If I Had Known

Facebook does a wonderful job with its “On this day” memory joggers posted daily on my feed. Reminders of happy times and the beautiful life I had with my best friend by my side. But since That Day, they recall a time when I lived in blissful ignorance. When a day was just another rotation of the earth, and the expectation of more “On this day’s” was not questioned. Now the memories trigger a new response – what would I have said/done if I had known it would be the last time my Kahuna and I would share that experience?

I thought we had more time. The best the oncologist could offer, with aggressive treatment, was two years. We had Christmas, New Years, Valentine’s Day and both our birthdays to silently contemplate the unspoken question – would they be our last? I could see it in his eyes when those thoughts crossed his mind. And I tried so hard not to let my worst fear override my hope. We bought tickets to The Eagles concert next September. Planned fishing trips in the Sierras this summer. Then complications to chemo took him suddenly, and the unspoken thoughts from which we so carefully protected each other were answered. There would be no new memories to be made. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Looking back now from my new widow’s perch, I ask myself what I would have done differently if I had known the innocent moments and annual milestones in our past year were going to be the last with my Kahuna…

If I had known:

• I wouldn’t have been cranky the day before he died. He was struggling with the newest chemo regimen, and I was concerned. I drove my weak Kahuna to doctor appointments to see if they could adjust medications or prescribe something new to help him. I was worried. Tired. I had become chauffer, caregiver, housekeeper, dietician and office assistant (he was still working, even in his weakened condition). By late afternoon, my fear and fatigue surfaced in a snippy retort to one of his innocent questions. When I snapped, he apologized to me for being so needy, and I felt horrible. If I had known he would be gone in a matter of hours, I would have dropped everything and been less selfish.

• I would have recorded him as he shared “stories.” They were his trademark, and he had a tale to spin on any number of topics and life experiences. If I had heard them once, I had heard them ten thousand times, yet he retold every story with the exuberance and expression as if it had just happened! I had even developed my own sign language when he was losing the attention of his audience – a gentle squeeze of his leg, if it was in range.  Or a simple sweep of my hand across my neck if the leg move wasn’t an option! He knew the gesture was his signal to begin wrapping up the story, which could take another fifteen minutes! If I had known I was hearing his tales for the last time, I would have begged him to continue. Now I find myself looking for old videos that capture some of his funny comments and George-isms.

• I would have paid him more compliments. I was the queen of corrections and learned over the years how my nitpicky attention to detail deflated him. “It’s Alz-heimers, not Alt-heimers.” Why did I let little things like that bother me? I don’t think I told him often enough what an amazing man he was. If I had known, I would have channeled my inner Mr. Rogers and told him every day how much I loved him, “just the way he was.” Because I really did!

• I would not have passed up an opportunity to share a kiss or a hug even in those moments that seemed irrelevant. I would have considered every expression of desire a huge compliment, instead of the occasional annoyance; “Honey, not here. Not now. I’m making dinner.” Oh how I miss his touch now.

• I would have been more patient with his Adult Attention Deficit Disorder idiosyncrasies. Lists are essential to adults with ADD, and my Kahuna made it clear that any honey-do task or shopping trip with more than two items required a written back-up. Shopping lists in particular were interesting. If my list included, “Large can of Hunts kidney beans,” I could expect two of the three to four descriptors to be met – and have the large can of Hunts garbanzo beans in the pantry to prove it! If I had known, I would have thanked him for doing the shopping - and made hummus!

• I would have done fewer eye rolls when he was watching his old “classic” TV shows, and sat down with him - and laughed at the decades old jokes. It was actually this incident that triggered my earlier, snappy moment on his last day home. “Come sit down and watch TV with me.” he said. “I can’t. I still have to finish the laundry, get dinner started and return calls.” It haunts me now. If I had known, I would have sat with him the rest of the night.

