Around 3:00 Sunday morning, a 4.0 magnitude earthquake, 43 miles south and 60 miles underground, shook the tiny cabin Sam and I rented in Talkeetna. Laying in the darkness, I was still awake, my mind churning over the intensity and major decisions we have in front of us next week. Sam and Birkie didn’t flinch.
In the predawn hours before my alarm, I've dreamt earthquakes for months. These tremors are mere mental disturbances that shake me awake and cause me to lie there wondering if it was real, or another figment of my imagination as Birkie and Sam sleep peacefully next to me. Somehow, the fact that this rocky, disturbing week culminated in a real earthquake feels oddly affirming. In the fluorescent lighting of Anchorage’s oncology clinic Thursday morning, I sat stunned as Sam’s doctor told us that Sam's cancer has relapsed and his prognosis “isn't good.” She said she didn't yet know if there are treatment options, and if there are, if any of them would be worth the risk given his condition. She said without any treatment, he has a few months to live. Obviously and immediately my eyes welled with big, watery tears. She said, without treatment, a team of nurses and doctors in Anchorage could manage his pain and supply blood transfusions to keep him going - temporarily. She said most patients die of leukemia comfortably - after a while, their bodies simply fail. Taking it all in, Sam calmly asked her if, in her line of work, she’d observed how to die well. She said she’d never been asked that, but would think about it. Leaving, she promising to call an old colleague in Seattle and investigate his options, and she knew his Wisconsin doctor was doing the same. A social worker followed her in to talk to us about easing into Sam’s transition toward death. We were given a yellow folder with papers about hospice, and end of life support, and I don't know what else - I haven't opened it. Stunned, Sam plowed through Thursday with characteristic, mystifying rationality. Though I hate to admit it, I can only imagine easing into death would be a relief given the alternatives for him at this point. Always has been I suppose. Last time he went through treatment (and the time before that, I’m sure), none of us would even say the d-word. Now his whole diagnosis has framed like a train hurtling toward it. Any treatment attempts are essentially an opportunity to jump off the train, but who knows if his body can still survive the impact of the fall? Thursday, he called his parents and close friends with the update. He consoled them and recounted our conversation with his doctor. He talked about do not resuscitate orders. I read about caring for a dying loved one online as he got a platelet transfusion. He held my hand and gave me hugs as I cried throughout the day. We went out to a fancy dinner because why not. It was the longest day. By nightfall, my big, wet sloppy tears turned into the panicked tremors that shook my whole body and made it hard to breathe. “So that's it? You're just going to die?” Through the ugliest tears, I explained how this isn’t a broad lesson in “how to die well” to me. This is my best friend, my husband, my roommate, and my biggest, wildest love. I told him I loved him, needed him even, and I reminded him that we married because I couldn’t imagine my life without him. My shaking eventually eased back into big wet tears, which flooded onto my pillow until suddenly, it was light out. Unusually light out. I woke Sam up knowing he wouldn’t want Birkie and I to experience any moment enjoying the brilliant first snow without him, even if just looking out the window at it. It was sticky - the kind that remains on all the branches of trees turning the world white and igniting and dazzling wherever the sun hits. Somehow the sight of it combined with the intensity of our late night conversation made him cry immediately - the first time since the news yesterday. Between pauses for intermittent tears and hugs Friday morning, Sam made us breakfast - our usual routine. With full bellies as we lingered at the table moving around bits of syrup-soaked pancakes with our forks, and before we’d cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, a doctor from Seattle called. She asked Sam some questions about his medical history (already having been briefed by his Anchorage doctor over the phone) and explained that she thought he could likely be treated at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center - one of the best in the world. She said, given his condition, she’d want him to come “sooner rather than later.” She explained that, like in Wisconsin, he’d come down for an office visit and a full work-up to determine if his body could handle the drugs they’d give him. She suggested next Tuesday or Thursday, as in 4 or 6 days from now. She told him to buy a one-way ticket and be prepared for a year in Seattle if his body could pass the tests. In the meantime, she’d have her people get his records from UW-Madison. Sam asked her if she thought there is any chance for him to survive given his history and extremely aggressive form of leukemia. She said yes, there is a chance. Is it good? No. Does she have a crystal ball? No. Without missing a beat she continued. Are you 30 and do you have a lot of life to live, and do you have nothing to lose by trying everything possible to make you better? Absolutely. She added that of patients with similar medical history as Sam who’d undergone the treatment she had in mind, three are still alive today. Three. Three more than zero. With that, we had the rest of the day to shift focus from three months of life to three survivors. We altered our thinking from bringing our closest family and friends to make Sam’s next few months as comfortable and full of love and life as possible at home, to having to abandon Birkie and all of our things to fly to a new city and undergo a year of treatment that will have many weeks or months of darkness and pain. But that could lead to a cure. As we skied the trails of Anchorage, made dinner, drove to Talkeetna and hiked in the woods and on the banks of the Susitna, we’ve been stewing over this for two days now. Does Sam have to give treatment a shot if there are options? Yes, of course he does. There’s nothing and no one I want more than him, and that’s the only way to get to keep him. We know he has to go, and we desperately want to keep living this beautiful life together and will do whatever it takes to get us back here. To where we are right now. Still, nearly 40 hours after our conversation with the smart Seattle doctor, I lay in bed wondering whether my panicked tears two nights ago would make him choose a route that ends in him dying in a foreign city while suffering and fighting, instead of peacefully at home with heartfelt goodbyes, beside our dog and many of you. The former is an unbearable alternative, though likely the route we’ll pick, hoping and praying that the end turns out differently than my fears. Resolved, I tried to put it out of my mind and find some sleep. we’ll go to Seattle and fight - assuming the docs find a fight worth fighting. And then the earthquake happened, shaking me back awake and waking my brain back up to tell itself this whole story again and again.
whitney justin
10/23/2016 01:46:58 pm
We have you both in our thoughts. Sending you strength!
Bev Mangerson
10/23/2016 02:27:54 pm
Your strength never ceases to amaze me. You're a fighter Sam. Love and prayers to both of you
DAD
10/24/2016 06:55:33 am
Thank you for sharing your love for each other with us all. Your words are eloquent as always, Hundreds if not thousands of us will be storming the gates of heaven with prayer requests on your behalves.
Jessica
10/24/2016 09:18:05 am
You are so incredibly brave and strong Jenny. I am so keeping you both in my thoughts and prayers!
grandpa
10/24/2016 02:42:05 pm
Sam: you don't give up amidst your fears. I commend you for going forward. Tomorrow still brings possibilities. I am wishing and praying they emerge for you and Jenny.
grandpa
10/24/2016 02:42:20 pm
Sam: you don't give up amidst your fears. I commend you for going forward. Tomorrow still brings possibilities. I am wishing and praying they emerge for you and Jenny.
grandpa
10/24/2016 02:42:40 pm
Sam: you don't give up amidst your fears. I commend you for going forward. Tomorrow still brings possibilities. I am wishing and praying they emerge for you and Jenny.
grandpa
10/24/2016 02:42:54 pm
Sam: you don't give up amidst your fears. I commend you for going forward. Tomorrow still brings possibilities. I am wishing and praying they emerge for you and Jenny.
Amy Harriman
10/25/2016 06:39:31 pm
Thinking of you guys. Sending all the love from Madison. ❤️ Comments are closed.
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