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.

December 30, Tropical Garden

The bear has stolen Christmas!  Not to be deterred by the loss of wine (which is now tasteless, sadly, and mixes badly with the medications) the bear has found cassis.  A tear of cassis, mixed with ice, plenty of mineral water, and a slice of lemon, is not only palatable, but in the right glass, it is a truly celebratory drink.  We drank to her health.  We drank to my health.  Friends, we drank to your health too!  Joyfully, it was a cassis Christmas! 

The bear is pleased by the heavy snow that now covers the trees and the meadow.  She is tired.  Her left arm, in particular, is ever troublesome.  But, not to be discouraged by expectations of both cold weather and helplessness in the months to come, our stealthy bear has been searching her den for possibilities.  Inspired by the orchid left for us by my father, she gathered, first her energies, then me, Greg, and Robyn together for a drive to Peterborough.  Like bandits, we entered the city quickly, and left decisively, with no less than 12 more orchid plants!  These flowers are now joined in our sunroom by 6 African violets.  My friends, it was also a tropical Christmas!

“It’s like I have two bodies,” Angela says, “one that is working to get better, the other that is just waiting.”  

The working body aches.  It changes shape.  Her face is swollen.  Her glasses, now resting on her cheeks rather than her nose, fall occasionally.  Her feet burn for some reason.  Her nose bleeds.  We look carefully at the hump on her back, and agree it is bigger.  The creases of her skin are dry, and her skin, somehow, most certainly, is thinner.  Angela says that all of this is the body’s work.  It bends, as it must, with the treatments, and against the disease.

The body that waits ponders, cautiously.  It wonders what will be left when the work is done.  What will it then do?  

She finished her steroids yesterday.  Today, Angela is mostly sleeping. 

Between working to get well, and just waiting, Angela, our bear, steals what she can.  Somehow, when we least expected it, she stole Christmas.  While I tried to celebrate “in the usual way”, she filled the room with flowers.  I am endlessly moved by her magical powers.  Happily, I am stolen too.  We are waiting together.  Together, we are pondering what we will become, and together we expect to stay strong.  We insist.

Friends, let us all steal what we can from the New Year!  We wish you all well.  Let us be in touch.

December 23, Forest View

Rocky, who is capable of more facial expression than I am, has lately been wearing such a look of confusion.  He sees Angela moving so slowly.  Things previously done in a rush, now take utmost care and attention.  “He’s asking ‘why?’” Angela says.  “Why is this happening?  What’s the meaning of all this?”  We look to Rocky to find our own bewilderment.

Angela’s steroid dose is now a quarter of what it initially was.  Perhaps this is why her left arm is more numb in recent days.  She is generally weaker.  Pain now returns more fiercely when her medication “runs out.”   She tries to keep a window between herself and her emotions, and to witness them as though watching weather against the forest outside, but storms are now passing.  There have been more tears.  She has screamed at God.  The steroid medication that had picked her up is now dropping her.

Thankfully, again, we are home.  There is now a sheet of snow on the meadow.  I finished work yesterday for the holidays.   We will be together, Angela and I, with Rocky and our cat, Alice, this weekend, and all of next week.  We will fill our fridge today with proper celebratory foods that will include lots of milk and honey.  Sacred music will scream from our stereo.  The fire will burn.  With the help of my brother, Greg, and his wife, Robyn, who arrive today to be with us for the week as well, I am sure we will have frequent laughs.  Often, as well, we will stare at each other in bewilderment. 

The bear, by outward appearances, seems to be doing very little, a full afternoon spent changing her bed linens, but, day and night, she has a dragon by the tail.  My friends, we are with her in her frustration, her determination, and her fear.  We suffer that she must bare so much of it herself.  When her nose bled suddenly last evening I tended to it with a white towel.  She commented on how like ink the blood was.  Afterward we ate Tarta de Espagnol. and watched a British sit-com.  What can we do?  We re-contemplated our vegetarianism.  Whatever it takes.

Bewildered or afraid, amused or anguished, we will keep you posted.

December 18, Bear's Den

My friends, can we, in our current circumstance, accept that a homecoming could coincide with an anniversary by mere accident?  We prefer trust, rather, that invisible hands are involved, the same mad yet generous hands, no doubt, that brought Angela and I together so many years ago.  Could we let this moment pass then without due ceremony?  My friends, we did our best.

