Being Patient

My Cancer Journey: Saturday Nights Alright for Fighting

Posted on by kwundrow

T – 29 and holding. I really didn’t think that with the first day off, sans the Holiday, I would be wishing I had received a treatment instead. In my mind the thirty three days is a long time, but when you start counting the weekends and holidays off, it adds up to fifty days. With my first week behind me and still feeling okay, it made sense that I would feel this way and want to just keep going. I suspect I may think differently down the road, but for now it’s just another day of waiting. And so, it’s Saturday night and I want to keep fighting.

I am for the most part still fighting with the notion that I should be feeling worse. After all I do have cancer. At this point it’s biggest marker has been a scratchy throat and some headaches. There is one new development. They had warned me that as the cancer progressed and the treatments along with it, I would begin to lose my sense of taste. It wouldn’t just end, but rather it would fade. As that happened, my sense of what a favorite food should taste like would confuse my brain when it had no taste. What’s worse is that it would not only trick my brain into not wanting it, but to never want it at all. Ironically, the more flavorful the food, the worse it would be. Eventually, all I will want are foods that were already bland to begin with. Well, as of tonight that effect has begun. I shared a pizza with Deb along with some cottage cheese and to top it off, a piece of pumpkin pie for dessert, with whip cream of course. Three of my favorite things, thank you Doris Day for the melody to accompany my reverie. The result, first bite of each tasted just as I expected, flavorful and enjoyable. Bite number two began a downhill slide to something tasting flat and eventually, to needing to push it aside, unfinished and unenjoyed. As much as that pained me, it had to be hard on Deb who has always been a great cook. Not many can ever rival your mother’s cooking, yet in many recipes, she does just that., sorry mom.

I am ordained to keep fighting. I will fight through days off and I will fight with foods that want to trick me. I will be taking this one bite at a time.

My Cancer Journey Continues: With a Nod to Stanley Kubrick

Posted on by kwundrow

November 28th

T-29. Today, as I return for radiation dose number four, it is all becoming routine. A few minutes in the waiting room then down the hall and into the “chamber”. I slide unto the table and wiggle my head into the custom headrest. Next comes the mask and as they fit it snuggly around my face, head, and shoulders I hear the snaps lock it in place. At that moment, I feel like an astronaut being prepped for a flight into deep space. I think about playing out that fantasy in my head while the whatever it is, whirrs softly as it circles my head, “Hal …. open the door”. Then fifteen minutes later, I hear the welcome voice of the technician as she reenters the room and let’s me know we are finished. Hal has opened the door. For those of you to young to remember or old enough but never much into sci fi, a shameful nod to “2001 A Space Odyssey.” And so concludes day four of treatment. The next two days are mine to rest and regroup and then it’s back to the routine.

My Cancer Journey: Navigating the Unknown Waters

Posted on by kwundrow

November 7th (There You Are)

People asked me when it started. When did the tumor let me know it was there? If it was trying to let me know it was there, it spoke too quietly, for I never heard it. I had a cold. A little sore throat. When I went to see a doctor, it was to have my hearing checked. That turned into a visit to an earn nose and throat doctor, which led to a CT scan, and then that ominous call requesting me to return to the clinic.

It was Thursday, October 16th, at 1:00 pm. When you hear that the mass they found on the back of your tongue is cancerous, you remember every detail of that day. We walked into the doctor’s office and were told to make ourselves comfortable. As Deb and I waited nervously for what was clearly not shaping up well, we exchanged small talk, trying hard to make everything seem fine. No more than five minutes had passed when there was a soft knock on the door and at once, the doctor and three other clinic staff crowded into the room. I remember how hard Deb was squeezing my hand.

After an introduction that included the ironic question, “How are you doing?,” the verdict was delivered. “The mass we discovered is cancerous.” I was glad I had not answered the question of how you are doing before I actually knew how I was doing. To their credit, the doctor was extremely empathetic all the while convincing us of their confidence in the diagnosis. She assured us almost immediately that it was a highly treatable and very responsive form of cancer. She went as far as to say she could almost guarantee us full cure. As Deb and I absorbed all of this, she went on to describe the process. The treatment for this cancer would need to be a combination of radiation and chemo. There would be a team of different clinicians to get us through it and that it would start as soon as the protocols were in place.