Last anniversary. Last trip to Hawaii. Last winery visit. Last lunch date. Last Thanksgiving. Last hug. Last kiss. Last dance. Last. Last. Last. As I look back on the ordinary and extraordinary days we shared, it’s still hard to wrap my head around the finality they all represented as Paula and George. Before That Day, every day was beautiful, even in its uneventfulness. If I had known, I would have soaked in every last detail. His face smiling with his love for the Lovely Paula Marie. His hand holding mine. His laugh. The playful banter with others. Instead, I rely on saved iPhone videos and Facebook memories to keep his voice wrapped around me. I want to hold on to it forever.

Last Father's Day

Last Anniversary

Last Dodgers Game

Last NYC Christmas

I am bracing for the upcoming “firsts” without George. Father’s Day. Our anniversary –it would have been our 44th on July 6. Holidays. Birthdays. The list goes on, and I’m sure each will bring with it the memories of my happy Kahuna and his LPM – along with the tears that dwell behind the façade masking my broken heart. If only I had known.

Cancer, One. Chemo, Zero.

We’ve surpassed the two month mark since Hubby received The News. I shared our reaction in an earlier post. We have now settled into the new normal of appointments, dates with chemo infusion; the sad, occasional sequestration from snotty nosed grandkids; incessant hand sanitizing to ward off the winter cold/flu season; and good week/bad week scheduling of formerly routine activities.

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Last week was a reminder of the insidiousness and cruel uncertainty of a cancer battle. The call we had been anticipating from Hubby’s oncologist came late in the afternoon. After four rounds of chemo infusion, he dropped the bombshell. Hubby’s CT scan had delivered the heartbreaking news that his tumor had not responded to treatment. Talk about a punch to the gut. We had lived in our hope bubble, yet cancer was winning. NOOOOO!! This wasn’t going to be the tear-less day I had promised myself. Instead we shared a long, muted hug. Called the kids. Felt the weight of failure at killing the beast. Paula-anna reminded Hubby there were still options. A different chemo regimen. Possible clinical trials. “They didn’t tell us there’s nothing more they can do.” I tried to find a ray of positivity, but we felt the heaviness of the news – a cruel blow that left us numb once again.

The next morning brought with it grey skies and the first measureable rain in a long dry SoCal winter. As much as staying in bed on a cold cloudy day might have seemed appropriate, Hubby was up and out of the house by six, headed to court and a client whose case trumped his personal battle. I was up too, making calls to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, where Hubby’s doctor hoped he might qualify for a clinical trial for his rare cancer. All the wheels were turning and by afternoon we thought we had a plan. Houston, we have a problem – and hope you have a solution. But wait, there’s more…

USC Norris Cancer Center

Twenty four hours after the bad news had dropped, an unexpected email arrived from Hubby’s oncologist. This time it took us to the top of Mount Hope! There were two new clinical trials for specific treatment of the rare genetic mutation that had likely triggered Hubby’s cancer. And both were just 50 miles away, at USC Norris Cancer Center in Los Angeles, where we had already met with their gastrointestinal oncology team. To quote Hubby’s UCLA oncologist, “This is great news!!!” Hope was alive. Spirits soared. Was this the miracle we had been praying for? We enjoyed a weekend in hope-topia, and awaited our Monday morning appointment at USC.

Today was that day. Hubby’s USC doctor methodically articulated the three options before us. The safest was a second, standard course of chemo that has been successful (for some) in stabilizing his form of cancer, inhibiting its growth. One of the clinical trials he was “invited” to would be a blind study, meaning he would possibly receive a placebo instead of actual treatment. Last was a dosing study of an untested drug, to see how much he could tolerate before side effects became too severe. We were handed two packets of detailed descriptions of both trials and the required consent forms. Our heads were spinning! Finally, we asked the doctor, “If he was your family member, what choice would you want him to make?” Without hesitation, she said the standard chemo course would be her recommendation – for now. So that was it. Hubby’s USC and UCLA doctors are in agreement (cross-town college rivalry aside!) and chemo will resume – with new drugs – tomorrow morning. Fight On! Eight Clap! Clinical trials are still an option if this regimen doesn’t produce results.

