The seasons and all their changes are in me . . . Henry David Thoreau

I have a love-hate relationship with this interim season, this sloppy, dirty, gritty time of year. By March, my house feels so stale and grungy, the dogs track in mud and sand constantly (little Rocco tracks dot the basement floor, gotta remember to go wipe those up later . . .). So many heavy grey days layered upon us . . . old, crusty snow, covered in dirt, a far cry from the sparkly white fluff of December, ground is sloppy, muddy. Despite all that, I welcome it—well, maybe not with open arms, and maybe welcome is the wrong word—knowing that all of this is necessary, that beneath the grunge, the drab landscape and the wet, heavy grey that envelops us, amazing things are happening. The earth is reverberating with unseen energy, making preparations for the grass to green, flowers to surface, buds to pop, birds to return. . . funny, how I find so many correlations, so many things in life around us that seem to be in sync with what Bob is going through. The chemo is ugly, too, does ugly things to my husband's body and spirit, but it is necessary, for him to become well again . . . like the seasons, we have no choice but to tolerate it, maybe try to find the good, the reason for it all. Or maybe just try not to think too hard about any of it, but to simply try to get through it, the best we can. . .

The other day, Bob noticed our home decor has morphed into "Contemporary Chemotherapy." Sofas are now beds, their pillows strewn about the living room, dining room table has become a pharmacy, bottles of hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes at every sink . . . bottles of Ensure and Powerade fill the cupboards. Oh, and can't forget the crop of get well and thinking-of-you cards growing at a healthy rate atop the china cabinet (which warm my heart whenever I look at them). Look for these decorating tips and more in the latest issue of Martha Stewart's Living. . .

I think of all this, I dislike this waiting period, this interim season, the most. The three weeks between treatments are an exercise in torture. Seems like nothing is happening, nothing to report, no visible changes in Bob's condition. I have to go to work, leave Bob home alone. I think about him all day, how he's doing, what he's doing, if he's getting rest, if his pain is being held at bay. . . has he eaten anything, are the dogs behaving, has he talked to anyone (on the phone, e-mail, texting), to stay connected, keeping in touch. I talk about him all day at work; can't help it, clients and coworkers are concerned and ask, but it's tiring, I try to make it quick and change the subject. Underscores the fact that this is a part of our life—no—this is our life. For now. No escaping it, hiding it, ignoring it.

This past week has been tough for Bob. Nothing earth-shattering, as far as side effects are concerned; in fact, other than low-grade nausea now and then, and the little side-trip to the ER on Sunday, Bob's side effects have been unremarkable. No mouth sores, no more hair loss. But he said it's one of the toughest periods yet; his energy level has been off, and his appetite isn't as good as I thought it'd be, considering the mouth sores aren't interfering. Nausea comes and goes, nothing tastes good. He's been quite tired, more wiped out, even more so than he's been in a long time, doesn't feel like talking to anyone. . . Maybe, in addition to side effects of chemo, he's feeling the effects of the weather as the rest of us are. Clients left and right talk about feeling lethargic, unmotivated, about going home after work, to pj's and TV. I feel the same, like I could just stay in bed for days on end, till the sun returns. I can only hope that this is another hump that he just needs to ride over, then things will begin to progress again.

I worry about Bob being so isolated, so alone while I'm at work. He's more of a home-body,

always has been. He loves it out here, the peaceful little retreat that is our home, with the woods behind the house, the wildlife, the quiet solitude. He, single-handedly, has cleared our buckthorn-choked backyard into a park-like setting (even though he knows it's a futile effort—one bird pooping or the wind blowing even a single seed back into the yard . . . ). Derived hours of pleasure, hacking, chopping, burning . . . "doin' chores," he called it. But that was back when he had a choice in the matter. Now, being essentially in solitary confinement for four months and counting; it's got to take a toll. . . I almost stopped at Best Buy and picked up a wii last night. But then my common sense took over: you shouldn't waste $300 on a freakin' video game, Jen . . . that, and the last time Bob and I played a wii, I kicked his ass good, in tennis. I was sooo awesome! On FIRE! Then I thought, I just couldn't subject Bob to that humiliation again. With that, I drove past the exit to Best Buy, to the one that leads me home.

I allow myself one bad day every few weeks, a day where I am just unmotivated, driven to tears, despondent, helpless, angry, sad, wistful, envious of people talking about vacations to sunny locations. . . then I shake it off and move on . . . I remind myself that even though things may not be going according to my plans, things are happening beneath the surface, at microscopic levels, that will bring my husband closer to health again. I'm grateful to have a schedule that allows me flexibility to be with Bob as he's going through this. I remind myself of all the people who are praying for Bob, thinking of him, sending him thoughts, prayers, Irish blessings, pixie dust (persistent li'l buggers), blog comments, e-mails, text messages, phone calls, kind words at work, bags of cookies in the mailbox, bags of treats from clients at work, tasty dinners from my sister. The kindness, the thoughtfulness, the generosity, the support. I'm grateful for the gray, heavy days that slowly rinse away the snow, making way for green of spring. And think that maybe this wasn't the best year to take a winter vacation, with all the crazy weather across the globe. There will be other times for trips.

A friend sent me a link to a Jimmy Buffet song, Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On, written the wake of Hurricane Katrina, but as my friend, said, is a fitting song no matter what your facing in life. Hopefully, the link works and you find a few minutes to listen to this beautiful song. Reminds me that Jimmy Buffet can be quite the philosopher, as well as party dude. Reminds me that the very, very least, when days are dark, and my heart is heavy, the very least I can do, that anyone can do, is breathe in, breathe out and move on.