And so, for Deb and me the journey begins. We will need to work together. I will have to do the dirty work, but Deb will do what she has always done. She will keep me honest when I’ll want to be lazy. She will be my medical transcriber when I cannot listen to the details. She will be my support team when I get low. Deb will be my rock because she always is. I do not look forward to what lies ahead, but I do know it’s the only way to come out whole.

November 8th (Time to Fess Up)

This past week started with a battery of tests. I endured a CT scan and an MRI. In addition to those scans, my mask impression was molded. This mask will hold my head in place for the radiation. Tuesday and Wednesday were spent with various doctors and OT people who will comprise my cancer team. These appointments gave me comfort, but they also spelled out the reality of the treatment I will receive, now scheduled for two weeks from today. I am trying to be as positive as possible, but I have been cautioned to prepare for what is ahead. Still, there is always hope that I will avoid the worst side effects.

Today, Bailey let us know that one of Jackson’s teachers has cancer. He is asking them questions about it and Bailey thinks that it is time to tell Jackson and Adela about my cancer. Though dreading the point when we would tell them, I also felt that if we were clear about the outcome, they would react well. To their credit, they managed the conversation well. Though seemingly calm, they were not ready to ask questions, and I am sure that they do not fully grasp what is ahead. The key to the conversation was that they know I will survive but need to be prepared for days when I might not be myself.

November 9th (The Tumor Whispers)
Just some thoughts today. This morning, we went to church, and once again I was struck by the generosity of people—the way they care so deeply for others. I find myself feeling unworthy of the kindness and concern our friends show. I tell them I am fine, and that is true. This cancer does not shout; it only whispers, reminding me quietly that it is there, though it leaves me mostly pain-free.

Still, that quiet presence weighs on me. I find myself anxious, waiting these two weeks for treatment to begin, and wondering—if I feel fine—why I need to do this at all. Ironically, today’s sermon was about living in the moment, or at least that is how I heard it. I am trying to do just that.

But the truth is, this cancer is distracting. It pulls at me whenever I let my guard down, its whisper tugging me away from the moments that matter most—time with my grandchildren, my children, my friends, and especially Deb. For them, I need to be present. I need to keep pushing the cancer aside.

November 11th  (Patient in Waiting)

Treatments are set to begin on the 24th. For now, the waiting is weighing on me and causing anxiety. Though we have been walked through the procedure, introduced to the multiple specialists, and sternly warned of the side effects we need to prepare for, it still seems a huge unknown. My cancer seems almost minor when it is described, but the treatment seems so more than minor. I think it is that we have never been told what would happen without treatment. My assumption is that the tumor would slowly take over my ability to eat and likely my ability to speak. Entertaining the idea of refusing treatment would be selfish and a cowardly act. Thus, I prepare for the chemo and radiation knowing full well it won’t be pleasant. I can only hang onto the possibility that I can skip many of those side effects.

November 13th  (To Eat or Not to Eat)

With treatment still two weeks away, we have already been to countless doctor appointments, with yet another more unpleasant one coming today. I have been warned how much the treatment will impact me and how drained I will feel at the end of them, and yet, it only leaves me confused. How can something that barely impedes my daily life, create such a disruption in Deb’s and my life?  Shouldn’t I be feeling more pain? At the most I am only experiencing some discomfort. It somehow tends to leave me feeling guilty.

Today I will see a doctor about the placement of a feeding tube into my stomach. Though they say it is a precaution, they have been insistent on its need. The thought is unpleasant at best, but I am committed to going through with it. I have to trust the doctors when I am told that at some point it will become necessary. I also do it for Deb. I sense how much she is worried about this aspect of the treatments. If it reduces that fear, then I will get over my psychological resistance and get it done. Just another step in this journey.