As we waited for the car, I hugged Hubby and tried to read his thoughts hidden behind the faraway gaze. “I love you,” I said for the millionth time in two months. His eyes welled up and voice cracked as he echoed his love back to me. “The hardest part about all this”, he said, “is knowing what I am putting you and the kids through.” We held our embrace, oblivious to everyone, digging deep to keep hope alive, and finding strength in our unwavering commitment to each other.  

Hubby and I with Charlie our goofy Golden, choosing HOPE!

Hubby took a fall in Round One, but he’s back on his feet. The battle continues, and my cancer warrior is armed and ready. He is still #kahunastrong.  

I Choose Hope

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It hasn’t happened often, but when it rears its ugly head, it's suffocating. Physically painful. Mentally draining. Paula’s Pity Parties. Those moments when, without warning, all the darkest thoughts – the ‘Why Hubby?” despair - overshadows every waking moment. I find myself going through motions, consumed with a crushing sadness. Moved to tears by a song on my playlist from happier days. Trying to disrupt the dark mood with deep breaths and audible, head shaking sighs.

In the month since Hubby’s terrifying - and dramatic – adverse reaction to chemo, and the subject of my last post I have canceled (almost) all appointments with Pitiful Paula, focusing instead on playdates with Hope and Happiness. It hasn’t always been easy…

March of the Missing Penguin Pin: Previous blogs tell the entire story of this priceless piece of jewelry. The Pin was presented to me by P3 when Hubby was first diagnosed. Since then it has accompanied me to most social functions, and an occasional Target run! When it’s not in its place of honor on my sweater or jacket, it gets tucked into a small box on my bathroom counter.

Yesterday, in a hurry to get out the door to attend a luncheon with my Penguin pals, I opened the box to grab The Pin. It wasn’t there. “I must have left it on my denim jacket” I thought, hurrying to the closet to retrieve it from its perch. No Pin. My heart raced for a few seconds – and I was late for a very important luncheon. I forced myself not to panic, and headed out the door – Pinless. As I drove, I mentally retraced my steps, and remembered one place I hadn’t checked. For a moment I considered a detour to snatch The Pin before meeting the ‘Guins. But time - and California driving laws forbidding U-turns on Highway 101 - dissuaded me. I arrived, unadorned, to welcome hugs from my penguin “huddle”!

I was all smiles as we enjoyed each other’s company over bloody Mary’s and chardonnay, but my worry over The Pin was unshakable. I couldn’t imagine telling my friends I was responsible for losing the most treasured, shared ebony/mother of pearl symbol of our almost 40 years of friendship. I let Pitiful Paula get in my head – she expressed the worst of all possible thoughts. Was The Pin's disappearance an omen for another, more devastating loss? More deep breaths and another audible, head shaking sigh. C’mon Hope. I need you more than ever!

For the next several hours I hunted. Searched every article of clothing, Dug through cupboards, cars and crevices. Calls were made to the restaurant I last remember wearing it. Tears flowed as I confided to Daughter, and later to P3, my negligence in not having replaced The Pin for safe keeping. Hubby did his best to comfort me. Daughter reminded me it’s “just a thing”. The memories are forever, and a new penguin pin could carry on the tradition. P3 philosophically suggested the finder must have needed it more than I. In our hour long phone call, I used the time to re-search my closet and drawers while conversation turned to the more typical subjects – P3’s new home décor, and assorted gal talk. Worry had temporarily been sidelined when, with the sweep of some summer tops hung above a closet shelf, the unmistakable shape appeared. THE PIN! “I FOUND IT!” I screamed into the phone as I clutched it and ran downstairs to Hubby’s open arms. P3 cried happy tears on the other end of our call. My worry and doomsday assumptions had done nothing but muzzle my daily dose of hope and happiness. The happy ending was validation that hope reigns.