Angela is home.  We met with the surgeon on Thursday after her last of 25 radiation treatments.  We talked with him, only briefly, about surgery.  Sure, not much has improved since we saw him five weeks ago, but, as he emphasized, not much is worse.  He said that he has seen many things in his time.  He has seen these kinds of tumours wait for many weeks after radiation to show signs of response, and then go on to completely remit.  True, only time will tell, but, shutting his eyes and shaking his head, he was quick to dismiss the idea of surgery now.  The hazards, he says, are not worth the potential benefits as long as things are stable and there is still a chance that other treatments will work.  And as for the hole the tumour will hopefully leave in Angela's spine?  Well, we don't know.  The surgeon has seen very big holes fill in with "solid enough" scar tissue to keep the spine stable, while in other cases comparatively smaller holes create "problems".  How often the surgeon, in his experience, has seen this rather than that, we could not gather.  Time will tell.  Angela is prepared to do whatever she has to, so, for now, she will be patient.  Invisible hands are at work.  The surgeon's hands will wait.

We were helped, in our humble celebration this weekend, by our good friends Terry, Catherine, and Lou who arrived to our barn shaped home last night as though to Bethlehem.  They brought with them wonderful gifts that included a Christmas cake, sparkling champagne, and, carved out of stone, a dancing polar bear.  While we honour invisible hands, we are mindful as well of how much our life together, Angela's and mine, has been shaped by visible hands too.  Very much in our thoughts this weekend is my father who returned to Winnipeg yesterday morning after a month of trustworthy and careful attention to our home, our animals, and us.  Among other things my father left with us an orchid plant which, wonderfully, comes with the instruction to feed it three ice cubes once per week.  How happy we will be if we can turn ice into life all winter!

This afternoon Rocky and I shared in Angela's fatigue.  Soon after our friends departed this morning we were all asleep, she on the couch, Rocky and I on the floor in front of the fire.  It seems all I managed to do today, before writing this, is sleep, and, at timely intervals, add logs to the fire.  We held on for the celebration, now we rest.  The bear remains tired.  Her paws remain clumsy.  But she is swallowing food better already, and, so importantly, she is back in her den.

I am very happy not to be driving to Kingston tomorrow morning.  We will return to Kingston sometime in January to meet the oncologist and discuss chemotherapy.  Hopefully we won't see the surgeon again before two months.   In the meantime we remain so grateful to all our friends who have sent the warmest thoughts and messages to us in these times.  From near and from far, through invisible hands, we are moved by your thoughts.  We will be in touch.

December 13, Room 314

“I don’t do much, I just am,” Angela said smiling.  “It’s already very, very tiring.”

The bear’s arms have gotten very thin, her body large. 

Last night I caught her looking at her hands.  “It’s odd,” she said, “they look like someone else’s hands, not mine.”   She dropped the dog’s bowl on the weekend.  She dropped her glasses twice. She puts her iphone on a flat surface to type a message.  If she holds it to type, her left arm grows numb. 

I left Angela this morning in room 314 of Confederation Place Hotel, the same room we had arrived to so triumphantly not even a month ago.  

It’s better not to wonder why her arms are no stronger, perhaps weaker, than before.   This morning, like most mornings since we have been together, we had coffee with foamed milk.  

It’s better not to worry about why she still needs as much pain medication now as she did a month ago.  

This morning we spoke, as we usually do, about what we dreamt last night.  We are proud of her perseverance.  When I am dressed for work, as usual, she tells me I look…perfect.  We are awake in the night when pains are still soothed with milk and honey.  We still, nevertheless, enjoy a good pain au chocolat with our café au lait, and, still, each day, there is work to be done.

We knew when Angela started radiation therapy that improvements could be quite delayed.  Now we count on it.  Better not do as I am bound and read too much into Angela’s persistent symptoms, especially since, without question, there is another triumph at hand.  Thursday is her last radiation treatment. On the same day we meet the surgeon.    The end is a new beginning.   We don’t know if we even scored a goal, but we are claiming a victory.  Angela is coming home.   We will be ready for the next step.

Angela, let’s build a fire.  Please, we will put up some lights, turn on some music, and let’s both wear jewelry.  If you’re the bear, I’ll be the knight.  Please Angela, let’s kill that dragon!   I love your thin arms.  Let’s celebrate 15 years, and, above all, let’s plan 15 more!  

And friends, the school term is over.  Let’s all enjoy the holidays.  And let’s, of course, be in touch.