November 14th  (Battling Emotions)            

Yesterday’s appointment went well and gave me some clarity that I have been looking for. We went in assuming we would be set up for the feeding tube I dreaded. We left deciding I would wait until and if it became necessary. The doctor was very empathetic and opened the conversation with a question. “How was I feeling about the procedure.” She went on to let us know that her position was not to be preemptive, but rather watchful of where my ability to eat was heading. This was a relief. I now know I can wait without disrupting the treatment and I have a much better visual on what the tube even looked like, i.e., much smaller than I had envisioned. Before we left, she gave me one more piece of advice. I need to stop referring to my cancer as minor. It may be curable with treatment, but it is still cancer, and cancer is not minor. I have been feeling both guilty and selfish, guilty, feeling it doesn’t deserve this attention, and selfish because I do, at some level, like it. I have decided on my answer to the “how are you doing” question; I don’t feel bad enough to be sick, but not well enough to feel good.

November 16th  (Who Turned Up the Volume)

It could be my imagination, or the tumor has become more noticeable. Or it could be something else altogether. I feel more pain in my jaw and right side of my head. Little stabbing pains that linger for a while before they go away. That, or my mind is distracted enough to not notice them. That pain in my or the poke behind my ear. More so, the chicken bone feeling when I have that last bite too many and swallowing starts to hurt. None of these are so big as to deter my activities, but still not small enough to ignore. This tumor simply seems to be speaking a little louder as time goes on and harder to pretend that it’s not there.

November 20th  (Conversations and Revelations)

Today, I received this email from my sister:

These are various affirmations that I read every morning.

I Thought they might resonate for you heading into next week and the weeks ahead.

  1.  “I am the Lord your God, who holds your right hand, and I tell you, “Don’t be afraid. I will help you.”

Isaiah 41:13 NCV

  1. Dear God, I will quit wringing my hands and place them in yours for you to hold and guide me.
  2. Fear is what if……faith is even if
  3. Be brave, be strong, be bad ass

Sending love and hugs and positivity

I replied with this and figured I might as well include it in my journal.

Though I will likely adhere to the first three, I resonate with number four. I have been struggling with two conflicting emotions up to now, guilt and selfishness. I was blaming the guilt on the cancer and the selfishness obviously on me. I have referred to “my cancer” as minor, more or less the “common cold cancer.” The guilt is due to feeling that this is minor, so why all the fuss, so why do I even feel compelled to tell people I have it? The selfishness comes from kind of enjoying the concern and love I get from everyone. One of the multitude of doctors and clinicians involved, actually the one I saw only a few days ago, chastised me for referring to my cancer the way I do. She told me cancer is cancer, yours is fortunately curable. She reminded me that at the end of the day, it’s still cancer and untreated, it would still kill me. This helped, somewhat, I could now get angry at my cancer, but the guilt doesn’t go away. Today, I met with one of the planners I had trained. He survived cancer that he had as a kid. He told me that even all these years later, he still feels guilt any time he speaks with someone about his cancer. Turns out it isn’t about having had cancer, it’s that he survived. At least I have a better perspective on guilt but feeling, even knowing it might never go away. 

I’m not sure why I dumped all this on the beautiful sentiment of your email, but internalizing all of this leaves me wanting to vomit it back out once and a while. I apologize, but you are someone I believe understands me better than any of our other siblings, and I trust you. If one doesn’t want to deal with emotional messes, it is best never to be trusted. 

If you are still reading, I love you and really do appreciate your concern and encouragement, and now I feel selfish.😅 While I am at it, I might as well be bad ass too.

It has been like the, I have my days where things are fine and then this anxiety creeps in. At those junctures, anyone unfortunate to have asked how I feel gets this unloading of my emotions. There is this void between the “How are you?” and the “How do you feel?” version of that question. There is such a big difference between.

November 23 – 24 (It Begins)

T Day! Later this morning I will get the first of my thirty-three days of radiation. Chemo will be introduced on day three and follow one day a week from that point until the end of the cycle.  The fact that it is 1:30 am as I write this, speaks volumes on my ability to sleep lately. It is the unknown that is distracting me and causing the up and downs in my mood. I have been given the list of side effects, but which ones will hit me? How much control will I really have? I tell people I am optimistic, but the reality is that inside I have the dread of the “what ifs.” At least today I will get my first taste, though it will likely be more about how it will go as opposed to what it will do, what it will feel like, how will I react?

On a side note, I write myself notes reminding me of what I am doing and what needs to be done. I seem to be forgetful these days leading up to the treatment. At times I find myself struggling to find the words to just complete a comprehensive thought. I blame this on a combination of the drug I am taking, the distraction of all of this, and likely the tumor itself. It can be frustrating. It is even more frustrating for Deb as it is she who must deal with me daily.