I spy with my little eye....

 I Can’t Believe This Happened: I am thrilled to report Hubby’s dialysis is history and the catheter has been surgically removed, leaving just one implant – the infusion port – taking up valuable real estate on his chest. He is showering again, sans the plastic wrapped and waterproof-taped protuberance. And no more kitchen sink shampoo dates with me!

Cath-free Hubby and I headed to Chemo Round 3 this week with the usual trepidation and unavoidable worry about a possible rerun of the post-chemo crisis that had landed him in the hospital four weeks earlier. Doctor A. met with us before the infusion and found Hubby in a sad and somber mood. Moments before, as he awaited the pre-chemo ritual of vitals and bloodwork, Hubby was lost in a pensive moment, his usual humor overtaken with damp eyes and a faraway stare. As I took his hand, he said, “I can’t believe this happened to me. Six months ago I was healthy…(sigh) …oh well.” It was Hubby’s first Pity Party and it broke my heart. When his nurse asked him why he was sad, he replied “I’m not sad. I’m mad.” He had every right to be angry, and I made the decision to forego my usual “Paula-anna” put-on-a-happy-face pep talk. I allowed him to process his mood without intervention. Hand holding was all I could provide as I wiped away my own tears.

Hopeful Hubby

When Dr. A met with us moments later, he reported the pre-chemo bloodwork showed improved liver and kidney function. Every indication pointed to smooth sailing with the dreaded 48 hour infusion pump Hubby would take home, and he insisted I call any hour of the day or night if said “ship” headed off course. My questions about future treatment options were answered with assurances that he would be aggressive in seeking alternatives (hello, clinical trials), if and when current chemo was deemed ineffective. His voice was filled with hope for Hubby. We all knew the harsh reality, but Doctor A. focused on what could be done. Hubby’s demeanor immediately changed. His shoulders carried less weight in those moments, and we shared a hug absent of worry, living in the present with positive thoughts for the future. Score one for hope!

My week of replacing worry with hope taught me valuable lessons for navigating Hubby’s cancer journey. It’s still a work in progress, and I know future bouts of negativity are inevitable. In a perfectly timed prologue to my “I Choose Hope” project, a gloriously happy floral bouquet was delivered – the third of its kind in consecutive weeks – from my pre-retirement work family, accompanied with an inspirational quote.

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of sorrow.

It empties today of its strength.”

I can’t deny worry is present every day. How could it not be? But I’m determined to keep it from consuming me. Hubby is living each day, staying in the moment. His birthday tomorrow will be emotional for everyone. Amid the birthday cheer, I choose to mute the unspeakable thoughts - as I expect will be the case with everyone sharing his special day. I am determined to set my autopilot on Hope and Happiness each and every day - staying #KahunaStrong. Wish me luck!

Chemo 911

January 9. After a second opinion confirmed the only viable treatment option for his rare cancer, Chemo Day 1 arrived – a day we actually celebrated the infusion of copious amounts of poison into Hubby. Armed with the information on side effects. Prepared to deal with them head on. Look out cancer, cells, Hubby was ready to FIGHT!

We had received the tour of the chemo infusion center a day earlier, led by Linda, one of the RN’s specially trained to administer toxic cocktails with kindness and compassion (I think I have coined their slogan!). Our lifelong friend, breast cancer survivor and chemo veteran – and one of my Penguins (P3) – had offered to accompany Hubby to his first session, and he and I both readily accepted. Her familiarity with the process was comforting.

Armed with my lovingly prepared snack bag, his favorite pillow and the already packed bag used for those 3:30 a.m. dates with dialysis, Hubby and P3 headed out the door. I would arrive midway through the four and a half hour session, as we had planned in advance. I used the time to undergo my own version of chemical alteration – a date with my hair stylist for long overdue cut and color!

