January 22, Field of Grass

My ritual in the mornings includes scrubbing the fireplace window, raking the coals, and lighting the fire.  Rocky is typically back from his first exploration of the meadow by the time I finish.  I fill his bowl, and turn the tap on for Alice to drink.  Angela, in the meantime, waits for her morning pain medication to take effect.  "Crying helps," she reassures us.  Rocky now places his chin on Angela's lap when she cries.

The dragon, as we call it, is reliably most vicious in the mornings.  We are adjusting Angela's medications regularly.  We are glad that she is now sleeping peacefully through the night.  We have not been able, though, to avoid her morning pains.  It is the stabbing in her back that is most difficult.  She takes her time to raise from bed.  Bravely, though, and without fail, she is making the coffee by the time I am taking my shower.

I linger in the mornings to the point, each day, of being late.  My schedule, though, is becoming as full as it has ever been.  Sadly, in my work, I have attended to some uncommon, and unspeakable tragedies this week.  I have been, with colleagues and patients, deep in reflection on life's cruelties.  I dreamt, in the midst of this, that I was walking through a field of grass.  Foolishly, and despite great care, I kept dropping Angela's pill bottle.  I fell to my knees each time and searched desperately for her pills within the grass.  At first I gathered them easily, but gradually I realised there were pills everywhere, more than just Angela's.  They were of so many shapes and sizes that I could not tell which were hers.  I crawled around stupidly and was dumbfounded at how surrounded we are by illness.

When our good oncologist had told Angela that there is no cure for multiple mieloma, Angela reminded him, to his own apparent dismay, that there was also no cure for life.

When I am at work Angela, our great bear, is at home, most often, sleeping.  Her battle with the dragon each morning seems, before noon, to tire them both.  Although her pain seems to improve she remains, through the afternoon, quite limited by fatigue.  She continues to steal what she can, moments here and there, to get some things done.  Despite her pain and fatigue she rides a stationary bike for 15 minutes each day.  On one afternoon she rearranged some shelves.  She is now visiting the International Mieloma Foundation website from time to time because our good oncologist recommended it.  He said that it saves him from having to tell people "the bad stories" himself.

We both, upon our parting in the mornings, look forward to the evenings.  When I drive to and from work, passing the cows and snow covered orchards, I am now listening to an audio course on Renaissance church music and early opera.  This is a surprise to me.  I have no taste any longer, or at least for the time being, for popular music.   There are feelings these days that I have no expression for, an intensity of which I do not want to let go of.  Words and thoughts are not enough.  Opera, in particular, seems to help.    I am crawling around stupidly, but, amongst the horrors, I am uncovering some beautiful things.

Oddly, while I have lost the taste for popular music, Angela and I have acquired a taste for popular television.  We are still watching British sit coms.   We look forward to the evenings when with Perrier, clementines, and a box of chocolates we watch comedy on the big screen and, reliably, steal true, honest laughs.  We welcome, our friends, any suggestions for good television comedy or for opera that you might have.  We continue to trust in your patience, well wishes, and your prayers.  We will continue, of course, to be in touch.

January 13, Games Room

Amused, Angela tells me she fell asleep last night amidst thoughts of death.  "It couldn't have been too bad," she said, "I still fell asleep."

I am glad to report that our bear seems to be gathering her strength.  She is at least out of bed more often compared to a few days ago.  There are fewer headaches.  I am hearing her laugh again.  The steroids dropped her so very hard last week when she stopped them, but now she is picking herself up.

Two days ago we met with the oncologist.  Without waisting time he told us he does not recommend chemotherapy yet.  In this type of cancer he typically waits until there is more obvious impairment in blood counts (low red blood cells, white blood cells, or platelets), or in kidney function.  Doing chemotherapy before these sorts of problems arise does not, ultimately, increase overall life expectancy.  "Better to wait," he says, "wait and watch." He will see us every three months for tests.  In the meantime Angela will be vigilant for any new pain that may arise in her spine or other bones.  