November 24th  (Ramping Up)

When I was diagnosed, the doctors asked me to keep track of the cancer. It was important in their treatment that I keep them informed of my pain types and levels. With treatment starting today, I wanted to look at how things have changed since this all began.

When this cancer first showed up, it was almost unnoticeable. It started with discomfort when I swallowed stickier foods.  Then I began to feel pressure in my ears and problems hearing clearly. I was able to ignore most of it because it was slight and not out of the norm. A cold coming on is what I was thinking. As of the last two weeks, it has become much more noticeable. The episodes of pain are a bit more intense now and more varied in where I am feeling them. The hard ones to ignore are the toothache pain and the increased pressure on my ears.  In short, what started as a whisper is getting louder. It seems like the tumor thought I wasn’t paying attention and is turning up the volume.

November 24th (One Down a Lot to Go)    

Relief! At least it was a relief of sorts. Treatment went well and I now know what it entails. Other than a very confined 20 minutes on a scan table, it was tolerable. We met with Doctor Burr after the procedure and as he answered our questions we began to feel a lot better about the prognosis. My biggest concern was the pain I am currently experiencing, especially the sharp tooth-like pain in my jaw. He assured us that it was indeed the tumor referring pain to the nerves in my jaw. That tumor was also causing the pressure pain in my ears; the reason I had come in before the tumor was even discovered. Dr Burr then walked us through the upcoming weeks and the pain management and protocol they would be administering. We left with a much more hopeful outlook and that is a relief.

November 25th  (Strap Me In Scotty)

T-31 and counting. I had barely sat down in the waiting room, when I was taken to the radiation room. I know this will become routine, but for now it is still a strange process. I climb up on the table, laying my head back in the special head rest, molded to perfectly fit the back of my head. Next comes the mask. It was created from a sheet of plastic form fitted around my face, head, and shoulders. The thing looks like a huge Freddy Krueger mask. Quite attractive. The mask is then placed over my head and snapped to the table. I am now locked in place and will spend the next 15 minutes being dosed with radiation. As I lay there, I visualize the radiation burning through the tumor. At some point, I begin to imagine that I can actually feel it.

I find it strange. I have been conditioned to think of radiation as deadly. There are these images of Chernobyl, Japan, and Three Mile Island, none of them comforting. Yet here I am, soaking up radiation every day for the next eight weeks and that’s a good thing. Science and technology are incredible. True, as long as I don’t end up glowing in the dark.

November 26th  (Stir in Some Poison)

T-30 and holding for a day. Only fitting that on a cold, windy, and snowy day, I get my first round of chemo. As I take my seat in the cancer waiting room I can’t help but look around the room at the people waiting this morning to get their chemo treatment. I have a deep sense of sadness and worry about the ones that, who unlike me with the “good” cancer, are fighting through a cancer that doesn’t always have the desired outcome. Strangely enough, in that same sense of sadness comes this feeling of brotherhood. We are all members of the same group, “The Cancer Club.” I look forward to more times of hearing the bell and knowing that another  member of our club, has been accepted to “The Survivors” club.

Yesterday I referred to the strangeness of being dosed with radiation. If it were not controlled and laser focused on the target, it would be, in any other setting, lethal. Today, they added poison to the cocktail. As I watch, the nurse puts on a protective gown and then hangs a double bagged serving of the chemo to my intravenous pole. She is cautious with good reason. Simply put, chemo is poison. As it drips in, I am again amazed at what science has accomplished in the medical fields. Absorbed in nature, too much radiation will kill. If poison gets into the system, it too can kill. But in the hands of my doctors, specialists, and nurses, the only victim of this deadly recipe will be my tumor.

It is only fitting that as tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I have some people to thank. For all the innovators and researchers that develop these cancer protocols, I say thank you. To the doctors who stay on top of all that research to better treat their patients, I thank you. To the nurses who practice skill in their care and understanding in their eyes and their words, You are saviors. To my spouse, Deb, who is always at my side, taking notes, keeping me straight, making me eat, I love you. And last but never more than a silent prayer away, I thank God for providing all of these care givers, guiding the hands of the doctors, inspiring the researchers, and for being in this with Deb and I.

