It’s hard to believe it’s been a year. Some days it feels like only yesterday; other times it feels like a decade ago. I couldn’t even walk then, and the pain was so intense that once I got into the hospital it took a substantial regimen of narcotics to even take the edge off. Today, I am walking, immersing in the busyness of Mothering, even working out on occasion. It will be nice to have Thanksgiving at the family table this year, instead of my hospital room. Although I will forever be indebted to the ladies at Midcoast Maternity—they made a difficult time very special.

One of my most vivid memories of that week, one year ago, is actually a moment of surprising peace. I woke up in the middle of the night, my first night at the hospital and my first night with the knowledge that I had cancer. Dick was sleeping deeply in a cot nearby. I was on so many drugs, but for some reason awoke fairly lucid and reasonably comfortable for the first time in months. Everything was quiet. I have cancer, I thought. I have cancer. Unfathomable, and yet, there was a part of it that seemed purposeful and destined. There was a bag of Pepperidge Farm Mint Milano cookies on the bedside table. I picked up the bag and thought, I shouldn’t eat cookies in the middle of the night. Then, of course, I realized that that was a ridiculous notion, especially in my circumstances. I quietly, peacefully, slowly, ate four cookies. I enjoyed every bite, and even more than the flavor, I enjoyed the idea of eating cookies in the middle of the night. I had been granted a new liberation unknown to me before that. Somehow, that liberation, an unteathering from things constraining, was apparent to me almost immediately.

What should have been, or could have been, a moment of terror, a lonely, frightening scene in the middle of the night, for some reason, was the most peaceful time I had had in a long time. Perhaps because we finally had some answers—the freedom that comes with a course set into motion, and being helplessly along for the ride of my life, I don’t know. I just know that felt very calm, very much at ease in the stillness and quiet around me. I was able to sit in that quiet with the new knowledge of my mortality, and for some reason, fear was not what I felt. At least, not right then. I cherish that memory. It’s one of the only clear memories I have from that scary-wonderful week, and in my more frantic moments, now a year later, I try sometimes to channel the miraculous peace I felt that night.

I wish I had more to say today. It feels like a special day, a bit melancholy, but mostly celebratory, I think. Here I am a year later in remission and with the wonderful Finn. It’s been an amazing year to say the least. I’ll visit the ladies at Midcoast with Finn and Wendy, and have a quiet dinner. Maybe some Mint Milano cookies for dessert.

Thank you so much to all of you who have kept us company in the last year. Your words and energy have been so instrumental in the magic and power of these months. I can’t imagine having gone through this without you. I feel very fortunate to have had your attention, love and compassion. What a wonderful record for Finn to have of this special time of growth and struggle and love and evolution. Thank you.

Below is a piece Dick wrote a few months ago on a particularly reflective day. I thought today might be a good day to share it because it’s a wrap up of sorts, injected with the insights of a man who has gone from gentle and wise to even more so in the last 12 months. It’s long, but if you have the time and are into the indulgence of reliving some of the more dramatic moments in our last year, it’s a very good read. It is brave, compassionate and full of hard-won wisdom—just what we all have come to expect from Dick Weafer. I am a lucky woman indeed.

Much love today and into tomorrow.

