Footloose

I had foot surgery on December first, to correct a bunion and a hammer toe on my left foot. Jay, who had been through foot surgery several years ago (before we met) had warned me that the recovery would be long and painful. He didn’t exaggerate. The first week was hydrocodone and helplessness. Now, half way through the fifth week, I’m not taking anything for pain, and I can hobble around pretty well, though not for long. I can walk Charlie as far as the bridge. I get free of the protective boot next week, and I should be able to gradually increase my walking and take a shower without a garbage bag over my foot.

Jay retired from his work in October, partly because he was exhausted from massive overtime and the grueling commute, but also because he wanted to be able to take care of me as I recovered. I had no idea how much help I would need, but I can’t imagine how I would have gotten through the first three weeks without him here all the time. It’s lovely to have him home and cooking again.

The pain and limitation I’ve gone through was optional. The foot deformations would probably have worsened over time to the point where they would have limited my walking. But plenty of people live with that. I chose the surgery (and will do the right foot as soon as this one is well healed) at least in part because I had time for it now, with few obligations or commitments as we wind up our stay in Pleasant Hill. Also, I knew that this pain would be short lived, and that it would probably add years to my life as a walker. But I read this morning about the wife of a relative who made a different kind of choice about the pain she has endured in a years long battle with cancer which is coming to an end.

When Joe had cancer, neither of us spoke of it as a battle. We didn’t want to frame his ultimate death from it as a battle he would lose. We said he was living with cancer, not fighting it. But this relative did see having cancer as a battle. She has endured years of harrowing treatment and pain, and financial ruin. I imagine that she had moments of pleasure in those years, but at a horrible cost. I don’t understand her choice. I suppose it’s incredibly hard to know when to say, I’ve had enough. No more treatment. Joe and I were blessed to have his treatment supervised by an oncologist who was clear, from our very first meeting, that she would tell him when she thought that further treatment would not result in good quality of life. She told us at that meeting that if that wasn’t the path he wanted to take, he should find another doctor right away. We never considered that option.

The time came when she said, there’s nothing more that will help, it’s time for hospice. By then, over a year into his treatment, she had come to love Joe. But I think that love only strengthened her commitment to not allowing him to suffer any more than he already had, to not suffer when there was no hope of a decent quality of life. She understood, as she had told us in that first meeting, that life ends. We say in our funeral service that life is a journey, and death the destination. Joe might have lived a few months longer, shuttling in and out of the hospital, the ER, consumed by pain and illness. Instead, he chose to live well for as long as he could and then to accept the end of the journey with grace. His life was a wonderful journey, and he had no fear of arriving at his destination.

We’ve had two deaths in the family in recent weeks, both of which came unexpectedly. My daughter’s father, my first husband of twenty years, died alone, apparently suddenly, probably of a stroke. Neither my daughter nor I had seen him in over 30 years, so it was a strange loss. Terance Cantrell was 80 and had been sober for over 40 years. He was still active in AA when he died, according to the one friend of his we contacted. Liz and I saw to getting his small apartment cleaned out, and she made arrangements for his cremation.

Jay and I have been talking recently about what people make of their lives in sobriety. Sobriety is a sort of miracle, a second chance at a life that was heading in an awful direction. A chance to change the journey. For Jay, that has meant thriving in every way. But from Terance’s sad, bare apartment, it looked like he had not thrived in sobriety. It was unsettling to see the remains of his life. I had wondered, from time to time, if he was still alive, and if he had found more happiness later in life than he had found in our last years together. If he had, the bare walls of his apartment didn’t show it.

Our stepdaughter Blythe, Nancy’s daughter, lost her father just a few weeks later, also a sudden death, although he had been in poor health. Writing to his widow, I thought about what I had learned about grief, a subject Jay and I have often talked about. He and I have both learned to thrive along side our grief. Grief doesn’t dominate our lives, but it hasn’t disappeared, nor would we want it to. Grief is the scar that reminds me how deeply I’ve loved.

Somber thoughts for a rainy day at the end of the year. The sun will come out, if not tomorrow, then soon. I’ll be able to enjoy my canal walks with Charlie again until the next surgery, and then I hope to be footloose for the rest of my journey.