February 21, Atelier

The orchids, miraculously, are thriving.  Joined by hyacinths, violets, and now two vases of tulips, they almost efface the winter seen behind them.

Angela, deceptively, is thriving too.  We were joined by friends both this weekend and the weekend before.   For both occasions Angela discarded her collar, partook of some red wine, and, generally, was in fine form.  During the week, perhaps to oppose as directly as possible her weakening hands, Angela has taken up drawing.  Perhaps to confront as directly as possible her changed and changing features, she has started with a portrait of herself.  The slow lines, produced in steps, as allowed by her poor hands, seem, in drawing, to be less frustrating, more pleasurable, than in writing.

Today the fire is blazing in the fireplace.  After working through the long weekend I have a day of rest.  As I write this Angela sleeps.  Rocky sleeps too.  Still an afternoon nap is inescapable for our Angela.  Still she sleeps on her right side, a pillow between her left arm and her body to keep her shoulder at the right angle, another pillow squeezed under her side behind her to keep her from rolling on her back.  Still, after so many months, the same position.

Angela ran her hand through her hair yesterday to show me how much it is thinning on the right side.  We agreed this was due to so much time against the pillow.  We are not certain why her hair has grown so very little these last few months.  Her thin and irregular hair is one of the features she confronts as she does her self-portrait.  Other features include her swollen face and the surgical scar across her throat.  In the portrait this scar is covered by the plastic collar.  In the portrait as well, I am happy to say, all these features are eclipsed by her beautiful smile.

As I write this it is almost, but not quite, snowing outside.  There are tiny snowflakes widely dispersed that crisscross and, at times, hang motionless in the air.   We do not know what to plan for the spring or summer.  We are still unwilling, it seems, to press our luck.  We look together at Angela's changed and changing features, both in her portrait, and in the mirror.  She worries perhaps that I have not yet seen them, and one day will.  I worry that she will one day fail to see herself, my regal bear, as I do.

In the morning while we drink our coffee we look, at times, beyond the orchids to the frozen meadow. We hang like such melancholy snowflakes in the air.   Thankfully, our friends, there is drawing.  Importantly, there is strength to draw.  There is writing too.  We will keep in touch.

February 5, Bear Trap

We read recently that tomatoes and red wine are protective against cancers.  Poor Angela.  "Who has eaten more tomatoes than me?" she asked.  She did not, of course, even mention the red wine.

The great fight has slowed down considerably.  Angela's pain does not return as violently as it did only a couple of weeks ago.  She sleeps peacefully through the night, and with the most recent change in her medications, her mornings too are more bearable.  Although still compelled to nap for a few hours in the afternoons, she seems, to me at least, to have more energy.

I return home in the evenings with the groceries.  Angela hates that she cannot go for them herself.  She sometimes tears the collar from her neck and triumphantly discards it, but, soon enough, she puts it on again.  Typing still makes the tingling and numbness in her hands worse.  Her general comfort and wakefulness lasts only so long if she does not remain still.  Our bear, with more energy, finds herself, nevertheless, quite trapped.

I, myself, am torn.  I cannot say to what tragedies I have been called to in recent weeks.  It is at once a gift and a curse of my profession that I find myself at times in a position to make a difference for people in anguish.  I cannot go there though, there where people are otherwise alone, there where it it is possible to make a difference, without, to some extent, my mind being stolen.  I am a repository of terrible stories.  Angela, some days, is having to wait.  Trapped, she remains, nevertheless, wonderfully patient.  I arrive home, distracted, with the milk and the honey.  Angela, focused, is ready to help.

Regretfully, I have been unable to write on this blog before these two weeks.   I think, in retrospect, that I had been stolen away.  Joyfully, in the meantime, we have continued to watch British sit-coms.  The great fight, un-ended, has only changed rhythm.  We imagine, like us, the dragon too is torn and resting. We are all catching our breath.  In this we are aided by the many suggestions for opera and television that have been sent to us by our friends.  We are grateful not only for your suggestions but for your patience.  Our bear is not alone.  My friends, let us keep up the fight, and yes, let us be in touch.