Tanya Writes About Mourning Marley

I came down with a viral respiratory infection on Monday and keep saying I'm sick as a dog.

But it isn't true. I'm not as sick as my Marl was. She had to die.

I'm approaching the second month without her. Often when I come downstairs in the morning, I say Hi Marl, like I did for ten years. I just expect her to be lying on her favorite rug.

Now, for most of those ten years, she and the boy black Lab Seau, and the yellow girl Tawny (RIP May 2004) slept in the room with my hero and me. When he was at the firehouse, she slept on the bed. But when his ordeal started, that harrowing chemo, the snorts and sneezes and panting and farting and running against the wall just got too much for him. So we put up a baby gate. And now because of the grandbaby, it's still in place. It was a good idea; neither dog needed to run up and down the stairs any longer.

...There's a long concrete breezeway between our house and the fence. Every time I came out to load the recycle bin, Marl would wait at the end. So I'd kneel down and call her, and she'd come running with kisses. It hurts so much now just to take out the trash!

Somebody might say, what are you on about? She's just a dog.

Well, she wasn't. She was my baby, my comfort in the empty nest after our babygirl went off to college. She had a cute way of cocking her face, like she really was listening to you. And she knew when it was dinnertime; she'd come to me with a little throaty whine.

But others might say, after what you and your hero went through already this year, losing a dog to cancer was just another blow you didn't deserve.

And I kinda think those people are right. For the last couple of years, Marl had to drink purified water due to an unrelated condition. These days, I can barely walk through the grocery store without crying. All those months of buying nausea food and constipation food and Popsicles for my hero...and now the bottled water aisle too...

I do have my sweet boy dog. He's the one with ultra health issues. We actually thought we'd lose him first. But he's the independent one; we adopted him when he was about five. Marl was the cuddle-muffin who always had another dog in her life. She wouldn't have lasted long without him.

So I guess this was a backward sort of blessing.

A couple weeks ago, the grandbaby saw a dog on a Natgeo show and called out, "Morley. Morley." Oh the pup looked so much like her, black with a white muzzle. Marl always had that whiteness around her mouth; she looked like a gramma dog since she was about two.

Last weekend in the local paper, the "Pet of the Week" was a black Lab mix, Nico, with Marl's same goofy ears. As soon as I looked up, my hero said, no. Seau is enough for now.

I asked him if he misses her, and he said of course, but he knows not quite the way I do.

After all, she was my baby.

I worked on my roses one of Marl's last days on earth; she and Seau laid under the tree, on the soft grass of a perfect sunny summer day.

Tanya Writes About Being Back in the Saddle

Hmmmmmmmm. During those harrowing days of of my hero's chemo, I couldn't write a word. Well, other than this blog where upon I scribbled sometimes, so late at night it was the next day.

But creating, or even reading, took a different set of brain cells, and I just had other things more important inside my head.

But now that we're on the road to Normal, now that my hero's journey has us wondering if those horrible months were just a bad dream, I can get back to writing.

I'm doing just that. I've started a Western that deals with Nate Bertell, a hottie cowboy who plays a small role in Midnight Bride. In that story, he figures he had a chance with Carrie (heroine) but didn't claim her hand soon enough before Jed (hero), a gorgeous stranger, arrives in town stating she'll lose her ranch unless she weds him. I just figure I've been so lucky in love that everybody, fictional or not, deserves some really good lovin.'

So I'm crashing some inspired words every day. Thursday, I spent several hours at the local Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, slurping caffeine with my writing buddy Sarah Dale while we both worked on current projects.

Today, Sarah and I met for high tea with three other writers. I write Westerns, Miriam writes mystery, Sarah erotica, and Ellenie urban fantasy, but we've all got a common goal: Romance.

I mean, I'm going to have a happy ending. Why not everybody else?

Tanya Writes About Normal Again

Wow, how can it be June? So much of 2008 is a blur, a bad, sad movie. But we're on that road to normal.

