Love Letter

Love and acceptance are not the same thing. We can all think of people we love who have things in their lives that we can’t accept. Transversely we can all think of people who we know love us, but we also know they do not wholly accept us. Both relationships hurt. But what’s worse is when we do that to ourselves. We’ve all wexperienced looking in the mirror and not accepting the person looking back at you. When that’s the case it bleeds into all of your other relationships. These waves of love and acceptance travel with us through our families of origin, our friendships, marriages and relationships with our own children. Some of it is defined by our beliefs, but it can all be altered by life experiences and circumstances.

Today is my twelfth anniversary and I want to take a moment to immortalize my love and acceptance of Garry publically. He will hate this, but public praise is my love language and he needs to accept it. See what I did there.

My Love, 

Fallin in love is so fun. There is nothing like it, and falling in love with you was amazing. I had a feeling it was the last time I’d fall in love, and I was okay with that. You were so kind to me. You were interested in everything I said and did, but more than anything you made me feel safe. I was safe with you, body, soul and mind. You were my shelter. It was the most mutual relationship I had ever had.

The best relationship advice I’d ever received was from the husband of one of my hospice patients. He was a little gruf and called me Peach, because according to him “as far as nurses go, you’re a peach”. He told me, “50/50 relationships are bullshit. You give 100% and find someone who will give you 100% and that’s the only way marriage can work.” It didn’t take me long to figure you out, you’d give us 100%. 

Beyond that you are funny. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy that can make me laugh and tell a good story. The fact that a solid half of your story’s started with “So, I was drunk and naked”, made you irresistible. You are my favorite travel partner, and I love sharing this world with you, especially when we are drunk and naked.

You have a keen sense of fun and adventure tempered with a grounded thoughtfulness and stability. You are my match. You are the earth to my sky, and the ice to my fire. I love discussing politics and religion with you, even if we have different political affiliations and faith backgrounds. We have very different parenting styles but BD needs us both. He thrives when you challenge him, because he knows he can always crash and burn in the softness of mom. We are very good parents and I’m so proud of the work we do with our son. 

We have our failings of course. We can’t move a piece of furniture without arguing. We are often better at dividing and conquering than trying to work on a single project together. You are fiercely protective of your privacy and I don’t believe that too much information is a thing. I also lack the capacity to keep a secret, especially my own. 

We’ve had a lot of loss in our marriage, two dogs, grandparents, my dad, and a baby we never got to hold. You were my rock through two terrifying pregnancies and the joy of our only child. You took care of me in multiple orthopedic surgeries and a demon possessed gallbladder. Being a caregiver is not your favorite thing, but you’ve done a good job. 

Recently you told me, “I’m not the man you married”, and you’re not. You’re better.  You’re refined by fire. You are a polished river rock. Since your cancer we’ve done our best work as a couple, and we’ve done our worst. We’ve come very close to each other and at times very far away. Through it all the love has remained. Love is the easy part.  Accepting ourselves and each other as cancer has molded us and changed us is hard work. Luckily, you’ve never been afraid of hard work. Especially when that hard work is me. 

We are not the same, but I still choose you. You are still my match. You still make me laugh and tell great stories. You remain my rock. We have both been broken and mended over the years. I’m in awe of the battle you’ve fought and continue to fight. I’m in awe of the community you’ve built around you, the friendships you build and maintain. 

I have had to imagine a world without you, and it terrifies me. You are my best friend. You are my safe place. When I chose my husband I did a really good job. You are my best decision. Making a baby with you is the only thing that equals it. I love you. I accept you, all of you. You’re beautiful to me. Never leave me. Never leave me.

Be Like Steve.

I am publishing this with the permission of Steve’s wife, who is a brave badass and forever in my heart as are all the melanoma wives.

Steve was a guy I never met, but he changed my life in immeasurable ways for the better. I want to be like him, but I’m not. I’m entirely too selfish and pessimistic, but I hope to raise my son to be like him. 

When Garry got sick and we were in the early “notification phase” we were sent on a collision course to meet Steve.  The “notification phase” is the part where you have to decide who needs to know you have cancer and how much you tell them, and carry the guilt that you have just given someone you love the worst news of their lives. At some point I recall Garry saying, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m tired of hurting people”. We took care of family first and then chipped away at our friends. 

One of Garry’s early conversations was with his friend Jeff. Jeff is a teacher and a summer raft guide like Garry, and we go on family trips with them every summer. Jeff is also a coach. Two weeks prior to Garry’s call, Jeff had taken a similar notification call from his good friend and fellow coach named Steve. Steve had melanoma, the same melanoma. He also had a wife and a baby and one on the way. Jeff quickly connected Garry and Steve. 