Heather

September 23 2006

Dear Heath,

I am struck by the need to write it all down. Everything we have come through, all we know. all we are. Where to start is the rub… The journey has a few obvious starting points, but we both know the journey has no beginning and no end. What shaped you? What shaped me? No doubt the answer lies somewhere in the divine birth of our universe. I think, for us, the ground we walk on began to shake that early spring morning we discovered we were going to be parents. I remember feeling that life was going to change, that something was coming our way. We had overcome our hurdles in life relatively easily and with an innate sense of direction neither of us could name. Some of our hurdles would have ended many relationships, but for some reason we never lashed out at each other. The tough times brought us closer. Our ability to love gives us great power and we both knew it at some level. We had worked through most of our shit and were sailing smoothly when we conceived Finn. Even that act went smoothly. Both of us knew more was headed our way, something hard that would test us again and force us off the plateau. I almost did not want to have a child because I feared something would go wrong. Life was good. Why rock the boat? The deepest part of me knew something was coming. Little did I know how much God has planned for us. Some have said that bad things don’t happen to you unless you can handle them. That the divine plan of the universe is not to push you over the edge, but to push you just to the edge so you can get a better view. We fought that push hard. We had a nice little eden flowering on our plateau and did not want to see the pain, the suffering, the despair, the monumental effort before us. I still can’t believe we let you writhe in agony for months not knowing there was something seriously wrong with you. A bad case of sciatica? I blame myself for believing what I wanted to believe rather than what was right in front of me. If I just massage it hard enough it will get better. I created a false reality that cost us dearly. I did not want to pay attention or accept the fact that I did not understand what was going on inside you. I suppose the options were too horrific and unbelievable. After calling the ER that night you began convulsing from the pain and hearing the doctor tell me that what was happening to you “was not normal. You should get her in here,” I felt like my face had been dashed with ice water. Fuck, I was in way over my head and you were way out of your head. Watching Dad helping us carry on the madness that night made me realize the crazy state we were in. You had been crawling to the bathtub, sobbing in agony the whole way! What was I thinking? To this day, I am terrified to think of my potential for insanity. Though so many lessons came from those early days of this, I am so sorry I let you writhe in such pain for so long. You essentially survived the equivalent of unrelenting torture for two months. Most people would have died right then. I am awestruck because your fight had only just begun.

When the doctor called and summoned me back to the hospital I went numb. I remember saying to Dad, “Oh God, This can’t be good.” I ran to your room and into your arms on the bed. You told me it was a huge tumor in your pelvis and we both lost it. I, weeping on your bulging belly. You let me cry and told me you needed me. I remember feeling a sense of relief right then. We knew nothing more other than it was probably serious. I did know that I had the strength to do what needed doing right then. I held your hand and we did what we always do just by default. I loved you and you loved me. To some degree the knowing ended the craziness and that calmed me. By the time the docs came to talk more with us the room was full. With all the people, we did not have a chance to feel all of the fear right then. We were just living, moment to moment to moment. You even made us all laugh. I think you live your life through the tough times just as you do during the easy ones despite what you imagine will happen.

