Music Monday | Grateful – Rita Ora

Anniversary season is hitting differently than I expected–in a good way. Yes, it is overwhelming to be revisiting all the dates of medical procedures and big information, but overwhelming gratitude has been the predominant feeling.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day I took G back to hospital to begin the staging scans and assessments prior to treatment. By now, he’d had multiple CT and PET scans, an MRI, and a brain biopsy–which is as risky as it sounds. He had been diagnosed with primary CNS lymphoma, all within ten days of me taking him to the hospital, but it was this week coming that they performed further scans–lumbar punctures, ultrasounds, ocular exams and more PET scans–to confirm with certainty that the cancer was only in his brain and not anywhere else in his body (which would have made it secondary CNS lymphoma).

We are four days out from the anniversary of the commencement of his treatment, fifteen days away from the anniversary of him being placed into a coma, and sixteen days from the night they called me to say his organs were failing.

And yet, here we are. One year later. He is outside, pacing, as he speaks to someone from work on the phone. This is typical; he always preferred to stand and move when having conversations in the before times, and nothing has changed. He is working. Not a lot, just a few hours per week, but working nonetheless. This time last year, we assumed treatment would be a linear process. He would go to hospital, have chemo, it would work (or it wouldn’t) and he’d come home. We did not expect nor account for any of the complications he experienced. By the middle of September last year, we weren’t sure he’d ever work–or walk–again.

And yet, here we are. Grateful is an understatement.

Music Monday | It’s OK – Nightbirde

If you haven’t seen Nightbirde’s golden buzzer performance of this song on America’s Got Talent, are you even on social media??

A couple of weeks ago (yes, it’s taken me this long to make time to post) I overheard G listening to something on his phone in another room. I wasn’t able to make out the words, just a soft melodic voice floating into the kitchen from the lounge room, and as I walked in to where he was sitting to find out who it was, all I could hear was “it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok if you’re lost, we’re all a little lost and it’s alright…”

Later that night, I googled it for myself and sat in bed listening to the voice of someone still battling cancer telling me that it was alright.

When G was first diagnosed with a rare and aggressive lymphoma last year, I spent hours telling other people that bad things happen to good people and that there is no rhyme or reason as to why some people develop cancer; one in two men will develop some type of cancer in their lifetime, as will one in three women. All the while, I was running through a list in my head of all the possible ways I was responsible for his cancer–everything from physical (I must have weakened his immune system by giving him HIV even though I don’t have HIV), to spiritual (God is punishing me for not believing in God anymore), to psychological (if I don’t perform certain rituals and compulsions then bad things happen to people I care about).

Being responsible for it meant that it was possible that I could resolve it, fix it–maybe–or at the very least, I was to blame–and that life wasn’t as uncertain as it felt when the outcome of this disease was entirely out of my hands. It’s not that I’m a doctor. I just feel like I should be able to fix everything for those I love. Because although G was the one with cancer, he wasn’t the only one impacted.

In Nightbirde’s AGT introduction, when she explains she still has cancer in her lungs, liver and spine, one of the judges says “oh, so you’re not ok?” and she replies “not in every way, no.” And then she says the thing I’ve spent the last year trying to teach and learn at the same time…

“It’s important that everyone knows I’m so much more than the bad things that happen to me.”

Music Monday | To Build A Home – The Cinematic Orchestra (ft. Patrick Watson)

We are home.

After seven seemingly endless months, we are finally home.

Together.

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don’t feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home

‘Cause, I built a home
For you
For me

Until it disappeared
From me
From you

And now, it’s time to leave and turn to dust

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree as old as me
Branches were sewn by the colour of green
Ground had arose and passed it’s knees

By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top
I climbed the tree to see the world
When the gusts came around to blow me down
I held on as tightly as you held onto me
I held on as tightly as you held onto me

And, I built a home
For you
For me

Songwriters: Jason Angus Stoddart Swinscoe / Patrick Watson / Philip Jonathan France / Stella Page
 
To Build a Home lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Intrigue Music, LLC

Music Monday | The Final Countdown – Europe

We’re leavin’ together
But still it’s farewell

Tomorrow, it will be six months since I took G to the hospital for strange stroke-like symptoms. We didn’t know, that night, that it would be months before he’d leave a hospital again. We didn’t know that we’d have to relocate our lives, in the middle of a pandemic, to the covid capital of Australia for his cancer treatment. We didn’t know it would be more than half the year–in fact, into a whole new year–before we’d be back to our home.

And maybe we’ll come back
To Earth, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame

And, while we are on the final countdown to going back later this week or next week, we are are still another six months from the end of rehab. Tomorrow, he has a total hip replacement; osteonecrosis, cartilage destruction, and collapse of the femoral head the result of a joint infection after his second round of chemo. And then, the real work begins.

We’re leaving ground (leaving ground)
Will things ever be the same again?
It’s the final countdown
The final countdown