Kahuna Signs

Today marks the one week anniversary of the day I was not prepared for. That Day. Last words. Last hug. Last day of my Kahuna filled life. I still sleep on “my side” of the bed, and find myself referring to future plans as, “We want to…” It was the George and Paula Show for so long, and separating myself from that beautiful companionship is going to take time. Writing is helping me heal, and I thank those reading this for indulging my oversharing.

When does it feel real? I know he’s gone. There will be no return to his side of the bed. No more stories my Kahuna famously told – and retold - with such enthusiasm. For now I feel as if I’m going through the motions of daily life, and not truly feeling his absence. Tears flow freely - and often - as if I'm part of a sappy Hallmark movie. Yet this isn't fiction and my reality hasn't quite gotten the memo.

I’ve got a village doing everything possible to help make the transition more bearable. And I have learned just how much George was directing key players from the sidelines these past four months, assuring his inevitable departure (CANCER SUCKS) would be as painless as possible for me, his LPM, Lovely Paula Marie.

This week with the help of our best friend, we sat at George’s desk preparing his case files for colleagues who have so openly and willingly stepped up to keep his clients represented. Making calls. Breaking the news to those who felt so secure in his capable professional hands. Discussing his clients with his sister/brotherhood of attorney friends, and crying at some point in every conversation. His absence from all of our lives is very real, yet I can’t say the reality – the finality – has sunk in. Is that a sign that he’s still “with” me?

Signs Oh how I want to know that, absent of his cancer ravaged body, my Kahuna is watching over me. Over us. For those who process the afterlife differently, I honor and accept your version. For me, I have taken great comfort when my dearly departed have “visited” me in dreams, appeared in nature, or somehow let me know they are with me. My sister is with me with every monarch butterfly. Another beautiful soul drops by as a dove occasionally. George seems to be dropping by too, visiting family and friends, and likely leaving hints that they are all now responsible for the care and feeding of his LPM…

The Wake Up Call  George’s heart stopped less than a minute after Son arrived in the ICU, completing our family circle who lovingly and tearfully surrounded him. Our extended family had all gone to bed praying for George, and expecting an update in the morning. That update would shatter everyone’s hopes. As word spread to our closest family and the Pilgrimage to Paula began, so did the tales of the signs. Niece, suddenly awakened from a sound sleep at the exact time her favorite uncle was in that tearful hug with Son – the moment I believe George waited for - before letting go of his failing body. Uncle George stopped by to see his beautiful “little girl” and let her know he would always be a second father as well as a dear friend. In the days after, others shared stories of unusual awakenings that coincided with my Kahuna’s first, then second heart stopping moments. Signs.

The Whale  The morning after his passing, Daughter and Son-in-law drove to the Pacific Coast Highway for some coffee, tears and reflection. You may know the spot – famous in many SoCal car commercials for its rugged cliffs and landmark rock protuberance. The Kahuna and I spent our fair share of moments in that exact spot, taking in the endless view and salt spray of crashing waves. Suddenly Daughter noticed, not far offshore, the distinct undulation of a whale as it slowly traveled along the coastline. In all of her visits to that spot she had never spotted a whale. Neither had I. She immediately texted me. A few days later, Niece checked in while on her long planned birthday trip along California’s Central Coast and shared her first-ever sighting of…you guessed it…a whale! My Big Kahuna Whale was with them. Signs.

Man’s Best Friend George is a pushover for the Golden Retrievers who have been the third Musketeer in the George and Paula Show. Charlie has assumed that role since we rescued him in 2015, and was probably the dog most bonded to his dad. After George’s diagnosis, Charlie stayed closer to his master – alongside his chair or curled up in George’s office while he met with clients. Charlie prefers sleeping downstairs in his “spot”, and rarely sauntered up the stairs – unless he sensed George was putting on his walking shoes for their daily stroll - and bounded up for confirmation. They were inseparable. Yet dogs live in the moment, so George’s absence doesn’t play out with human emotion. Charlie’s still waiting for Dad to come through the door, yet is his happy-go-lucky Golden self in the meantime. But he’s here for me. Nuzzled into my lap when I had my first meltdown. And this morning – only my second overnight alone since That Day – I found Charlie at the foot of George’s side of the bed. As I lay in bed on my self-proclaimed day of solitude, he has stayed upstairs with me. George’s best friend is now my Hairy Kahuna, making sure I am safe. A sign.