November 28th (Nod to Stanley Kubrick)

T-29. Today, as I return for radiation dose number four, it is all becoming routine. A few minutes in the waiting room then down the hall and into the “chamber”. I slide unto the table and wiggle my head into the custom headrest. Next comes the mask and as they fit it snuggly around my face, head, and shoulders I hear the snaps lock it in place. At that moment, I feel like an astronaut being prepped for a flight into deep space. I think about playing out that fantasy in my head while the whatever it is, whirrs softly as it circles my head, “Hal …. open the door”. Then fifteen minutes later, I hear the welcome voice of the technician as she reenters the room and let’s me know we are finished. Hal has opened the door. For those of you to young to remember or old enough but never much into sci fi, a shameful nod to “2001 A Space Odyssey.” And so concludes day four of treatment. The next two days are mine to rest and regroup and then it’s back to the routine.

I’ve Got to Follow the Sun

Posted on by kwundrow

Almost from the day my daughter and I made plans to be directly in the path of totality for the solar eclipse that was set to occur during the afternoon hours of April 8th, our nervousness began. At first, it was a long way off and though we hadn’t spent much time considering the weather, it had crossed our mind. But, Bailey and I being Bailey and I, we plowed ahead with our sketchy plans and booked hotel rooms for the entire family in St Louis. It had started out as Bailey and I but we had been so convincing in our enthusiasm that both of my daughters families would be coming as well. We committed to being optimistic and would worry about the weather when it came time to leave.

Soon the eclipse was less than a month off, and the spring weather in the eclipse’s path was not looking good. Every day, we would check multiple weather apps, willing the skies to clear despite the still pessimistic reports. As the weekend approached, there was a glimmer of hope for at least a hazy view. We buoyed our spirits and headed for St. Louis, nine of us in two cars ranging in age from 10 months to, well, my age. We explored St Louis that Saturday and Sunday and then on Monday morning we took off. In Bailey and my original plan, we would have simply chased the path until we found a place to plant ourself under the eclipse, but I had my two son-in-laws along and they could not and would not accept our impulsiveness. With the assistance of Google Maps and the internet, John pinned down our optimum viewing site. Lying dead center on the eclipses path, he had settled on McLeansboro, Illinois. All we needed now was for the clouds to dissipate and then steer clear for the two hours of the event. All our worrying would be settled, one way or the other we were headed to the eclipse. We rolled into town two hours before the eclipse was to begin and after parking in a large fairground, began hauling out the blankets and lawn chairs and prepared ourselves for the astronomical show to begin.

There is something uniquely special about viewing an eclipse, and when you have been fortunate enough, or determined enough, to get directly in the path of totality, it begins the minute you set up. Unless you were viewing it alone, no problem with that, you find yourself in the midst of a crowd of people who are immediately bonding with you over the common quest to be part of something special. You are an “eclipser” and now indoctrinated into your larger family of like minded, spirited, individuals. “Where are you from?” “How far have you traveled?” “Is this your first eclipse?” In the case of my daughters, wife and I, this would be our second. eclipse. We did have two of our grandchildren with us that first time, but at 4 months and three years old, they really didn’t remember anything. Jackson, now ten, states that what ever memories he has are probably the result of all the stories that have been told and retold about that first one. The fact that this would be our second eclipse, elevates us to our new status of eclipse chasers. We get to compare eclipses and talk about where we saw our first one. At this point, with an hour to go before the initial stages of the eclipse, the excitement level is rising. With each passing minute, more cars and their occupants are joining the crowd.

It is 12:54 pm CST and the moon begins its slow and steady transit across the face of the sun. The eclipse has officially begun. We don our eclipse glasses and begin checking on the progress every 5 minutes or so. We begin reminding Jackson and Adela to always put on their glasses when checking progress and when I glance over at Faye, nestled in her dad’s lap, she too has her glasses on.