The week we spent at Midcoast was such a hard, special time. I have such vivid memories of that time because we lived every gasping breath of it. The future was too scary to imagine so we lived in the now. I remember them pumping drug after drug into you to ease the pain and could not believe it when you awoke in agony again and again. I lost nearly all concern for Finn. His heart pounded away without any sign of stress day after day. I just knew he would be fine and I remember feeling pissed that he could be doing so well while your pain just kept getting worse and worse. I remember bargaining with the Universe to take him instead of you. I think I was angry about what was being taken from us and just wanted to go back in time six months. I cried so many tears that week and learned that I could never cry myself dry. The best I could do is bottle it up for awhile. You missed so many things that week. I remember watching some of our loved ones holding you and rubbing your leg and watching you groan through another pain spasm as I had done so many times already. I had to leave. I fled the room and did not make it far down the hall before being overcome by grief. I collapsed into the wall, held my face in my hands and sobbed. Mom found me out there, lifted me up, and leaned me into her. She told me how sorry she was and stroked my hair as if I were still her eight year old little boy who took the world a little too seriously. She also told me that she knew you were going to be all right and I think it started to dawn on me then, that I knew it too. That my hope far exceeded my despair. I had so little knowledge of cancer, and we did not even know what you were dealing with at that point, but my soul was making inventory of our arsenal. I learned to notice the things and signs that felt truest. I noticed that my touch eased your pain, especially when I lost myself in it and focused on the life in you. It felt right for us to ride out what came. We stayed positive and calm, most of the time. Crowds of people came to your room as if you were dying, but I never felt you dying. Despite the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, I never felt you waning. You simply endured, knowing better would come. These were clues. After witnessing your battle, people were moved to tears and awestruck by our family’s strength and courage. They left the room emboldened to hope. A few became disciples and couldn’t leave. A pain spasm would come upon you and you would moan and beg and get angry. We held you, rubbed you, pushed on this spot or that and out it came. You spoke your fears in great gushing cries, “I don’t want to die!” you would shout and like magic your pain eased and you could drift off for another few minutes of sleep. We were witnessing birth and death and rebirth everyday. Words of power floated about the room. Little Marie told you of her dream that “all things are possible”, and it became a rallying cry. At one point you woke and said an old man wearing a green hat told you to “Be still!” and it became a slogan. Words of wisdom came from unexpected sources. They were all signs to me. Did I dare to believe? I watched the blackness come out of you. We were all stripped bare, you more than any other. I am convinced whatever caused your cancer left you that week. It was still growing inside you, and we needed good doctors to get it out, but the cause was gone. It was the most beautiful, terrifying, and honest thing I have ever witnessed. Through you, I became conscious of the divine in us all. Was it any accident that you did all of this while a new life grew inside you? Was it an accident that from your pain only good things came? We were in the maternity ward for Christ sake! I refuse to not pay attention anymore. Everyone who left that hospital room left more whole than when they entered. These were all true and they pointed to life, not death. At one point, you were lucid enough to talk about dying. The debate was on and, in typical fashion, you were out debating everyone. It came over me suddenly that I could not let what I knew stay quiet while Fear gained the upper hand. I spoke out with certainty and proof, with clarity and deep understanding. It came from somewhere in me and I put words to what I felt in my soul. I stopped Fear in its tracks and when I was done everyone was quiet. I remember hearing Wendy crying softly in the corner because faith and hope were returning to her. To us all. Through it all I have learned that fear is a bitch. It is always around, and you can let it truss you up and sling you over its shoulder, or you can shine a light in its face and carry it in your back pocket. You just have to put up with it biting you in the ass from time to time. Toward the end of that first week I remember you waking up and grabbing me to pull me close. You whispered. “Oh, Honey. I am so sorry. You are in for the trial of your life.” You then fell right back to sleep. The words rang in me for days after. They were true words.

From Midcoast we moved to our new home in Boston where the tumor kept growing and your pain with it. Unbelievable as it seemed, your pain actually could get worse and you actually did have the best doctors in the world not really knowing what to do about it. Thank God for the nurses. It all becomes something of a blur…Fights with interns, the Pain Squad, more pain, the horror of the tumor biopsy, unimaginable pain, more loving nurses, long nights. Becoming friendly with uncertainty. “Oh lymphoma…” Do we chemo little Finn? Do we have a choice? “Did you say sixteen centimeters?” I learned to be relieved when no test results were due. It was such a joy to be able to focus on your bulging belly, but I remember freaking out when I could see the tumor beginning to bulge out of your hip. One of the best moments of those days was the night after your first round of chemo. You woke up after a few hours of sleep worried because your pain had lessened. In fact you had not slept for such a long stretch in weeks. You felt so much better and thought there must be something wrong. I didn’t say it, but I wanted to say, “That’s GOOD. Now can’t we go back to sleep? After two treatments your tumor was nearly gone. I couldn’t believe it. At this point it was mostly just the two of us and we had a lot of special moments together despite how hard it all was. In some ways it was easier for me to live on the brink. Despite how tired we both were all the time, it is amazing that we never really fought. From time to time we did our usual dance. I got tired or stressed and retreated to a book or bed and you felt the disconnection and pulled us back together. I learned the real meaning of love in those weeks. I was pretty good at it before, but it is a misperception to say that love solves all problems and that love is all roses and chocolate. It is hard to put into words because there are so many misconceptions about it. Love does not mean that you give yourself away to another, that you sacrifice your being for another. True love can only be given from the truest part of you, the part that is eternal and beyond measure. People always say to me, “Take care of yourself too.” or “I know how exhausting this must be for you.” I get reminded of all the caretakers who make themselves sick because they forget to eat and rest etc. All of that is true, but only if you give yourself away. Only if you don’t pay attention to what is being given. I would not have lasted long in this if I sacrificed my Being. If I took away from who I am. You have never asked for that either. Where then does the love come from? Where does the strength to do it all come from? It comes from me and somewhere other than me. From the people at our backs, from the look in your eyes, from the ground I stand on. It takes work to feel that kind of love for I am constantly trying to shut myself off from it. When it is there though, it is not of me, it is of us all. That sounds all special and lovely doesn’t it? It is the most normal thing in the world. The realization is lovely, but the act feels ordinary. When I get up to get you something, or to do what needs doing, I often feel a moment of tension, but by the time I have let out my first breath, I have IT in me to give. Again and again. It is the same as noticing the moment and not the effort. Choosing to not feel put upon or irritated. When has it not felt good to help someone really deserving? Doesn’t it always come back to you in some way? The act of loving you through this time of healing has awakened me to the greater love in me that I feel for everything around us. Loving you and our new little boy, of course.