Hubby’s first session went smoothly. I arrived to find him attached to an IV drip, peacefully binge-watching a Netflix offering, while P3 played Words with Friends alongside him in their “chemo cubicle.” After my debrief on all I had missed – including the fabulous news his PET scan showed no additional cancer other than what we already knew – I settled in for the remainder of the session. Hubby was to go home with a second chemo drug administered over the next 48 hours via an IV pump. As they prepared the VHS tape size (remember those?) pump, and locked and loaded the deadly drugs inside, we received instructions for living with the new appendage over the next two days. Keep it dry. Check. Sleep with the pump under a pillow. Check. Expect the pump to sound an alarm when the drugs are depleted, and return to the office as soon as possible afterward to be extricated from the machine. Got it!

Chemo pump in hand - and in bed, and at the desk and dinner table - Hubby was prepared. We knew the side effects to expect. The first ones to surface were jaw pain and hyper-sensitivity to touching, or being touched, by anything cold. Not horrible, but definitely not comfortable. He worked all day, and gave no indication to the outside world that chemical warfare was underway inside his body.

Twenty six hours after chemo had begun, it hit. 4:00 p.m. to be exact. As Hubby was on the phone getting the great news from his nephrologist that his kidneys were starting to do their work, thus putting a hold on dialysis, he excused himself from the call and urgently made his way to the bathroom. I checked off the nausea and vomiting box of the side-effect playbook. Definitely unpleasant, but anticipated.  Hubby was moving into the worst days following chemo, as the doctor had prepared us. He was in bed by six, and I braced myself for a long, worrisome night. My heart was heavy, witnessing my strong, formerly healthy Hubby in such a vulnerable and foreign (to us) condition. I never expected the worst day of this entire experience was about to unfold…

The nausea was relentless. All night and into the pre-dawn hours, Hubby moved from bed, to bathroom to downstairs. He didn’t speak. Just rocked back and forth, quietly moaning and finding temporary comfort in the gentle massage I offered. Daybreak announced itself with a beautiful pink sunrise, and I suggested he go back upstairs and into bed. As we passed the hallway, he pointed toward his office. “The doctor is his…um…..his…” he uttered, confused and suddenly incoherent. He tried again to force out a sentence, clearly frustrated with himself, and with me for not understanding him. There was no box to check in the playbook for this side effect! I was terrified. I know my man, and something was terribly wrong.

What do I do? WHAT DO I DO??? Call the doctor, pray the early hour call will be quickly relayed to the on-call physician, and calmly describe his condition. Provide details. Take notes. Within two minutes, his doctor was on the line, agreed Hubby was in crisis, and calling 9-1-1 was my only option. I steadied my hands and took deep breaths, as I made my first ever 911 call. I talked slowly, voice cracking from the fear that shuddered within me, as I attempted to convey my emergency. I hung up and realized I was still in my pajamas! I could hear the sirens as I raced upstairs to trade my cozy flannel for clothes approved for public viewing - leggings and an oversize hoodie - and most importantly, a bra!! As the sirens got closer, I ran a brush through my hair and hurried downstairs to await the arrival of the cavalry. Somewhere in all of this, I called P3, my personal 911 emergency contact!

I first heard the unmistakable rumbling of the fire engine as it turned the corner, followed moments later by the ambulance. Keep your wits. Tell them everything. Chemo. Confusion. Nausea. Dialysis. Pump. I provided a timeline and my laundry list of symptoms to a polite young firefighter/paramedic who entered the information into his tablet. Two other paramedics with an arsenal of equipment took Hubby’s vitals and assessed his mental state. Within minutes he was on a stretcher and in the back of the ambulance for his second visit to the emergency room in four weeks. P3’s sister had arrived, and became my designated driver. Hubby was in good hands, and P3 had called her sister, who lived nearby, to assure I was too! Upon arrival at the hospital, the nightmare began…