The Rings  George had two wedding rings. The band I placed on his finger in 1974, and a second, slightly more blingy ring – my gift to him for our 40th anniversary, and a mate to the ring he gave me. His wedding band was all but fused to his ring finger, thanks to the extra pounds 44 years of marriage had bestowed on him. I did not expect it to leave his finger That Day, but his kind and compassionate ICU nurse had other plans. Using ultrasound lubricant gel, she oh-so-gently massaged his finger to work the ring from his lifeless hand and tenderly handed it to me. It was the last gift from George to me, and both rings now hang from a chain around my neck. They rest close to my heart – in my cleavage – my Kahuna is loving this placement!

Sweet grandbaby Kelly, at nine months, will sadly have no memories of her grandpa, other than the stories and photos we will share to keep him in her heart forever. One of George’s only regrets when he became sick was not having more time with his three grandchildren. He had hoped for fishing trips, more Disneyland adventures, and more time to create memories. Shortly after That Day, Daughter’s family decided to take their planned overnight trek to the happiest place on earth, and I opted to join them. It was our happy place too, and a good diversion for the day. I made it my role to stroll Kelly while Max, Daughter and SIL enjoyed the rides. She was my perfect companion – she let me cry as I recalled the memories with George here, and she didn’t question if I was “alright”. We took Kelly on one infant-friendly attraction – a little train ride. As I sat alongside Kelly in her daddy’s lap, she reached for the rings and held them the entire time. Holding Grandpa’s hand on her first ever ride at his favorite place to be a kid at heart. She has continued to clutch the rings at every opportunity since then. Grandpa is keeping close. A sign.

In Dreams  I have heard from friends and family that George has “visited” them. A presence. A feeling. A dream. I experienced those encounters when my mother and sister died, and had a beautiful moment with one of our Goldens – Bear – after we lost him suddenly. George’s dad came to him shortly after his death, and he found great comfort and wonder in the experience. I wanted more time with my Kahuna and was slightly envious hearing he had popped in on others and not me – yet!

I had my moment – the first of many I hope – two nights ago. We didn’t talk, but we hugged. I could feel him. There was less girth to wrap my arms around, which I attributed to the massive tumor being gone. He hugged back. We kissed. It was still wonderful. I awakened suddenly and he was gone. I willed myself back to sleep in hopes he would still be there. He wasn’t. I’m hoping he will return for a conversation one day. I have more to tell him. I want him to know I’m sorry for those last excruciating hours.

On this self-imposed day alone, I am going to look at photos, listen to music, hug Charlie and take a long walk. I’ll be looking for signs. I know my Kahuna is sending them.

Alone

Day 3 of #kahunagone is almost in the books. I’m cozied up with Daughter, Son-in-law and the kids in the hotel across the street from Disneyland. Tomorrow I will suspend reality and enjoy the sweet smell of innocence and joy with my grands. I’m glad today is over...

I was alone for the first time today. ALONE. Daughter had spent the night as my protector and designated shoulder to cry on. We shared stories of her dad/my Kahuna. Laughed. Cried. Planned for the new normal. Hugged and went to bed.

I had assured everyone who had been super-glued to my side since Thursday I was fine. And I thought I was - until Daughter left this morning. Within minutes I felt the emptiness of a house absent of my lifelong roommate.

“Just keep swimming,” I thought. I swam - into a riptide of reminders. His keys in their familiar spot. His clothes in the laundry basket. His name on a get well card received too late.

Then it hit. My mind flashed to the ICU and the terror in his eyes after being intubated. It is burned in my memory and it haunts me. I thought he would get better. I said yes to the procedure yet it didn’t matter. I felt such guilt, and for the first time in this terrible journey I wailed with unbridled grief. I was alone and I let go. Screamed into his sweatshirt I wore to keep him close. Shook uncontrollably and told George how sorry I was to have put him through such a horrific procedure. I asked him to send me a sign to say he forgave me.

My meltdown confused Charlie, and he did what Goldens do - sidled up to my limp body, nuzzled his way into my arms and buried his head in my lap. I took his big blond head into my hands and found comfort in his soft furry love. I was physically drained and emotionally spent, and realized the new normal would not always be pretty.

Another first? A trip to Trader Joe’s - to shop for one. An encounter with a sweet friend who had not heard The News. Finding the right words to answer the question,”How’s George doing?” Crying in the produce aisle and comforting him upon hearing my reply.

At one point in the day, my bed sounded like the perfect spot to wallow in self pity. Forget Disneyland. Postpone the visit to check out a venue large enough to accommodate George’s “Party”. But I persisted! Channeled my inner Kahuna - and a dear friend Bridget - and pulled on my big girl pants. Showered and dressed and packed my bag for my day in Fantasyland. Mission accomplished!

