Four years–and untold miles and tears–ago today, our family felt the Equatorial sun. We saw birds enfolding freshly hatched offspring. Sea lions lay together, nuzzling their sand-dusted babies. On rocks a few feet away we saw a sea lion wriggle from the warmth of his mother’s womb into the dazzling light.
At home a blizzard filled the skies and obliterated the sun.
But where we walked we could still feel the warmth of Jim’s humor and his very touch, hands radiating heat, his wedding band glinting gold.
My husband Jim’s diagnosis hit us along with summer’s pulverizing heat. Coming out of the air-conditioned hospital to lean against a cement pillar and weep was like stepping through a portal onto the tarmac in San Cristobal.
For me the summer was a whirlwind: physicians, surgical procedures, hospitals, chemotherapy, pharmacies and prescriptions, paperwork, imaging and re-imaging.
It was exhaustion–not pain or nausea, nor even a side-effect that made drinking cold liquid feel like swallowing crushed glass–that most distressed my husband as he endured the worst of the treatment attempts: having to sleep for so long meant to him a day slipping through his fingers, among precious few seasons of such days. Continue reading “Changing Seasons: Summer to Spring Segue”
I wish I had taken a picture of the purple cauliflower.
Some images are as indelible in my mind as they would be had they been photographed and printed for me to look at daily, but I have to rely on words to describe them and cannot otherwise convey those images to anyone else.
Sometimes the wonder of an image comes in its defiance of expectations, as it did with the deep-purple cauliflower served every night during our last family trip with Jim.