“Take this sinking boat and point it home, we’ve still got time.” - Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová
Joe and I had high hopes for celebrating our 10 year anniversary, which was in 2020 (uh oh alert). We tentatively planned to take a long trip to Europe, but when the pandemic happened and that kind of travel became impossible, we adjusted it slightly. “Maybe we can just take a road trip down the coast,” we decided. That way we could stay away from people and feel safe, while also at least marking the occasion in some way, PLUS ALSO still getting to see some cool stuff we’d never seen before.
Then cancer happened and, instead, we spent our anniversary at a series of doctor’s appointments, making it one another long day at the hospital in a string of long days at the hospital. Previously, we’d marked each anniversary with cupcakes (a throwback to our original wedding treat) and champagne, but that year, I treated myself to a helping of tube feed. Woo. Hoo.
This year, we decided that we’d go somewhere, even if it wasn’t somewhere very far away. A few days before we left, I looked at the weather for our trip and saw it was supposed to rain the entire time. I thought, “Sure, this feels right.” After the year we’ve had, why WOULDN’T it rain for our anniversary trip.
It wouldn’t be the first time a special trip was interrupted by rain. On an anniversary trip years ago, when we still lived in Ohio, we rented a cabin in Hocking Hills and it poured the first couple of days. We finally made it out in between downpours for a hike or two, and eventually it cleared up enough that Joe somehow was able to make a fire. It ended up being a great trip. And obviously memorable.
A year or two later, we went to Charleston with my parents and sister for a family wedding and ended up being there during what they were calling the 1000 year flood. It poured the entire time we were there, leading to record-breaking flooding throughout the city. Instead of sunning ourselves on the beach, we were trapped in our rental for the majority of the time, other than a few adventures to wade our way to whatever restaurants were open and the day we decided to go to the beach despite the rain (I almost lost a flip flop in the street-river).
So it was going to rain on our anniversary trip. So what. It’s not like it’s the worst thing to happen to us this year.
One of the things that pisses me off the most about my cancer (ugh, can I give it back, please) is what it’s done to Joe. The pressure it’s put on him. Whatever I’m feeling, he’s feeling it too, and then some. And he didn’t deserve it. Sure, one of those important marriage vows references “in sickness and in health,” but I still find myself wanting to apologize to him for what I’m putting him through. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. There aren’t enough words for how unfair it is.
After we got The Big Bad News, one of the things that caused Baby’s First Panic Attack was the thought that Joe and I might be robbed of precious time together. Years and decades that I’d imagined for us were just...ripped from my mind. Poof. It’s one of the things I try not to think about very often because it almost immediately results in more tears or the urge to throw and break things or the beginning stages of hyperventilation. I allow those dark moments every now and then (because apparently it’s important to feel your feelings) but try to pull myself out pretty quickly, because there’s no quicker way to fall into a deep hole of depression than thoughts like these.
When Joe and I met, we were inseparable pretty early on, to the point where his friends warned him to slow it down or we’d run out of things to talk about. (I’m happy to report this still hasn’t happened. Even when I couldn’t speak, I’d text him from the other end of the sofa.) We’re very lucky to both come from families where our parents are still together and, not only that, still disgustingly in love (I mean this in a nice way). They still just genuinely like being together. They do everything together. And Joe and I are very much the same.
When bad things happen, it can make or break a marriage. When both of our dogs died, we were devastated and obviously deep in our feelings, while dealing with a pandemic that had made it impossible to do some of the things we loved, including visiting home. Joe had been working from home for years, but I started working from home full-time when the pandemic started, which meant we had A LOT more time together. Hell, that alone could be enough to break a marriage. But we carved out our own alone time and worked out how to work together separately and it was fine.
I suppose all of that was good practice for what was coming, but I’m still so pissed off that this is what our story has become. That we’ve been held back from doing things we wanted to do. That Joe was forced into becoming a full-time caregiver to someone who’d rather set herself on fire than ask for help. I give full credit for the fact that we’ve made it this far to Joe, who selflessly (and cheerfully, somehow) took on everything when I got sick.
This is why, when Joe mentioned that Portland was moving forward with Rose City Comic Con a few weeks ago, I pushed aside my COVID-fears and encouraged him to go. (My fears would soon be assuaged. Of course Joe was super careful, and the con itself limited attendees and required masks and proof of vaccination.) I have never been able to enjoy comic cons with him, really, not in the way he does. Too many people, even before COVID. But I was so glad he got the chance to go. To do something for himself, something that he loves, and not have to worry about his cancer-ridden wife for a while.
Then we decided to squeeze in that anniversary trip a week later, a trip that wasn’t about escaping the reality of what our lives had become, but a celebration. It wasn’t Europe and it wasn’t the drive down the coast we’d originally planned, but we did make it to Cannon Beach. I’ve been wanting to visit the Oregon coast since we moved here. Not JUST because of The Goonies, but also because I soon discovered after moving to the PNW that while I love a sunny beach, my favorite beaches are the ones that are moody AF. The rocky terrain, the rough waves, the sky that looks like it could unleash a torrent of rain at any moment, while rays of sun try to break through the blanket of clouds. Give me a moody beach any day. (Especially now. It matches my general demeanor most of the time.)
As suspected, the rain didn’t ruin our trip. Sure, it rained so hard and was so windy one night that I thought the roof might blow right off of the airbnb (it didn’t). Yes, it poured one day, but it was about five minutes after we got back to our car from our hike. The first time we visited Haystack Rock, it was so windy and rainy that the drops of water felt like little razor blades on my face. But it didn’t matter. We laughed at ourselves, trying to walk in a straight line through the wind. We breathed sighs of relief whenever we got back to the warm (and dry) car. And we enjoyed every moment there was a break in the weather, which turned out to be rather frequent, turned our faces to the sun, and admired and took photos of every view we could.
And though some sad, dark thoughts tried to seep in every now and then, I was mostly able to push them away, to stay in the moment. It’s something I’ve been trying lately, ever since my first few panic attacks about this whole situation. When I start worrying about all those horrible “what ifs,” I let myself steep in it for a moment. I let the tears come to my eyes, the panicky feeling settle in my chest, but then I stop and identify several things that, in that moment, make me feel safe, bringing me back to the present. Things like the sunshine warming my face. The shelter from an angry storm. The steaming cup of tea in my hand. The feeling of the ground, still and secure under my feet. And Joe. Always Joe.
This is us hugging at Hug Point (I know, I wanna barf, too).
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