Eventually the sun is being reduced to a crescent and we are now checking on it regularly. As the hour approaches 2:00, the sky becomes a deepening shade, not dusk, not dark, but rather an almost eerie shadowing that defies my attempt to adequately describe it. The next thing we notice, is the breeze. As the sky begins to darken, and as the air cools, a light breeze descends. The sun, as it eclipses is creating a 360 degree sunset effect. Birds are heading to the trees, confused by what is happening. If the air and the sky is right, you can actually see shadows move across the surface of moon as it slides across the sun, and though we had worried about the clouds or perhaps because we did, the clouds cleared and we are granted perfect viewing conditions.

Suddenly, everyone is on their feet and with 10 seconds to go before totality, the countdown begins. Several hundred people, now family, begin counting it down. As we reach zero, as if the moon and sun heard us, totality! Our eclipse glasses come off and the first thing we see is the corona. It explodes all around the rim of the sun and it takes your breath away. As we look on, we are reminded just how small we are and at the same time, how unique. We can clearly see the beads, as they are called, seeming to move along the edge of the moon, an effect created by rays of the sun shining between the mountains of the moon. No words can come close to describing what you are seeing or what you are feeling. Many of the people I talked to, said they openly wept.

It was at this point something strange happened to me. I should be staring at the eclipse, relishing every second of the four minutes and eight seconds of totality, but instead, after a few seconds of looking up, I looked over. There was my ten year old grandson Jackson and my seven year old granddaughter Adela, leaping out of their lawn chairs, jumping up and down, and shrieking with what can only be described as shear joy. Jackson is screaming, “Holy moly, holy moly! There’s the corona, I can see the corona, and there are the beads and the diamond!!!!”

I savored that moment and then turned my eyes back to the eclipse, staring in awe for the next four minutes. And then it is over. The sun begins to reclaim the sky. I don’t think I will ever know which visual will be the more indelible memory, the total eclipse, or that moment of shear joy I witnessed in my grandchildren. Had I not taken that second to look over at them, I could have missed the priceless moment that made the entire trip, the distance, the time, and the cost all worth it.

We often miss the great opportunities in life because we wouldn’t take the time, we wouldn’t put in the effort, or we just looked the wrong way. The eclipse took my breath away and the image will stay burned in my memory, I will talk about it forever and to whomever would listen, but just as lasting will be the memory of the joy and wonder I saw through my grandchildren’s eyes that April 8th afternoon.

In case you are wondering, next eclipse, 2026 across Spain. I think Jackson and Adela should see Europe and catch a few corona rays. Dear God, I AM an eclipse chaser!!

Early Morning

Posted on by kwundrow

We were recently in Aruba with another couple for a week of sun, warmth, and relaxation. I had been given the task of securing our cabana on the beach each morning. Due to the popularity of our beach, you needed to be there by 6:30 in the morning if you were to get one of the much sought after cabanas. This was an easily accepted task for me as I tend to have a hard time sleeping past 6:00 anyway. For the first three days, I arrived right around 6:30 am and along with the other early cabana claimers, would find an open one, plant a coupe of stake holder chairs with towels, and then head back to the condo where by this time, everyone was up and moving.

For our last day on Aruba, we were undecided as to whether we would spend our last hours on the beach, or use them to grab a little last sight seeing. For reasons unknown to me, I awoke just before five am that morning, and lying awake next to my sleepy spouse, decided I would take our chairs and head down to the beach earlier than usual to claim a spot on the off hand chance that beach time would win out over sight seeing. As I stepped out onto the street that separated our condo from the beach, I couldn’t help but noticed the stillness of the predawn hour. Save for the waves lapping the beach, there were no other sounds. The city was still asleep. Where the morning before there had been a fewer runners and an occasional vehicle, this morning it was too early even for that. I was alone.

At face value, loneliness is not generally a welcome companion, but this loneliness had such a different feel. I wasn’t lonely, I was simply alone. The beach, softly backlit by the street lamps of the empty boulevard behind me, was deserted at this hour. Having staked out my claim, I began to walk the water’s edge as the ocean crept up the sand beach and lapped at my feet. Realizing that going back to the condo would be too early for my sleeping roommates, I decided to enjoy my alone time. I headed back up the beach and out to the silent street. I decided to walk the ocean front, soaking in the quiet of the city. As I walked, I eventually found myself at a small diner, the only open business along my entire walk. The thought of a hot cup of joe in this cozy diner suddenly was very appealing. As I entered, I found myself as the only other patron in the diner. At that point, had there been even a small crowd, I am sure I would have left, but as it was just the two of us and the waitress, I grabbed a seat. By the time my coffee came, I had struck up a conversation with my fellow diner, revealing where we were from and what had found us here so early in the morning.

