Dear Friends —
This postcard is coming to you from the mighty Sierras, where I’m bivouacking for a bit with my tall teenage Connor, who just wrapped up several weeks as a camp counselor, musician, wrangler of middle schoolers, night camper, hammock sleeper, river rafter, friend maker, and thoughtful debater.
Wait what? Who debates anything at camp? As it turns out, my lovely Connor found himself at a camp this summer where the most of his fellow counselors came from ruby red parts of this great country of ours. His new buddies shuddered at the idea of most anything that wouldn’t have fit in a neat and tidy narrative — marriages last, dads have careers, moms stay home and bake, there’s a gun in the closet, science is viewed with a skeptical eye, and if you make good decisions every day things work out.
“There were just a couple of us who thought this kind of thinking was bananas,” Connor explained as we drove over the summit at Donner Pass. “One of my friends was the only person of color at the camp, and she just wanted none of it. She exited some of their wild small talk as fast as she could. But I didn’t. I loved getting into it, explaining my take on things. Challenging their ideas. Listening and sorting out why they have these viewpoints. Because, you know, I’m your son.”
Friends. Let’s pause here and give out a collective HALLELUJAH for any of us who’ve had the privilege of raising a kiddo, or mentoring a kiddo, or just cheering on others DOING THE WORK of raising this next generation. As we gazed out on to the Sierras I was doing little mental twirls of pride.
Connor is only 18, but he’s lived long enough to know that neat and tidy and small and predictable and things work out if you live in some kind of narrow ideological lane isn’t just bonkers, it’s actually robbing you of the chance to embrace a far more grand story. One that’s full of compassion, mystery, messiness, confusion, hallelujah moments, unbearable loss, recovery, rebuilding, courage, and most of all, grace.
Neat and tidy may be a fun spot to pitch your tent — no matter if you’re a ruby red resident or the bluest of blues — but we all know that’s merely an elusive bivouac.
But when it comes to scans, who doesn’t want to root for neat and tidy. We all do. Millions of us with cancer are on our knees crying out for it.
So my last scan was just a couple of days ago, and it wasn’t quite as neat and tidy as I would have liked. The simple headlines (and that’s all I have right now): There is broadly very good news — everything in my abdomen continues to be spic and span, but the itty bitties in my lung persist. The tiny nodules are mostly the same size, and couple are a smidge bigger (and by smidge I mean 1mm or 2mm — so small you have to squint to see it).
My dear thoracic surgeon friend read through the narrative report and declared it “Quite good! You have stable disease. Super duper.” Actually, this friend of mine would never actually say “super duper,” but that’s a blog for another day.
I was a little more meh about it. I mean. COME ON. This lady has had gallons of Moxie pulsing through her veins — 9 cycles since the spring — only to see the itty bitties persist. Who wouldn’t feel like unlacing her hiking boots, finding some kind hammock, and getting lost of dreams of neat and tidy.
But of course nothing about this mountain that is now my home is tidy, or neat. It’s worse — and far better — than that.
So the path ahead. I’ll learn more from Dr C and Dr K in days to come. Most likely I’ll do a few more rounds of Moxie, but perhaps Foxie will make a return? These drugs truly are miracles (hard miracles, but miracles nonetheless) and they are keeping me in super duper stable land.
Is it all terrible? For me, actually no. Most days of any given month are pleasantly normal, which is to say marvelous and messy. I daydream with Lucy about her college ambitions and which songs Taylor will re-record next, I drink morning coffee and read the New York Times, I get sucked into Instagram shopping rabbit holes, I hike, I participate in some of the most remarkable meetings with work, I write, I water the flowers and look for hummingbirds, I pay bills, I have long dinners with dear friends, I plan trips, I get pedicures, I pray for other patients in waiting rooms and infusion centers, I study up on clinical trials, I lose my keys, I find my keys, I play tennis, I sit down and cry a little during the parts of my trek that are too much to bear, I read novels, I make new friends, I walk Bonnie and let her sit on my lap during zooms, I pay attention to it all. And I give thanks.
Today I will ride bikes with Connor in Tahoe. And I’ll ask him to play me the guitar and listen to his good progress.
And if we’re especially fortunate, today our worlds will become just a little bigger. Even 2mm bigger is worth the effort. A more expansive world will enable us to see more, ever more. And if the more includes heartbreak, we will be brave, and emerge with even bigger hearts.
My guess is that Connor’s fellow camp counselors from this summer will some day — who knows when — have their worlds turned upside down. Neat and tidy will become chaotic and confusing. But — and here’s the biggest miracle of all — perhaps that will be their gateway to courage and compassion.
Is there anything more super duper than that?
xoxo
Amy, thanks for sharing your perspective - the view from here - beautifully, gracefully, and truthfully. Your postcards are important reminders of what is good, beautiful, and true. Facing the barrage of the present with its demands for the here and now, it is easy to lose sight of these things. Your postcards lift my vision and remind me of the journey further up and further in.
Peace.
Thank you for expanding my world with your beautiful sharing. My prayers are so with you. Sending much love!