My hero had a doctor's appointment today. No, not about the T.C. About the two ruined knees and rebuilt shoulder he sustained as a firefighter. Seems like a slam dunk, huh? But we live in the state of Caliconfusion with an idiot at the helm. He changed the rules on job-related injuries, meaning unless it killed you, you didn't really get hurt.

God help us when the T.C. goes to evaluation. Many universities' studies show that it is a job related condition for firefighters due to all the hazardous materials, fumes, chemicals they are bombarded with over the years. Firefighters get T.C. 102% more often than other occupations. But his first letter from workman's comp mentioned the "alleged" testicular cancer.

Yeah, alleged! He lost a nut and endured chemo so harrowing it almost ended his life. But according to "Ahnold" and his henchmen, it's just an allegation.

But hey. I'm happy! I got working today on a new Western while he was answering this new doctor's questions for the bazillionth time. The last few months totally drained my creativity from me...So tomorrow I'm meeting a writer friend for coffee and laptopping, and a bunch of us authors are getting together for a formal tea on Saturday.

I'm happy! My hero's stronger and hotter every single day with his new stylish goatee --just about the only hair that's started sprouting again. A waiter remarked the other day how cool he looks. Privately to me, he joked about his GQ chemo look.

I'm happy! Our grandbaby spent all last weekend with us! Oh that angel. Now, I love my own kids passionately but there's something about loving a grandchild that I could never imagine before it happened.

Thank God we had that little guy in our lives during those horrible weeks. My hero kept his faith and kept his hope because he knew just who he was fighting for.

Oh, normal. Oh, happy.

Oh, baby.

Tanya Writes About Walden Pond

Last night I went to Walden Pond.

I couldn't think of any other place I wanted to be. To get the screams out of my head and have prayers inside instead. For to me, Walden is a cathedral. Like Yosemite Valley.

Like Alder Creek where the Donners spent that awful winter.

But there wasn't any gentle autumn drizzle landing on my cheeks this visit, for my body was in an ER room at my hero's side. We'd gone to hospital for the CT scans and while taking a stroll down the hall to ease that sore hip, he fainted.

And I wasn't even with him! He doesn't like me to hover, so I stayed in the waiting room until I heard a lady call out, somebody fell.

At the doorway, the first thing I saw was his hand, the hand whose wrist wears the yellow Livestrong bracelet. My heart broke one more time.

The doc figured it was because chemo weakens even a hale man. Indeed, after hydration and potassium and iron --and about a gallon of my tears-- he got to go home.

I hated to weep in front of him, but seeing him lying there...I just had no choice.

So while the IV's dripped and he napped, I went to Walden inside my head to quiet things down. Just like last October, my hero was with me, walking down the asphalt path through the trees. The anticipation was like, walking up the aisle or something. And there it was, Walden wearing a necklace of trees just starting to turn.

Oh, it was lovely, so lovely. I've wanted to visit Walden for so, so long. We walked the pathway Henry David once trod, to his homestead where I built a rock sculpture. I can still feel the rocks in my hand.

My hero found a tiny pinecone under a tree and handed it to me. My best souvenir ever.

And he took my picture at the sign bearing my most favorite HDT quote, about not getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived. Only my hero cut off my head.

Hmmmmmmm.

And while there, I thanked God. If my hero had to faint, at least it was in a hospital with smart, caring professionals. Instead of on the staircase at home or something with only his wuss of a wife around.

But it was still another uneasy night because of this ugly thing that has come to life with us.

Kyrie eleison.

Tanya Writes About the Darkness and the Screams

They're all in my head. The dark times, the screams. Sometimes I remember watching an old Jimmie Cagney movie on TV...White Heat, I think, when he rushes around in escape and it's like the camera is his eyes. That's how it is sometimes. My eyes are in someone else's head. I see but it's all too unreal. It must be happening to someone else.

Last week was a toughie. I guess to do its job, chemo builds up and up and up inside my hero. The vile endless fatigue that besets him had me rage and weep all day when alone in the car. For three decades, he's been the one I unload on when demons come--a bad rejection, a row with my difficult mother, an insane headmaster. But now when I need him the most, I can't burden him.