With my coffee consumed and the sun just beginning to push back the darkness, I began my walk back to the condo. Unlike my walk to the diner in a city still asleep, she was now beginning to stir. Cars were starting to frequent the street, runners were emerging from beachfront condos, and the sounds of the city began to push back the silence. A building crane over here and a truck over there each adding there sounds to the growing noise of a waking city. By the time I reached the condo, the sun was climbing out of the ocean and sunlight began to replace streetlights. My alone time was ending.

Though there doesn’t need to be a point to story telling, there is a point to this one. I write it to preserve the beautiful memory of that morning and to share the image with whoever has experienced something similar. We can choose to be lonely, or we can welcome the opportunity for alone time. In a world filled all too often with bad news and unwanted noise, the quiet of being alone might truly be inviting. Do understand, I do not dismiss the dangers of loneliness, for there can be danger when mixed with a sense of despair or hopelessness, but rather that sometimes the best times are those quiet times alone. In those times we avoid the distractions of life and find the ability to refocus on what is important.

For me, that early morning walk with just the quiet of the predawn morning as my companion, will be my favorite memory of our week in Aruba. The sound of the waves, the empty streets, and that cozy diner shared with a stranger were exactly what I needed. What a perfect ending to an island getaway. It was the relaxing last moment before I would deal with the cacophony of the world awaiting me back home. It had reminded me that I had the ability to push out the noise and refocus my thoughts. Here’s hoping you can savor your next alone time, and that like I did that morning, you can find the beauty in the quiet that surrounds you.

Insomnia

Posted on by kwundrow

The clock says its 1:30 am. As I have done each night for the past three weeks, I nodded off just before midnight, only to have my slumber cut short, coming full awake sometime around 1:00 am. This has been my pattern every night since the surgery. Once I reawake, the battle to regain sleep begins. I switch my positions from the easy chair, to the couch, and then back to the chair. It would seem logical that I should be in my own bed, but early on in the process, that bed reminded me that I wasn’t welcome there. The sling I am imprisoned in, along with its four inch attached block, refuses to let me lie with any kind of comfort in or on a bed. Just another cruel twist to this game.

I have never been one to require much sleep. Six hours is almost too long while five hours has always been sufficient, provided it isn’t interrupted on those occasions when insomnia takes over the controls. Insomnia is a strange beast. On one hand, it is a cruel game of cat and mouse as I search for sleep, while on the other hand, it can open a world of quiet solitude when I give in to it. And tonight, I have given into it.

There is a kind of enveloping calm that exists if I stop fighting the insomnia and accept it as my companion for the night. At the onset all I seem to notice is the dark, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to see a world of shadows and in those shadows, familiar objects become unfamiliar. What looked like a person crouched in the corner, turns out to be the easy chair disguised by the shadows. As time begins to elapse, its the quiet that strikes me next. The daytime sounds, footsteps and doors opening and closing, the TV chatter and the clatter of kitchen noises, the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional ding of an appliance are all gone now in the darkness of night. But even as this quiet surrounds me, I hear the sounds that only belong to the night. A rafter, stretched in the heat of the day, now contracts in the cooler night air and lets out a creaking sound as it does so. The furnace issues a pop as it switches off and the heat duct cools. There is a silence of night, but the house isn’t silent.

I’ve given in fully now. I am not going to get sleep by demanding it, but rather by letting it catch up to me. And so I take to the night. Sometimes I walk through the unoccupied rooms of the house letting my mind see the path I must take to avoid objects hiding in the shadows that will stub a toe or hit a shin. I will stop by the window and gaze out at the houses and street all enveloped in darkness save for a streetlight or a porch light here or there. When the moon is full, I will stare in awe at the moon shadows. Tonight I am sitting here typing this piece, enjoying those sounds and shadows of the night. I know that sleep will eventually catch up to me and I will hopefully squeeze in a few hours before dawn brings back the day, but for now, insomnia and I will share the night.

