Nuggets of the past year

A Northern Flicker came through the yard today. I was on the porch and saw a bird sweep by from my left to my right, landing on my neighbor’s fence. Shortly after, a Mourning Dove landed to the left of the Flicker. At the time, I didn’t know it was a Flicker. I thought it was a Dove, but its manner of flying made me question that assumption. So I looked closer and saw red on the nape of its neck. He flew to the back drive, alone, where it began to pick at food from the ground. It went under another neighbor’s fence, but quickly returned to the drive. I grabbed binoculars to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Yes. The longer beak. The spotted feathers. The red nape. The size of a dove. The large black spot on the chest. It was him. Confirmed. And, then he was gone.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. The day the doctor said the results were not what we had hoped for. Then words like blasts and cancer of the blood—”which is what you have”—and AML, and his tiny writing as he wrote Acute Myeloid Leukemia with preceding MDS on a piece of paper. I expected it based on some of the results I had seen on the patient portal, but hearing the words made things so final. Joe was with me and seemed more shaken than I was at the time. I asked if I could expect to feel better at some time and the doctor was so positive and said, yes, and then said more words that included a new chemotherapy protocol with fewer side effects and a shorter treatment time and later on, a stem cell transplant and then things began to swirl. I had a list of things I needed to do prior to treatment: more visits, more labs, CT of heart, PICC line placement, cancellation of vacation at the shore, the telling me that my neutrophils were so low, that if I were to get sick right now, he would hospitalize me.

I remember tutoring a student online that afternoon, and meeting Joey at St. Patrick’s in the city for 5:30 mass. Some time that week, I went to my grandson’s baseball game and before leaving the car a woman from the insurance company called to say how much of the stem cell transplant they would cover and I felt overwhelmed. It may have been the day before that I found out, or maybe the same day, time got very mixed up for me, and I was trying to absorb it all slowly. Anxiety had already taken me. I remember saying to Joe, “I feel like I’m drowning.”

One of the hardest parts initially was telling my family that I had leukemia. Joe knew. I told my son at Mass. I told my daughter. And then I told my brothers and sister. I felt afraid, vulnerable. We had just lost our mother in January and now I had cancer. I assured them of all the things the doctor told me. All the positive things. That the treatments are so good now and that I was expected to be cured. And, I was exhausted. I told close friends, but I didn’t tell everyone because I didn’t have the energy to answer questions or to carry any heaviness when it was enough to just breathe and not get washed away in anxiety and depression.

A year ago today. The day I saw a Northern Flicker in my yard. The day that I am in full remission. The day that I am still recovering and dealing with GVHD. The day that I went with Joe, and our dogs, Ivy, Franklin, and Stella to Sleeping Bird Coffee. The day that I went in with my mask on and ordered my own food. The day I drank a cappuccino and ate a bacon, egg, and cheese on sour dough bread with fig jam. The day I came home and am sitting up in bed with Stella at my side, writing these words and watching the stream of the remaining eaglet at the Duke Farms Eagle Nest get ready to fledge. The other left yesterday.

I feel a bit like this eaglet. Not quite ready to fly, but positioned to do so. Resting. Waiting for the conditions to be right. A fish in the nest in the event of hunger. The eaglet on the branch. Between here and there.