Super Dave

The last six months have taught me a lot. Some really, really important stuff. About myself. About my family. About my friends. About life in general.

This post, however, will only address one thing I've learned. It's a big one. It deserves its own post. So here it is...

My husband is a superhero.

That sounds so cliche. But I mean it very sincerely and in every sense of the word. He is superhuman.

In the face of extremely unexpected adversity, for which neither of us were even remotely prepared, at a time when we thought we would be happily sailing our way through retirement adventures, Dave was thrust into a role at age fifty-five that most people don't expect to tackle until they are into their seventies or eighties--caretaker of a spouse.

Not exactly how one anticipates spending time at this point in life.

It has not been an easy job. This has not been an easy situation and I won't even pretend that I'm a good patient. And yet... cross my heart, I have not once heard my husband complain. About anything. And there's been a lot that he could have complained about. Over the past half year, Dave has stepped up with nothing but love and optimism and an attitude toward me getting better as he has...

taken over the grocery shopping
done all the cooking and meal preparing
kept the house clean
done the laundry (and hung it on the line to dry and then folded it and put it away!)
written thank you notes to all our wonderful family and friends who made us meals
continued to do ALL of the yard work
gone to every, single doctor's appointment/scan/chemo
picked up my medication (a guy who will go to the Kaiser pharmacy for you is a saint)
kept track of my medication schedule and reminded me when necessary
given me nightly injections (seriously! he's offered to do my surgery...)
politely stopped well-intentioned friends from telling me their illness stories
gone on morning walks with me to make sure I don't over-exert myself
run out at all times of the day and night to get whatever odd food I'm craving because sometimes  
  there's just nothing that appeals and if something DOES appeal he wants me to eat...
explained and re-explained to me dozens of times exactly why I need to take pills that sometimes I
  am absolutely positive I might not really need to take
held me like he's never going to let me go while I cried because this is all very overwhelming
held this family together, attending to everyone's needs but his own, guiding us through the chaos

And let me repeat... I'm not going to pretend I'm the ideal patient. As stated above, I require repeated explanations as to why I am supposed to do what is good for me. I'm stubborn. I can burst into tears with no warning. I like to pretend sometimes like there's nothing going on and I can do everything as usual. Which of course, there is something going on and I cannot do everything as usual. And luckily Dave is here to hold my hand and tell me he loves me. And keep me from doing ridiculous things.

I know that if the situation was reversed, I would try to be everything for him that he is for me. But I'm not sure that I would be able to do it with the grace and the fortitude that Dave has.

When you think of a superhero, you think of someone who has powers beyond the average human. Someone who is stronger and braver. Someone who can put on a cape and swoop in and save the day.

Dave is all of that. He does all of that. And he doesn't even need a cape.

What Can I Do To Help?

I'm in what could only be described as the "ebb tide" of the three week chemo regimens. Cell counts are low, energy is low, appetite is low. Not a lot is getting done (by me). It's pretty much get up, shuffle down to the couch, lie there for a while, shuffle back up to bed, lie there for a while, rinse and repeat. Except without the rinse. Because taking a shower takes WAY too much energy.

In any case, I've really been anxious to write, but I just am reluctant to feel like the only thing I write about is this situation. It's hard to break out of the walls that it builds around you. Sometimes it feels like an iteration of CNN--24/7 with no break for anything normal. Not really my comfort zone.

I would like to point something out, though, and hope that I don't offend anyone in the process (and given that the readership of this is my family and a few friends, I'm certain I'm safe as none of you all do what I'm about to write about).

I'm fifty-one years old. I'm not really an embracer of confrontation. Never have been. But I have found my voice in the midst of this chaos. Interestingly, I found my voice because some people do not understand how not to use theirs appropriately.

People who see me daily, or at least a few times a week consistently, know that there is something going on. It's plainly evident. There was a period when I was wearing scarves on my head (sort of a giveaway of the whole chemo thing), I now wear a wig, I'm sure I look different and word gets around.

I do not mind people asking me how I'm doing. I really don't even mind people asking me what I have and what kind of treatment I'm going through.

I absolutely DO mind when people listen to my answers and then begin to tell me about someone they know who had "something similar". Two words:

Please don't.

First of all, I have no idea how your story is going to end. Perhaps your friend did great. Perhaps not. I've heard both versions. I actually don't want to hear either of them, because the anxiety it causes me to stand there and listen to your story, having no idea how it ends up, is debilitating. Please save your narrative for someone who is not currently undergoing treatment and frightened. Or maybe just don't actually tell it. Ever. It's not really yours to tell, to be honest.

I can only speak for myself. But I have found my voice, and when people begin to acquaint me with their story, I shut them down with something like, "No offense, but please don't tell me. I know everyone means well, but everyone's story is so unique and it's very difficult not to read into things, which does me no good."

And that's it. It may be a little abrupt. But it's necessary, for me. Because when you say, "She did great!" I have no idea if she's still doing great. When you say, "My friend's mom had that and she's still going strong," I do not know what treatment your friend's mom chose to undergo and whether I chose the wrong one.

So instead of offering an anecdote about someone who has had to go through this crazy madness, maybe instead just offer, "Hey, you look great and I'm thinking about you. I hope things go well, and let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

I will not shut that down. Ever.