Spoons

Art had a tough day today. Chemo effects still working him hard, nausea and fatigue don’t wonder to far off. He feels good for a few hours and then he his stomach is upset, or he needs to take nap or two, or three. It could be that today he has trouble eating or a combination of one or all of the above. This disease has a way of picking your spirits apart. This disease is like a magnifying glass, like I said before. I can see my flaws clearly. But it is also like spoon, one side upside down from the other.

For the second morning in a row, upon waking, I find myself enveloped in Art’s arms. As I settle in, he smiles and in a deep, warm, Art voice he speaks the words that I don’t realize I have missed until they are said. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he smiles. Then he pulls my in closer and gently kisses my forehead or pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses it, as if it were the most delicate thing his lips have ever touched. For me, it’s the moment in my day when the world truly is outside, and we are in this space that is only ours. Even with the kids literally in between us, he has managed over the years to create, for just a moment, this circle where only he and I matter. It’s his way anchoring our day in us. For me, it’s the moment when I know I really matter to someone else. For both of us, it’s been missing from our lives for too many weeks. This tiny little morning ritual has been in existence for over 12 years, from the first time we spent the night together.

The last two days have, again, given me a glimpse of the man I am fighting for. And it makes me smile really wide! But like a spoon, for him, it has made the rest of the day difficult. What I see is progress, the messiness of chemo slowly leaving him. What he sees is the potential of the day. He starts out with ideas and thoughts, but his body cannot supply the energy or strength for the plans. I feel hope in his tenderness, he feels frustration that he cannot maintain that desire to take care of me. I feel elation, he feels anger.

As I sit here, next to him, we are the concave and convex emotional surfaces of a spoon. Some one commented on this blog to look at the good that we have. The good outside of us is easy to see in the support, the cards, the phone calls and the emails that keep coming in. It is harder to see within ourselves. We have been reduced to being happy that Art can walk down to the end of the block and back. It’s a challenge to rejoice in that kind of stuff. But funny, how one day I cannot and the next day I can. Art held me this morning. And maybe tomorrow he will be able to find peace and beauty in that simple action.


OK, back for a moment to the pity party. Art is my muse and my editor. I often ask him to read everything I write before I post. He offers clarity and astute feedback always. Tonight when I read this too him he was just too unfocused to help. I want to go back, right now to this morning. That way I won’t feel as lonely as I do at this moment.

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