Right smack in the middle of this mess came our beautiful Finn. I wish I could say it was the happiest day of my life. In some ways it was, but if we are being honest, it was a long, scary, exhausting day. The most unusual of birthing stories. Hadn’t we already given birth a hundred times by then? At the moment of birth I felt very calm. He came out of the incision squawking and purple. I am glad I got some pics because it happened so fast. One moment I was just me and the next I was a father too. I always knew he would be ok. He came out and looked good and sounded good if a tad on the tiny side. I was so proud of you, of him, of us. We had made a beautiful baby in the face of cancer. Who has had to do that? The ultimate act of creation. I still can’t believe it sometimes. He was whisked off by capable and caring hands and I knew that you needed me more than he did right then. I needed you too, I think. What had just happened? What was next? Which way do I go? People always say that the birth of a child is the most amazing thing to witness. It is pretty awesome, but honestly, I think it paled in comparison to what had come before. There is the great possibility that I was too scared to care for another as much as I cared for you at that moment, Who would blame me? Watching Finny in the Nicu was frustrating. I felt excited every time I saw him…for about ten minutes, and then I would get frustrated because he was not ours yet. When he came home, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Hadn’t he always been there? I fell for the kid overnight. I got to know him and fed him and held him. What an oasis he was in those days. He was the perfect baby. Gorgeous, healthy, and sweet tempered. It was fun to become a parent with you. I always knew we would make great parents, but I had no idea we might make such a great kid too. I will forever be grateful that he came and rescued us from cancer. Who has time to think about death and dying when there is a hungry baby in the room? Or when they are farting in your arms, or sleeping and dreaming. Pure joy. Not to say we did not have our trying moments. Times when I did not know who needed me more. One of my lowest moments was the time you were sick in bed and I spiked a fever and had to sleep in the little bed. Finny woke screaming and I simply couldn’t carry on. Screaming son, chemo-sick wife, and a fever of 102 brought me to my knees. I called in the troops and you parents came and took over. Thank God. Why did I ever think I should handle that situation on my own even for a minute? Insanity. It strikes when you least expect it. Watching you struggling to be a mother in the midst of your illness is one of the bravest things I have seen you do. Sometimes I feel that it was the mother in you that was missing all these years. The hole that needed filling. You have been the most at peace when holding our son. A sense of stillness and peace settles over you. I can tell that you too, have tapped into that well. You look so strong and sure and more yourself than ever before.

You remember the sequence of events far better than I. The time after Finn came home was a time we tried to get used to our new normal. Chemo treatments, procedures, methatrexate, stem cell harvest. Me forced back to work. Finn eating and growing. So many hurdles. The end too far in sight to even imagine reaching for. We continued to live day to day. Right on the edge of all things. I admit that my faith faltered a bit when you were struck down by all that terrible joint pain. More pain. Ugh. The docs had no explanation this time and we relied on our own powers of healing to get you through. We had done it before and I did not want to do it again, but what choice did we have? You railed against it and fought despair and my heart broke for you ever time you tried to climb the stairs. Habit served us well through those days I think. When in doubt, do what you did the day before and hope tomorrow will be better. It was a lot of tomorrows, but you did get better. I limped through the rest of the school year somehow and you managed to stay positive somehow. I kept reminding myself to pay attention. That, yes indeed the big picture looked positive. The signs were still coming. Our family and friends stayed strong behind us. What we ever did to deserve such love, I’ll never know for sure, but the enormity of that love has taught me so much. I can now tell people with certainty that love and compassion toward others comes back to you a thousand fold when it’s needed. You don’t even have to know it or ask for it. Even the love of complete strangers has bubbled to the surface when touched by our circumstances. The love out there is boundless and will change the world. I know that now. And you got better. Your tumor was gone and your hair started growing back. A shine in you returned that I forgot was missing. Your quickness, your spark, your easy laughter. I hated the thought of transplant. You and me both, Babe.

