Norm Coleman, Tootsie Pops and the definition of "humankind . . ."

I almost took out Norm Coleman while pulling into Walgreen's parking lot on Grand Avenue last night. I'm positive it was him—there's no mistaking the Ken doll hair and Chiclet teeth in the glare of my car's headlights as I turned into the lot. I wouldn't have nearly hit him, had he left just a little more room for other cars to enter the lot . . . didn't realize he still hung around St. Paul. Not that I care one way or the other, just kind of startling, to see those blinding white veneers flashing my way, and knowing in an instant who the driver was.

I picked up a prescription for Bob at Walgreens, on my way home from work last night, along with a bag

of Tootsie Pops. They've become his new go-to candy, to keep his mouth hydrated—did you all know there's a new flavor? Blue raspberry, which leaves a lovely streak of glowing turquoise on the tongue and a subtle green-blue cast to the teeth. Actually, according to Tootsie's website, there are three new flavors—pomegranate, blue raspberry and banana. There's your useless trivia tidbit for the day.

Bob had his two out-patient infusions over these past two days, Tuesday and Wednesday. I brought him in to the clinic and sat with him for a few hours before heading in to work, then Jim and Penny arrived a little later to finish the shift. He didn't get the VIP suite this time, but each little nook has curtains to pull for privacy, and room for a visitor (barely two . . .), Wi-Fi, and a cute little TV monitor suspended on a mechanical arm, which can be adjusted accordingly. Bob can even use his feet to move it around (see photo below of monkey boy . . .) He now has chronic hiccups as a result of this round of chemo. At first, I was teasing him, telling him about a clip on TV I saw recently about a man who's suffered hiccups for years. It was kind of funny yesterday (to me, anyhow). Today, not so much!

This morning, Jim took Bob back to the U to get a shot of a drug called Neulasta, which helps to rebuild his white blood cell count and ward off infection, as the chemo wreaks havoc on white blood cells, making chemo patients' immune system very vulnerable. The nurse who gave Bob the shot said the hiccups are very common with chemo patients, they see (hear) it all the time 'round the clinic. Now, we just sit back and see if the other horrific side effects will reappear. Hopefully, with a lower dose of the chemo this time, he'll be okay this round; wouldn't it be great if hiccups were the only side effect?!? (Easy for me to say, I'm not the one suffering with them . . .) But, at least we now know what to expect, what to watch for, and if something does happen, we'll act quickly.

When I finally arrived home from work last night, I walked in the door, and immediately enveloped with the savory aroma of corned beef and cabbage. Tuesday night, it had been BBQ ribs. Penny and Jim have been up here for a few days, got up here late Tuesday morning, and each night, dinner has been waiting for me when I come home. The house is clean, a Tupperware container of home-baked treats usually sitting on the counter . . . evidence of a Jim-esque project often apparent—ice chopped up off the driveway, snow and ice shoveled from the deck. . . .

Penny and Jim stay with Bob at the hospital while I'm at work, and bring him home when his infusions are done. I'm always at a loss for words, in light of all they've done and continue to do for us. They are an amazing source of love, strength and support. They can be up here with a phone call and a few hours' drive and they do not mind at all, hanging out in a hospital for hours on end . . . it's a massive load off my mind, knowing Bob has them by his side while I'm at work. Makes going to work much easier. Even the simple pleasure of having a clean house and a meal ready when I get home these days is a blessing, a gift (in our old life, Bob more often than not, had dinner ready and the house cleaned by the time I got home, as I normally work later than he did) . . . a girl could get used to such royal treatment. . . I'm thinking about asking Penny and Jim if they'd like to move in—I know Rocco would love, love, love Gramma's foot around full time!

Penny and Jim arrived on Tuesday, they presented Bob with a card and a very generous donation collected from staff at Northside Elementary, where Jim retired as principal a few years back. It brought tears to Bob's eyes and left me breathless, the generosity of people who barely know us . . . I maybe have said it before, but prayers don't come easily for me at this time . . . I honestly, truly am not mad at God. I don't blame him/her/it, I don't curse anyone. It's just that when I start to pray, I come up empty. I can't get past, Dear God . . . Asking God to heal my husband seems so absurd, so insignificant . . . or maybe it's arrogant? Naive? I still can't quite define it, don't know if I ever will . . . what do I do? Beg? Barter? Cry "uncle?" Promise to quit swearing, go to church, be a better sheep in the flock if only he spares my husband, one more time? How can I possibly expect, or even ask, God to heal my husband when things like massive earthquakes swallow whole villages, take down entire communities . . . when disasters, illness, tragedy strikes all around us . . . I hear a song on the radio often lately, with the words, praying to a god that I don't believe in . . . I'm not quite to that point, but that line catches my attention every time . . .

Above is another of Bob's wildflower photos. Pasque flowers are one of the first wildflowers to bloom in spring, pushing their way up through decaying debris, through crusty snow; a fragile, delicate appearance belying their strength, perseverance. . .

I don't believe God has anything to do with this at all. I mean, this "cause and effect" kind of thing . . . I don't believe "God doesn't give you any more than you can handle." That's bullshit. People are handed things all the time that they can't handle, things beyond their control, beyond what their minds and bodies can take. Happens all the time. . . everything doesn't always happen for a reason. There is no reason why Bob should have to take a third hit on his life. That is beyond reason. Beyond faith. Beyond anything anyone possesses. God didn't cause this and God doesn't decide if and when Bob will heal, based on how hard I pray, how much I believe, how good I am. I don't believe that. I'm not really sure what I believe but I don't blame God for this big ugly thing that's taken hold of my husband for now . . . it's hard to believe in much of anything, to try to define, explain, reason, hypothesize, accept . . . just ain't happening these days. It's about all we can do to simply just be. And maybe next week, hell, maybe by the end of the day today, maybe by the end of my walk with the dogs this morning, all this that I spew forth will have changed. Again . . .

As such, I lean heavily on the kindness, the thoughtfulness, the love, support, encouragement, of family, friends, even strangers . . . the gentleness and compassion of Bob's nurses. The wisdom and expertise of his doctors. The laughter of friends. A lovely sunrise at 5:30 a.m. The beautiful photographs of wildflowers that adorn our walls, that Bob has taken during countless hours of solitude he's spent in the church of Mother Nature. The sunlight that lingers a littel longer each day. . . Doesn't all that count for something? That maybe, just maybe, it is that's God's way of getting through to me? Maybe he/she/it/whatever recognizes that now is not a time for words, or that prayers don't work for everyone, that maybe now, it is just our time to simply be. . . to fall into the arms of those around us, be carried by their willingness to help, to hold us in their thoughts and well wishes, to pray for us when words fail.

Kicking back . . .