I was escorted to Hubby in exam room 13 - an omen to the horrors that followed – to find him being attended to by a less than compassionate RN whose nametag was not visible. I could choose a more fitting 5-letter moniker, but I’ll refer to her as NURSE. Hubby was flailing in the bed, uncomfortable, agitated, and unable to communicate a cohesive sentence. I became his spokesperson and advocate, giving NURSE my litany of vital information. Dialysis. First Chemo. First Pump. Recent diagnosis. Cancer newbies. She never made eye contact with me, and faced her computer monitor, presumably entering notes assuring Hubby’s standard of care would be met. The ER doctor arrived, and again I shared my laundry list of what had transpired in the last 12 hours. IV’s were ordered for severe dehydration, and blood test results would eventually reveal hepatic encephalopathy – a buildup of ammonia in his blood that affected his brain. He would have to be readmitted to the hospital for more dialysis to remove the toxins that clouded his brain, and more tests to assess the cause.

In the hours that followed, Hubby was treated by NURSE in the ER as a “nuisance patient” - unable to speak for himself; in pain, and fighting to sit up as P3, her sister and I physically restrained him; tugging at the IV; pleading be allowed to relieve himself; unattended for an hour and a half; not receiving the fluids and medication due to an IV that had malfunctioned. When NURSE finally returned to find us keeping weak and incoherent Hubby upright at the edge of the bed again, she scolded us.  “You should have called me!” she barked. We had been – for the past 90 minutes! It went downhill from there…

I finally lost my s#!t when Hubby’s chemo pump alarm began beeping, signaling the completion of the 48 hour infusion. Upset, confused and scared out of my mind, I looked helplessly at the buttons on the pump. I had not expected to be “here” when this moment came. My playbook had us calling the chemo center and driving there for their staff to handle.  I'm sure I looked like a deer in headlights. When NURSE said, “What do you usually do when the pump alarm rings?” I reached the tipping point. “HE IS NEW TO CHEMO. I HAVE BEEN TELLING YOU THIS ALL DAY. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO.” Crying. Yelling, Being very un-Paula-like. I stormed out of the room and headed to the main hospital entrance to find someone – anyone – and demand help.

I’m sure I looked like an escapee from the psyche unit! Kind volunteers tried to calm me down, but I was in full on, Terms of Endearment mode.

Getting no help, I stormed back to Hubby's ER room 13, ready to throttle NURSE. Thankfully, P3 had stayed with him. Hubby was peaceful, thanks to the resumption of the IV meds which now included the hours-before requested sedative and pain meds.  The chemo pump had been flushed and removed by NURSE while I was away (I was to learn later that day that ER nurses are not authorized to deal with toxic chemo drugs and pumps, and her casual handling of the pump and residual chemo drugs put us all at risk).

Six hours after it had begun, the ER nightmare would come to an end. Hubby was moved to the oncology unit to begin the dialysis that would have him clear-headed by the next morning. I left late that evening, while  Hubby was still struggling to sit up and yanking at his dialysis and IV tubing - and sadly unaware of who I was. Thankfully he was now under the care of a kind and compassionate oncology unit nursing team. I held my breath as I arrived back at the hospital the next morning. Would Hubby be back from the brink? He answered that question immediately with his first words, “Why the hell am I here again?” Oh honey, have I got a story to tell you. He has no memory of his “lost day”, but those 24 hours I will never forget!

While Hubby was having his "out of mind" experience, I was learning something about myself. It brought to life a quote that friends have shared with me since the onset of this cancer journey.

“You are Braver than you believe, Stronger than you seem, Smarter than you think, 

and Loved more than you know.”

Epilogue: Hubby’s second chemo round was thankfully uneventful, and “pump-less”. He will be put to the test next round when they resume the full course of treatment. 

Hubby keeping up with client email, sporting his fashionable chemo port comfort shirt. 