Is there a chance that these new problems will never come?  Is there a chance that the radiation therapy already done is all Angela will ever need?  Yes, there is.  Our good oncologist estimates the likelihood of this, however, at 20%.  "There is no cure for multiple myeloma," he proudly cautions.  In  Angela's case, this might be the type of myeloma that, as he says, "smolders in the bones without causing problems for a long time."  On the otherhand, of course, time may be shorter.  

Long or short, if the time comes, our good man will treat this cancer aggressively.  A man of numbers, it sounds as though he, himself, would bet on giving Angela both chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant "sooner or later,"   but not now.  "Why ruin the winter?" he asks.  

Regretably the oncologist was not surprised that the pain and weakness in Angela's hands had not improved.  Plainly, he told us that these symptoms likely won't get better even as the tumor recedes. Reassuringly, he said they should not get worse.  Ultimately, moved by the hard plastic collar still supporting Angela's neck, he referred her to an orthopedic surgeon who has experience injecting "cement" between vertebrae in unstable spines. 

At the end of the meeting Angela took this card player by the hand and thanked him for being straightforward.  We will see him in three months.

Hope is simultaneously given and taken away.  

There will be time, however long, to tend to our orchids.  This morning, happily, we enjoyed our coffee with foamed milk while Rocky, once again, explored the meadow.  In such moments even a plastic collar is no great matter.  

We, of course, do not know to what extent our good man's numbers apply to polar bears.  Saint George, of course, is still fighting the dragon above our hearth.  Invisible hands still hover around us.  We are still the recipients of the fondest wishes and prayers. We return those wishes and prayers one thousand fold.  Our friends, we will still...be in touch.

January 7, Belleville General

My Angela, a polar bear, is also an orchid.  Far from a knight, I, myself, am only a witness, now to her great strength, now to her fragility.


The first days of the new year have been difficult.  Angela's left arm is always numb.  Any brief use of her hand increases her pain.  She is plagued by headaches whenever she lies down.  Alas, she is much more cautious in all of her movements, and moves very little.

We have placed our orchids in the only room that might allow them enough sun, but it is a room that, for various reasons, is difficult to keep warm.  They look magnificent in the windows with the winter scene of the forest and meadow behind them.

I repeat to Angela many times, in ever greater detail, medical explanations for her worsened symptoms.  I explain to her how steroids work.  I explain what we might expect if her tumor is, in fact, shrinking.  These are, definitely, good explanations.  There is, medically, good reason to hope.  These explanations require, nevertheless, at these moments, great efforts to believe.  

We watch over the orchids like fools.  We marvel that they exist, and check regularly that they are not wilting or otherwise turning brown.  We have two thermometers in their room.  The heater that is meant to keep the room above 13 degrees will be replaced because it has the tendency to shut off spontaneously.  We are awake to check on it in the night.  We know we worry in excess.


I am back to long hours at work.  I am at the hospital in Belleville presently, and will be for most of the weekend.  Somehow, this week, I have also been for auto service twice, for groceries a few times, and I have visited my own doctor.  Although I know I am doing well, I am fighting, in my daily obligations, a helpless feeling.  At times, we know, there is so little we can do.  Orchids, of course, are not meant for winter.  A bear is not meant to cry.  

I am, in the light of day, convinced that angela will be soon rid of this cancer.  I insist, clinically, that the odds are good.  I am braced with her for the next step.  We see the oncologist on Wednesday.  In the meantime I look often at the new Inuit sculptures, a+c, that we bought eachother for Christmas, and which are with us on this blog.  We believe that one captures Angela's loving gaze, and the other, my priestly devotion.  We aspire to old ideals.  Along with radiation and chemotherapy, we count on love and faith.  

Today it is hard to speak without tears.  Angela had wanted to make some calls.  She wanted to wish a friend a happy birthday.  She wanted to speak to her cousin.  She was too tired.  If my explanations are correct she will make these calls soon.  In the meantime, I will buy more plants, maybe orchids, and we will, my friends, be in touch.