At first they text each other, comparing notes on what they understood about their diagnosis and treatment options. Garry was scheduled for a massive surgical lymph node resection that would likely leave him with debilitating edema. Steve had already been to Anschutz in Aurora and was going to start a clinical trial that did not involve surgery. Garry was all on board for that. He didn’t want to lose his mobility. He had always been an athlete, and that defined who he wanted to be as a father. He wanted to teach Bo how to work an oar frame, and snowboard. He had no intention of being a sidelines dad. He told me almost from day one. “If I have to die I want to die snowboarding and rafting.” Mobility is key to my husbands quality of life, and that has driven most of the decisions we’ve made in regards to his treatment. 

I remember eavesdropping on their first conversation on the phone. It wasn’t hard, because Steve was loud and I could hear him pretty clearly. More than his words I remember his tone and his laugh. This guy was a breath of fresh air. He was the sun shining through the storm clouds. He was full of encouragement and grit. At the time, Garry and I were in a very bad place. My dad had died of a lesser form of melanoma not five years earlier. I was a hospice nurse and knew full well what a death sentence this was. We were grim. We were beyond grim. I couldn’t set us right. I tried to be encouraging and hopeful, but we were still listing hopelessly with no shore in sight. Steve’s conversations were like the hand of God reaching down and setting us back on our feet. I felt like Steve’s voice was the one convincing voice that told us to pull our heads out of our asses and get in the game, because we could still win this. Sometimes when you’re at the end of yourself, you need someone else to set your horizon line. Steve did that. Steve was a coach. He was our cancer coach. 

There is something remarkable about a man who can reach out of his crisis to pull you out of yours. Like I said I want to be like Steve, but I am so far from that. Garry and I joke about our level of compassion fatigue. Sometimes I can barely tolerate hearing about other people’s problems, let alone try and put them back on their feet. Steve paused his own crisis and reached out to us, he knew we were in psychologically worse place than he was, and he knew why. Garry had told him about my dad and my work. Steve said, “this is really in your face then”. He acknowledged that we were there and validated the reasons why, but then found a way to  grab us by the hand and pulled us out. He put us on the right road. He was sunshine. He didn’t have to do that. He was fighting for his own life. It’s a hard place to give from, but he gave. He gave abundantly. I will love him forever. It’s a debt I can’t repay. 

Steve died that July. We didn’t go to the service. I had hip surgery and was non weight bearing on crutches so getting around was hard. Plus, I don’t think we could face it. It was so close to home. I’ve always regretted that though. I would have liked to have been there. I would have liked to give thanks for a life well lived. 

I remember asking Garry if Steve had a wife and kids when they were first connected. He said he didn’t know, and I said I wanted him to find out so we could make them our new best friends. He said, “I don’t think they want to hang out with us. I don’t think they are as depressed as we are. I’m not sure we’d be good for them.”  I realized Garry was right. I don’t think we would have been good for them. 

I found out Steve died because of an article in the newspaper about the death of beloved coach. Garry and Steve had text less and less as they started treatment. I think there was apprehension in wanting to know how the other person was doing. Unless they were both responding well it would be hard. For one of them to be successful while the other was not would be hard. I had never known Steve’s last name, so I wasn’t certain it was him, but I was pretty sure. It was a sucker punch. God, I wanted him to beat it. I wanted family barbecues with the two surviving dads and their families. That was the dream. Then I saw the name of Steve’s wife and I realized I knew her.  We had gone to college together. She played basketball and was very good. She was funny and smart and just a solid cool chick. My heart broke for her, and for her babies. It could so easily have been me and my baby. I was scared to tell Garry about Steve. Garry was responding well to treatment, and I was scared this news would have an adverse effect on that. That night I showed him the article. He held the newspaper and sat down hard on our hearth, one hand going to his temple. It was blow. I could see that. He had believed it would be Steve that would fly through treatment and beat this. He looked at me and said, “That was so fast”. I know this beast, and it’s brutal and fast. Steve’s disease course was very normal. Garry is the outlier. 

I won’t speculate on why Garry is here and Steve is not. That is a dangerous exercise in futility and nothing good will come of it. What I do know is Steve was that guy who saved us. Who set us right. I wish I had known him. I wish I could thank him. I will tell my son about him, and try to remember what he did for us, for me. I will try to be like him. I will fall short, but I will try.