I wrote the hospital with details of our horrific ER experience, and received back-to-back calls from hospital and emergency room directors, offering sincere apologies, assurances that retraining and coaching of staff is underway, and promises that no patients will have to endure the lack of care and compassion Hubby received. To ALL of the amazing, dedicated and caring (as well as overworked and likely underpaid!) friends and family in the noble nursing profession, please know how much I admire and respect all that you do. This was hopefully a one-off, horrible, no good,very bad day - for the nurse as well as us! 

This experience tested me on so many levels and I while I hope never to relive it, I know I can. Braver. Stronger. Smarter. Loved. And I remain #kahunastrong

I'm Sorry

December 22. The date is burned into my memory. We had been bracing for answers to why Hubby’s health had taken such a sudden and catastrophic turn. The explanation for the sudden onset of acute renal failure didn’t fit neatly into any categories. Initial results indicated cancer, but more pathology was required before the specifics could be confirmed. We would have to await results. The wait was agonizing.

Two weeks later we held our collective breath as we sat, for the first time in either of our lives, in an oncologist’s waiting room. A muted big screen monitor screened footage of snow falling among the golden, shimmering aspen leaves in a serene idyllic mountain setting. A stunning arrangement of pine boughs and poinsettia acknowledged the jolly holiday season. A tabletop held neatly displayed brochures on a variety of relevant topics. Cancer support groups. Caregiver resources. A newsletter offered the BOLD Headline: California End of Life Option Act: Hoping for the Best, Planning for the Worst, and Knowing You Options. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Everyone was so positive!! The door to the inner sanctum opened frequently, as cancer patients and caregivers made their way to what, I was to discover later, was the multi-chair chemo center. Smiles abounded. Staff members welcomed patients back, engaging in congenial small talk. A jovial woman navigated her walker to a waiting room chair, smiling broadly under her crocheted cap to cover her hairlessness. “You still have your hair!” she commented to someone she apparently knew from previous chemo sessions. “So far!” he replied, smiling broadly. How could people here be so upbeat? This was an oncologist’s office. Cancer, the most evil, unfair and terrifying demon brought people here, yet they were exchanging smiles, pleasantries and holiday cheer. Christmas was just three days away, and the spirit of positivity abounded in a CANCER office.

Hubby and I were the exception to the light hearted mood. We were moments from the news we had been awaiting. My head was filled with hope - and fear. The “many voices of me” played an endless loop of happy endings, along with terrifying “life without Hubby” nightmares. We thought we were ready to find out….

No one can prepare for the news we received. Hubby’s doctor was gentle but direct. He told us how sorry he was that he didn’t have better news. Outlined detailed treatment options for the rare cancer threatening to steal my lifelong partner from me. Offered details about oncology specialists we should contact for second (and third, and fourth) opinions, and gave us his personal email for questions that may arise over the long holiday weekend. I had stopped trying to take notes, and secretly had my phone voice recorder capturing his words in order to play it back when my heart wasn’t pounding louder than his voice.

Through it all, Hubby listened intently, expressionless. No questions. No overt reaction. He may as well have been listening to a judge pronouncing a verdict after one of his court appearances. His only words to the doctor were, “Man, I’d hate to have your job.” That was it. A few closing comments followed, and the doctor gave Hubby an “I’m sorry” handshake and pat on the back as he exited the room.

We hadn’t uttered a word to each other. An examination table separated our two chairs, making even hand holding impossible as Hubby received the prognosis and time line. We had controlled our emotions in those agonizing minutes. Once the doctor left the room, we stood up, walked to each other and shared an embrace unlike any I could remember. I didn’t know what to say. But he did. Two words defined the man who has put others before himself his entire life. “I’m sorry.” As he received his “sentence”, my protector felt the rush of guilt for spoiling my happily ever after. We hugged as I melted into his still strong embrace. We wallowed in that tragic moment for a mere few seconds, then shook it off and put on our game face. There was no time to waste. Cancer wasn’t taking a break inside my Big Kahuna, and we couldn’t either.