There will continue to be more of these moments that give me pause, and I suspect each one will help cover the open wound on my heart. For now I consider making it through today a win.

Tonight, as the muffled booms of Disneyland’s fireworks fill the night air, I am wishing upon a star, asking for my for Big Kahuna’s forgiveness and looking for signs that he is alright. Perhaps tonight’s sunset was an answer!

Sweet granddaughter held his rings on her first ever Disneyland ride. A sign.

Goodnight Moon. Goodnight my love. 💙

Kahuna Gone

I survived Day 2 of my Kahuna-less life. My loved ones are ferociously protective of me and have taken George’s place in making sure I am safe. He has to be so grateful to them for assuming that role. So am I. And yet my heart aches that his place had to be taken.

Family and friends filled the house as we shared tears and laughter (and by evening, wine) remembering George! In the morning we visited the mortuary to handle final arrangements, and made stops to visit and leave flowers for my sister Janet and George’s mom Bette. The night ended in true Cass de Hultman fashion, with a few of us sitting around the fire pit telling more stories about a man who had such an impact on so many people. In bed, I clutched his pillow again and held the one piece of clothing that still carries the scent of my beautiful man. This big bed feels so empty. My Kahuna was a key player in all but the first 17 years of my life. How I will carry-on without him is the question I can’t yet answer.

“Hey, Paula! Your husband just died. What are you going to do next?” I’m going to Disneyland! Yes. It’s true. Alison and her family had made the plans several weeks ago before our world took this sad and unexpected turn. Thankfully, they made the decision not to cancel their trip. As we talked yesterday about the days ahead I thought to myself, “I should go too.” It was a place where George and I happily became kids again. Being with the grands would be a beautiful diversion from reality for a day. I could be the saddest person on earth at the happiest place on earth! So this afternoon after we visit a few places in mind for George’s memorial, I’m taking my seat between sweet Max and Kelly to lose myself in Disney imagined make believe - definitely a George-approved diversion.

The extraordinary outpouring of tributes and shared memories have been so appreciated. PLEASE KEEP THEM COMING! They bring back a flood of beautiful memories and provide tremendous comfort. I am saving each and every post, message and comment, and plan on creating a collection of George Moments in which to immerse myself whenever I need to feel his presence.

I am deeply grateful and profoundly overwhelmed by the love and kindness you have shown me along this journey. The flowers, cards, gifts, food, messages, visits and hugs - both virtual and physical - have helped me cope with the grief that consumes me. It’s impossible to express the depth of my appreciation. I am...speechless. ❤️

I Wasn’t Ready To Say Goodbye

My Hubby, my Big Kahuna, George left us at 2:03am, April 19. His heart was not strong enough to fight the infection caused by his cancer and chemo weakened immune system. Scott Allison and I were with him to say goodbye. Then I came home and wrote...

We had a great life together. From the day we officially met 50 years ago, we were friends at first sight. July 6 would have marked our 44th anniversary. I will celebrate that date forever.

I’m awake at 4:15 in the morning imagining you downstairs, watching old TV reruns from your chair. I hear your voice. I see your big broad shoulders. your duck footed walk -just like your dad. My head is on the pillow you insisted we bring to the hospital. Where I said goodbye. Where they gently removed and handed me your rings - even the wedding band that hadn’t been off your finger since the 90’s. It’s now around my neck on the chain and locket you gave me for my birthday a few weeks ago. I’m clutching them and imagining they’re still on your big strong hands.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye so soon my love. It’s not the happy ending we had assumed was in our future. But I know I made the decision you would have wanted.

You were so so so loved! You cried often these past few months, seeing the outpouring of support, and realizing for the first time how many people cared deeply about you. You told me more than once the biggest compliment anybody could pay you was to say you were honest, generous and fair. You were all that and so much more.

I’m so sad. I’m afraid. Already missing you so much that it’s hard to breathe. I know your biggest concern when you found out you were sick was how hard it was going to be on the kids and me Once again you only thought about others.

Georgie I love you. I will always love you. We had such a beautiful and wonderful life together. Scott, Alison the grandkids and I will stay strong - #kahunastrong - because that’s what you would want us to do. We will also laugh loudly, dance happily, give freely -and forever bleed Dodger blue! They won last night. For you!!!

Until we meet again. Please come visit me in my dreams as often as you can.

I am forever your Lovely Paula Marie.

I Didn’t Cry Tomorrow

Warning:  You are about to enter Paula’s Pity Party, fueled by a couple of stiff drinks. Buckle up and proceed at your own risk!

I start every day with the best of intentions. I can do this. I am strong. I choose hope. I have so much to be grateful for. Then reality rears its ugly head. I’ll be strong...tomorrow.