Well, I suppose it was fitting that the end of our ordeal, (was it the end???)was as hard as the start. For you it was complete mental, physical and spiritual torture. For me it was an endurance test. You thought you might go crazy. You wanted to die. Medically you were doing great. I no longer worried about cancer. I knew you would walk out of there if only we could get there. Despite my expertise at Heather care, I knew you were facing all of your worst nightmares and they were not my battles to fight. For the first time I felt like the coach in the corner of the ring rather than your teammate. It took me some time to understand the magnitude of your fear. At the end, I thought, There. You did it. It was quick and dirty, but now it’s done. Let’s get home so we can start healing. My own insanity took over again and I pushed you a little too hard in my eagerness to be done with the whole mess. Where did I ever learn that recovery would be simple? Wishful, selfish thinking, I guess. Now we are home and healing. Making things new. Life is good if still a touch inconvenient at times. We have a beautiful home, a decent income, a lovely, growing, little boy and so, so much more. Look back Baby. See how far we have come. I am so proud of you. I would kneel at your feet and bow my head if you would let me. I have tasted the Divine and see it every time I look into your eyes. Eyes that will look back at mine for a long, long time.

Where do we go from here? Once you have been pushed to the edge and had a look, there is no going back. The other day on Oprah she said something like, “As a girl I used to dream about one day having a home where I could look out the kitchen window and see 4 or 5 trees in the back yard. I now look out my kitchen window and see two thousand trees. That just goes to show that God can dream bigger things for you than you could dream for yourself.” I never could have imagined where this journey we have been on has brought us. Our journey is not over, but I hope that from now on we can be among the few that know how to take our eyeballs out of our head and have a real look around. The world around us is boiling. Changing faster and faster everyday. I imagine our evolution like a great big black thunder cloud rolling in off the water. It is a cloud of our own making but completely out of control. It is what happens to our lives when we don’t pay attention. We, the human race are not paying attention and things are spinning out of control. The Earth has a cancer and it is pushing us all to the edge for a better view. All of the turmoil and hate and disease and insanity are all symptoms of the same thing. Mother Nature has grown old and it is time we remembered our own divinity and gave her and ourselves a break.

What do I see that gives me hope? It is so obvious once you look from a clearer place. All of the pain and suffering is necessary still, for we have not learned to see. It is pushing us to the edge. There is so much bad in the world it is hard to find the good. I say look to what is right in front of us. Our lust for talk shows, reality tv, and extreme makeovers is proof that we are searching for understanding. We want to know ourselves better and make the space around us more beautiful. Despite appearances, we do want more for the world. The desire and the tools are already in place. Our own experience proves how powerful technology is at unifying people into a force that can change the world. I also know how deeply people can give and how much love there is floating around ready to be harnessed. How many friends do we have that don’t really work? Our summertime selves included. Aren’t they just waiting for something more. Imagine the potential for creativity, healing and love just in our circle of friends. We have felt its magnitude. You have touched lives around the world and know what is true for our friends here is true for them too. The trick is for people to begin to align themselves with their true purpose. To awaken to what they truly want. Don’t you think it is time we consciously stepped into the role we have been unconsciously playing our whole lives? To be creator, teacher, and warrior of the light? I guess we have already done that. Now that I know, I can’t help it. What do you think our T-shirt should say?

Eternal love you You and Gratitude for all that is Glorious,

Dick