July 2004, that was all I wanted to do—catch my breath—and for me there is no better way than our annual Fourth of July trip to Nantucket. But that year, until a few weeks before, we were not sure it would happen. Since April, our lives had revolved around only one thing-cancer--specifically Melanie’s thyroid cancer. That spring we had already canceled a cruise with two other couples. Vacations were not part of any conversations.
Melanie’s life, and ours as we knew it, had come to a grinding halt replaced by tests and scans, blood work and three surgeries. Countless conversations and emails with friends and family, and insurance company workers who knew my daughter only as a number and a diagnosis consumed each day. My vocations was as cheerleader and caregiver while attempting to be optimistic and upbeat with Melanie who was reeling and mystified to find her twenty-four year old life morphing into the medical morass threatening to engulf her. Late into the night, Chris and I would huddle silently wishing we could “fix” the unfixable for our daughter who, after years of being a competent adult finding her way in the world, had become our daughter in need.
But now it was July; the surgeries were over. Melanie had survived her last treatment-- three days in isolation being blasted with radioactive iodine-- and was already rebounding. In Melanie fashion, she was ready to move on. Deciding to combine her interest in experiential learning and love of children, she was accepted to a residential training program beginning July 5--only a week after her last treatment. By summer’s end, she would be credentialed as a teaching assistant. So, while she packed up her belongings (again), to start a “normal” life, Chris and I attempted to do the same.
Piling two weeks of supplies and our black labs into the boat, we headed out for a bit of familiar R and R. The Fourth on Nantucket with its old fashioned Main Street celebration always brought me back to my youth-- pie eating contests, free balloons handed out by good natured souls, dogs in costumes. Plus, we would again meet-up with our good friends Mark and Ellen to share the weekend. After the Fourth we would bounce around other ports, stopping where the spirit moved us to stay for a few days.
Hugging Melanie goodbye and motoring under clear skies and flat seas, the anxiety I had carried for months trailed in the wake behind the boat. Willing myself to breathe deeply, I kept reminding myself that Melanie was safe, and on the mend. The crisis was over; all would be well. Five hours later, as Angel Fish pulled into Nantucket Boat Basin, tension dripped away with the sweat rolling off my face as ocean breezes cooled the air.
That night at dinner, Chris and I raised a toast, “To us and the fam.” --the same words we use every night, encompassing a world of hopes, prayers and thanksgivings. As we left the restaurant the extra glass of dinner wine making me feel expansive, I remember telling Chris that I felt relaxed for the first time in three months. When my cell phone rang from our home number I smiled, effusively greeting Melanie with my usual, “Hi Peeps!”
But instead of her usual, “Hello Mother,” her voice sounded small –almost tentative; my mom radar began blipping wildly. It was 7:30 on the Friday night of the Fourth of July weekend and Dr. R had just called saying she was headed for vacation for two weeks. She did not want Melanie to be surprised when she was contacted on Monday morning to schedule a MRI. It seemed the follow-up CT scans after the radioactive Iodine treatment indicated Melanie’s cancer had metastasized spreading beyond her thyroid and her neck. Testing and follow-up needed to start immediately. Suddenly completely sober, I asked a few questions-- none of which Melanie could answer and then put Chris on the phone. Grabbing the phone just as they were about to hang up I asked if she was ok (Could there ever be a dumber question?) and she of course answered yes, she was fine. Words we both knew were a lie the minute they left her mouth.
Hanging up, Chris and I tried calling her doctor, but of course, she could not be reached. What did this all mean? Neither of us had a clue except we knew it could not be good. Confused, distraught and unable gather the strength to move from the hard wooden bench outside the restaurant, we sat talking and speculating. Suddenly the Nantucket vacationland felt like a prison; I was stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere-- Boston and Melanie a million miles away and she would be leaving for school in 36 hours. It wasn’t until we later saw our friends Mark and Ellen that they reminded us how easy it is to get home; in our shock it never occurred to either of us that planes fly between Boston and Nantucket almost every hour.
Calling Melanie, I told her, I wanted to come home and just hang out with her the next day. “Thanks mom.” She did not try to dissuade me. While we both wanted to be with Melanie, Chris would stay with dogs on the Island while I flew home for 24 hours. The next morning, crammed into the tiny commuter plane, the day dawned crystal clear, the Islands and Cape surrounded by luminescent blue water. Suspended in air for fifty minutes, feeling small and helpless, I wondered what I could possibly say to Melanie. What were the words she needed to hear?
But of course, there were no words that needed to be said; there was only presence. She needed to not be alone. I had nothing else to give; it was enough. I would stand with her—as would her father, and her family, and her friends. She would not be alone to face whatever lay ahead. That day we watched boats flood Boston Harbor, took a walk in the woods, ate dinner out, slept, and hugged. We talked about nothing and sat in silence. As morning came, I got back on a tiny plane and she left for school. Life would go on, but it would be a long time before I would catch my breath again.
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