Only You

Yesterday marked month three of the nightmare that is a cancer diagnosis. We were crushed to learn Hubby’s first chemo regimen did not slow the growth of the tumor in his bile ducts, as I shared in my last post. The new chemo drugs added a level of side effects making day to day life even more challenging. My OCD – Obsessive Cleaning Disorder – may be a factor in the discomfort I am feeling over the hair loss that Hubby is now experiencing! His muted taste buds, mouth sores, loss of appetite, weight loss and extreme fatigue are the larger issues, but Hubby’s shedding has surpassed our goofy Golden Retriever Charlie in fueling my compulsive vacuuming!

The physical effects and visual reminders of chemo have made it much more difficult for me to envelop myself in a cloak of positivity. Hubby doesn’t dwell on it as I do. He’s still working. His clients are aware of his health “issues” on a need-to-know basis. He helps people. Solves problems. Gets clients through their personal crises. He has power in his work life that is nonexistent in his cancer battle. I see his strength when he’s working and feel the sadness seeing the same man – smaller, weaker, vulnerable – asleep in his favorite chair for a mid-day respite. I love him. I admire him. I secretly cry seeing him change before my eyes. As much as I would love for him to close his practice, I completely understand why he hasn’t. And I admire him for his selflessness. My Big Kahuna has no time or interest in pity parties. But me? Not so much…

“Are you taking care of yourself?” My welfare became the secondary focus of several friends at Hubby’s birthday celebration last month. I assured them I was, and turned the focus back on Hubby. At this point in our journey I am preoccupied with his well-being, and that’s exactly where I want to be. But the toll is starting to show. A few extra pounds courtesy of stress eating. Fewer steps on my FitBit, as Charlie can begrudgingly confirm. I’ve put off appointments with a new yoga class, and have a growing stack of unread books. Taking care of me? How can I think of anything but Hubby – and an occasional date with this blog.

Life is now driven by an evil intruder. I sleep with one eye open. In bed I touch Hubby’s hand to gauge his temperature. Our intimacy is a beautiful memory – cancer and chemo have stolen my amorous lover. His breath next to mine is no longer an annoyance, but a precious affirmation of his presence.  Last night as I lay next to him, I focused on the man with whom I have shared a bed for almost 44 years. How many more nights will he be here? I cried quietly, wishing I could turn back time to when we spoke of growing old together.

This week our personal battle was overshadowed by the death of a beautiful young woman. She was Daughter’s lifelong friend. A loving wife, and dedicated mother to two young children. Her nine month battle with colon and liver cancer was – until her final week – one of courage, determination and hope. Yet cancer won. We are heartbroken, and I can’t shake the sense of foreboding it represents for Hubby’s journey. I shed more tears, and felt guilty at the same time. Hubby and I have been married more years than our sweet friend had lived. In typical Pitiful Paula fashion, I shamed myself for overlaying Hubby’s future on her heartbreaking loss. She never gave up hope. I shouldn’t either. Why is it so hard to stay positive?

We have lived in the “for better” bubble for longer than most couples could imagine, and now that “or worse” has been thrust upon us, I’m all in as Hubby's alpha-wife - until I’m not. Last week was one of those “not” moments. Without warning, I was struck with a rare, uncontrollable moment of tearful sadness in Hubby’s presence. It caught him - and me - by surprise. As much as I tried, I couldn’t spare him from my meltdown. As always he knew just what to say. Dropping everything at his desk, he asked, “Do you want to sit on my lap and cry together?” In that moment, I became five year old Paula. All I could do was nod as I headed for the safety and security of his outstretched arms, and sobbed uncontrollably for the first time since The News. I said everything I had been feeling the past three months. “I hate this. I am not ready to lose you. I don’t know what I am going to do without you. I’m scared.” The flood gates had opened and he did what he has done forever. He told me everything would be okay. And although I knew it wouldn’t, I felt better hearing him say the words.

Before The News, I was a naive onlooker to other people’s cancer journeys. Sympathetic? Absolutely. Empathetic? I realize now how much I didn’t understand about what others were going through. Now I think I do. It’s a life lesson that, frankly, I would have been more than happy to have skipped. But as every caregiver knows, I wasn’t given a choice. I am actively seeking a support group to help me deal with the range of emotions that fill my head and heart. I’ll keep wearing the cloak of positivity - and hope tomorrow will be a better day. 

Happy Hubby living the dream. Dodgers Spring Training 2018

My Big Kahuna. Senior year, 1968

50 years ago. Friends first. Lovers later. 

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!