But I am a Christian. I know Jesus is out there somewhere. Easter still rings in my heart and deep down, I know His footprints are beside me. Still, my faith has taken some deep dumps. After a "nadir" last month, I confessed to my hero that I'd lost my faith for two whole days. He just chuckled and said, I bet that pissed God off. And I was okay then. Today after church, a friend sat and prayed with me. Now, I'm not a hand-waver, holy-roller type. This was kinda personal. Yet it worked. I felt the love, the amazing grace. The power of miracle.

I'm just human. When the screams in my head don't stop, I depend on God's mercy to quiet them, His light to shine through my darkness. I admit though, it doesn't always happen on my schedule. There's the human rub.

A writer pal sent prayers and love with this proverb: When the going gets tough, the tough get on their knees. Well, I'm not so tough, but I am kneeling big-time.

Tanya Writes About Testicular Cancer #3

I was too tired to write yesterday, about our last scheduled day of BEP, the week-long all-day stretch. But my hero, dang, this one knocked him out with the first drip. I don't mean it makes him unconscious like anesthesia; it's just an all-consuming exhaustion.

He says no one who hasn't gone through it can understand. I try, but I believe him.

He just curled into a baby-ball, knees drawn. And thank you very much, that pinched a nerve in his hip and now he has pain. I remember writing about Mrs. Coleman a while back, who realized a new non-chemo ailment was just Satan messing with her. Well, Satan, you aren't going to win here either!

And I drove home. This is quite a decision for my he-man to make. I'm a perfectly good driver but a man who spent twenty years driving a fire engine is allowed to be a perfectly good critic.

Even though in normal times it pisses me off.

Now we wait...for a couple more blasts of bleo. For scans. For opinions. For GOD WILLING, remission.

And today, most of all, we wait for our baby grandson to arrive. He'll be here in about ten minutes, and my hero is already showered, up and about.

In spite of that damn hip!

Tanya Writes About Locks for Love

I thought it was the most romantic thing when (fictional) Samantha's (fictional) boyfriend Smith shaved his head when she lost her hair to chemo in (fictional) Sex and the City.

Sigh. Now, I know it's easier for a guy to do it. Bald heads are even kinda in. Nonetheless, that's what I wanted to do for my hero. Cut off my hair when he lost his. And I found a real-life place that accepts hair to make wigs for chemo patients.

My hair is indeed long enough and I was so ready for a noble, selfless act. Until I learned from Locks for Love that bleached hair doesn't make the cut. When I complained about their pickiness, my hero just told me not to waste my hair. It was a lovely thought, he assured me, and my motive was good. Even though he claims my 'do reminds him of Eric Idle circa 1985, he admits he didn't want me to cut it off.

And it's blonde for a reason. Forget the "blondes have more fun" thing. I already proved that wrong when I went blond in college. Had as much fun as when I was light brown. Now it's all about the gray. Not that I'm old. I surely am not. But...with two young-adult children and a toddling grandson, anyone can figure out I'm, well, not thirty-something any more.

But I am air-headed and disorganized no matter how hard I try. This care-giver thing really strains my abilities, or lack thereof. So it got me thinking: maybe the dumb-blonde rep is real. Maybe it's because the bleach poisons our brain cells.

Dunno. But I found a cute joke that I thought I'd use to conclude:

A blonde decided to go horseback riding. As she mounted a spirited stallion, the horse sprang to action, causing the blonde to slip from the saddle. Grabbing the horse's mane, she hung on for dear life, then switched to an arm lock around the horse's neck.

Finally she fell off. Her foot caught in the stirrup as her head bounced on the ground. She was mere moments away from unconsciousness when to her great fortune--

The Target store manager saw her and shut the horse off.

Bye for now. Today was a bit better day. We're moving out of the nadir, or lowest point of a cycle. So my hero will be rarin' to go for Easter Brunch.