I write tonight as my way of avoiding the anxiety that would creep in if I were to just lie awake worrying about the sleep I was losing. Instead of that anxiety, I have embraced the solitude and I have used the time to adjust and release all the busyness of the day. I have decluttered my brain and resolved a few issues. Sometimes, the best result we can achieve is the fight we give into.

Here I Go Again

Posted on by kwundrow

When I checked into my Facebook page this morning I found a reminder of two posts I had done a while back. The first was posted five years ago when I had just emerged from surgery for my second knee replacement, having had my first knee replacement three years prior to that. Ironically, the second post was from exactly two years later and was about my grandkids and me downhill skiing. This should serve as inspiration to anyone in or nearing the process of this type of surgery, the message being don’t wait so long that you give up something you love because your knees are telling you no.

For me, these posts are a reminder of what lies ahead and that once again I will have to put in the work to regain activities that are currently being withheld. Back in May, thanks to my impatience, I suffered a severe injury to my shoulder. Though I have been doing PT for the injury, I was recently told that I will not progress much further without a shoulder replacement. It was good to be reminded by these two old posts that recovery is doable if I stick to the PT. There will again be days of discomfort, but also days of progress if I am willing to stick to the plan. I admire the PT doctors who provide the plan, the patience, and the hope. As an aside, in one of my recent visits, my PT doctor asked if I had any questions. I said I did and asked, ” Will I be able to ski?” Her reply was to ask me when I planned on doing that. As I told her December or early January, she said, “You overestimate me. If you had a cast on your arm and you were wearing a sling, would you go skiing?” My reply was, “You underestimate me.” As we both shared a laugh, I admitted that I might have tried her patience.


My surgery will take place in February and I do have hope. Some of that hope comes from the surgeon who convinced me of the need, my PT doctor who promises to give me the plan and encouragement to work my way back, my wife who will once again become my support and healing presence, and a little bit of myself as I will grit my teeth and get to work of healing.


All of these replacements could leave me feeling broken and vulnerable, but I choose to look at them from the aspect of a finely tuned sports car. Even it needs a few new parts along the way.

Anticipation

Posted on by kwundrow

19 days, 15 hours, or as my grandson Jackson would say, 19 more sleeps. That’s what the widget on my phone is telling me as it counts down to our Hawaii trip. It has kept me optimistic through these cold dreary days of winter as we prepare a little more each day for our departure and greatly anticipated trip to the Islands. As much as I can’t wait to trade emails and meetings for sand and sun, the anticipation of the trip and the excitement it generates will not be overlooked. Just as joy is in the journey, anticipation is that joy.

Anticipation: the act of looking forward. especially : pleasurable expectation. They looked forward with anticipation to their arrival. Carley Simon felt strong enough about anticipation to write a song about it. My intent is to convince you that it’s the anticipation of things that brings joy to the waiting.

I am, as my readers know, a very visual person. From the moment we began our planning I was already there. I could see the aqua blue water, the lush tropical jungles, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. Hell, I could feel the sand between my toes. The fact that there was still better than six months to wait only enhanced the anticipation and that only heightened my awareness and spiked the excitement. The first part of my trip had begun, the anticipation of what it could be was setting in. I knew that anticipation would make the wait bearable.

Life is a constant process of anticipation. The anticipation of that surprise birthday party you just know they are planning. Meeting that special someone on a first date. A family wedding with all it’s planning and tension. The first day on a new job or just that first cup of coffee in the morning. My wife conditioned me to that last one and now I wake up dreaming of it. If you aren’t recognizing and savoring those moments of anticipation, well you just aren’t living. Just as the story is read between the lines, true joy of living is between those moments of anticipation. Anticipation is the hopefulness that allows us to tackle each brand new day, each brand new opportunity, life’s next adventure.

I will be brief today as I believe I have made my point. To truly enjoy the next adventure, one must embrace the anticipation that comes before. I will look at my cell phone tomorrow and the days remaining will be down to eighteen, eighteen more days of anticipation. I will trade waiting and impatience for that anticipation any day. Afterall, why hurry the process of getting there when all it will do is start the countdown of the days I will be there. Hawaii awaits me, what awaits you?

Savor the anticipation.