containing a haphazard collection of kids schoolwork, artwork, medical records, receipts, photos and God-knows-what-else had also disappeared. (Actually, those had been relocated.)

In their place were thoughtfully chosen items -- a much smaller desk on one wall and a beautiful upholstered chaise, placed on an angle in the corner. Its feminine, black-on-cream toile fabric was accented by a pretty end table with a round glass top. And resting on the end table was a terrific new docking station/speaker for my iPod (a gift from Laurie) that was already playing some of my favorite tunes. A red, heart-shaped rug added a pop of the color to the room.

The gentle sound of trickling water came from a striking fountain made of concrete and copper (a gift from Donna), which stood atop the room's biggest bookshelf. My growing library of cancer-related books shared space on the lower shelves with an actual Zen garden, complete with sand, rocks and a mini rake. Small box frames containing artfully arranged quotations -- such as “Life does not put things in front of you that you are unable to handle” -- were posed around them. A living bamboo plant, worry stones, and a pretty mirror hinted at the overall meditative theme.

Not everything in the room had changed. The framed photos of our family remained on a black ladder shelf I’d purchased years ago. But co-mingled among the familiar faces were an assortment of tea lights and a series of framed black and white photos of cherry blossoms. It all looked so clean and hip, like a gallery. This was a look and feel that I’d never been able to achieve, because I’d chosen to let chaos get in the way. But this was how I wished it had always been, and how I definitely want it to stay.

The last thing I noticed was a photo on the desk, a pop of color in a rustic dark frame. It was a gorgeous outdoor scene of two old Adirondack chairs, sitting lazily in the grass and facing an old red barn. I recognized the photo immediately. It had been taken by an old friend from high school, Bryte, with whom I'd recently become reacquainted. He's married, lives in Connecticut now, and works -- get this -- for the New England chapter of the American Cancer Society. Needless to say, we've had some good chats lately. Bryte had recently shared some of his photography with me via his online Flicker account, and I had admired that very photo. The design team of Josh and Lisa were both pleasantly surprised when it arrived in the mail during their office makeover. They knew I'd love it too. (Thanks again, Bryte -- you're a gem.)

I still cannot believe how Josh pulled this one over on me. After nearly 18 years together, you'd think I'd have him all figured out. But this is probably his best surprise yet. I appreciate the pure love put into creating such a meaningful space, given everything that's been going on in our lives. And the additions from our family and friends only add to its specialness. For once, I have no reason to shut the door to this room. Instead, I'm tickled every time I pass it in the hallway and want to hang out there. As I write this, I am relaxing in my new chaise, listening to the fountain and admiring my surroundings. Earlier today, I put my sand dollar from Half Moon Bay right next to the fountain. It reminds me of the wonderful man who selflessly gave me a place to rest, to read, to blog, to meditate. And to heal.