We were unusually quiet as we headed home into the last light of what was a gorgeous SoCal winter sunset. As he drove, Hubby’s first comment was, “You’re going to be fine, I’ve got everything in place for you…” I stopped him mid-sentence. I was not ready. At the same time, I understood my man. Always putting others first. ALWAYS putting my needs first. He was about to begin the toughest battle of his life, yet his first thoughts centered on my future.

We made the decision to invite our son, daughter and their families to come to the house that evening, so we could tell them the news. Christmas was around the corner and our preschool and infant grandchildren were giddy with excitement. The juxtaposition of Hubby’s bombshell and Santa’s pending arrival had to be carefully played. Daughter held her 5 month old daughter, son attended to his 2 year old, happily eating blueberries, and son-in-law kept almost 4 year old son distracted…as their father found the words none of them wanted to hear. Like the doctor, he was brief and direct – and immediately assured them that he was ready to fight the good fight. Everyone guarded their emotions from the littles in the room, who were too young to feel the punch to the gut that followed the announcement. But their faces spoke volumes. Quiet tears mixed with bouncing baby girl and her sweet smile. Blank stares into the unknowns of their father’s future, against the playful banter of cousins happily engaged with treasures in Gigi and Grandpa’s toy closet. As unfortunate as the timing of the news, the joy of children at Christmas would prove to be a much needed diversion...

Christmas Eve was spent quietly, a seismic shift from the typical Hultman Christmas Eve Spectacular of the previous 38 years. Daughter hosted a Christmas Eve Pajama Party for our immediate family – the same party of 8 with whom we shared The News two nights earlier. Hubby continued his traditional reading of The Night Before Christmas to the less-than-attentive toddlers! Son, Daughter and I, on the other hand, didn’t want to miss a word. The significance of this Christmas Eve custom had a new poignancy. I recorded all of it – squirmy, chatty grandkids and all. I pray we will repeat the tradition next year and beyond.

Our quiet, mutually agreed upon giftless Christmas morning started with a kiss. We headed back to Daughter’s home, greeted by oldest Grandson’s announcement that Santa had indeed come, and the inquiry to both Grandpa and me, “Did Santa bring you coal or presents?” I assured him we were on the Nice List which brought him great relief! Daughter, our designated Santa delivered joyfully wrapped presents to their intended recipients.

One – then two – and three packages made their way to me, with the telltale handwriting and tags. “To the Lovely Paula Marie, from The Big Kahuna. To Mrs. H. from Mr. H. To Mom from Charlie (our goofy Golden)”. I could not hold back my tears. We vowed not to exchange presents, yet Hubby had broken the rules. “I’m sorry,” he said. I immediately understood the reason why he had ignored our no gifts pledge. We didn’t have to say it but it was never far from our minds – what will next Christmas hold in store?

In those first few days after the diagnosis, we rode an emotional roller coaster of fear and uncertainty, wistful hope and forced positivity. In the weeks since, we are finding our footing. Hubby feels well enough to continue working, with a few tweaks to his calendar. His kidneys are healing and dialysis may soon be discontinued permanently. His sense of humor is intact - his biggest compliment coming from the staff of his nephrologist's office, "Mr. Hultman, you are my favorite patient!" There have been some terrifying moments too, to be shared in a future post, along with immeasurable gratitude to family and friends for their seemingly limitless support. I don’t think Hubby comprehended how his lifetime of generosity and selflessness touched others. He has been moved to tears more than once – not by the fight he faces – but by the avalanche of kindness, compassion, prayers and support from so many. After one particular act of thoughtfulness, he commented, “People are being so nice,” as his eyes welled up and voice cracked. Wiping away the tears, embarrassed by his tearful moment, he said, “I’m sorry.” Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. You are still the strongest person I know. I promise to stay #kahunastrong