Autumn (Parts One and Two)

Part One, Saturday Oct 7th.
Well it is definitely autumn; the temperature has dropped, the hours of darkness creep up by the day, by the night, there's the comforting smell of woodsmoke in the air, the view from our windows is no longer every shade of green imaginable but is gradually getting a watercolour wash of brown, gold and orange. Everywhere we walk is on a carpet of sodden dead leaves, the crunch that came last week now robbed by the rain. Larch needles fall gently like the smallest of golden snowflakes taking their time to meander down to earth while the sycamore dive-bombs us with its big heavy curled brown leaves plummeting to the ground as if thrown off by the branches in a temper and in a hurry to make landfall.

It's a melancholy time as we turn our backs on summer and face the prospect of a long winter, dark nights, bare branches, rain, rain and more rain on the moor, wet jackets, wet dogs, wet boots and blustery days. Everything slows down, we reflect, turn inwards towards the fire and the comfort of a warm home, we're all a bit less active and a bit more restful. We don't quite hibernate but certainly make small changes as if we were settling into our dens for the next few months. Today we put away our summer clothes and got out our warm sweaters and thick socks from their summer hibernation.

Today the cloud is low, the rain incessant, the view hidden in the mist and Nick and I are certainly feeling melancholy. It is hard to turn our backs on cancer and face the next supposedly restful, calm phase of this process. We know that all we have to do is focus on healing, recovering from the ravages of that final brutal chemotherapy and the immense physical strain of the stem cell transplant, now a month behind us. We need to slow down, rest, reflect, take stock, eat heartily, pull down the blinds and build up strength ready for spring. Nick is doing her best to do all these things; she is managing to eat a lot more now and has put on about 5lbs in weight as her appetite slowly improves and food starts to taste a bit more normal little by little. With this comes a bit more energy in between the status quo of lying down feeling exhausted.

Its suddenly all gone quiet; no more treatment, no more scans so here we are working on the assumption that Nick's lymphoma has run its course, had its lifespan of activity and growth and is now gone, fallen to the ground like an autumn leaf to rot away never to be seen again. But we are struggling in its dark shadow, wondering whether it will sprout again like a new shoot in spring. This thought weighs heavy and threatening as a storm cloud and yet we know there is no point in thinking about it, no point at all, it doesn't help. Easier said than done. As the physical battle becomes less prevalent so the emotional one rears its ugly head. Everything was leading to this point and now it's here we realise we were woefully unprepared for it. The medical team have been brilliant throughout the last ten months always telling us exactly what would happen next, what the treatment would entail, how the side effects might manifest themselves and what we were aiming for but no one talks about this bit, when the nights draw in and you feel cold and tired and tearful, untethered and adrift.

There's a comforting plume of woodsmoke rising gently from Nick's cabin where she is cosy (it's like a sauna in there!!) reading books about the wilderness of Minnesota and surrounding herself with treasured stones, pieces of driftwood and gorgeous kindly knitted blankets. She's hibernating there wrapped in its wooden walls looking out on the changing tree tops and the waning moon reflecting on what's passed and wondering what's to come. I walk the dogs, kicking through the leaves, catching leaves whenever I can and making wishes. I started with big wishes but I have now moved on to smaller, more tangible hopes, taking one day at a time which feels a bit more manageable. I make sure she eats almost constantly like a bear laying down its winter fat reserves, I bake cakes, mix smoothies with the prescribed build-up powder in an attempt to make it palatable and put butter on everything! 

Part Two, Sunday Oct 8th
A different day, a different perspective. Today felt like summer, clear blue sky, warm sun, no breeze and beautiful views reaching miles across the moor. Having put away all my shorts just yesterday I had to dig a pair out when I got hot working in the garden! Why do the seasons mess with us like that? Actually I love that messiness, it feels wonderful to eat breakfast outside after a morning walk, to spend the whole day outside with the sun on your skin, clinging on to that welcome warmth just when you thought it was gone for the foreseeable future.

 And with a change in the weather so too a change in our moods. Nick was blessed with energy today and even cooked for the first time in weeks! Friends called in with beautiful plants for our garden and took Olive off for a walk with them. I felt so much lighter than yesterday, unburdened, in the moment, enjoying the now and not giving much thought to the what if. Nick's friend Tosh made a last minute plan to come and visit for a couple of days and will arrive any minute now to eat the curry the Nick made, I had a long lovely chat with my nephew Dan, a productive busy day and all feels good. Why do our emotions mess with us like that? I think this is the hardest thing actually, the rollercoaster (if I can be forgiven for that cliche) that we are still riding even after all this time, the unpredictable ups and downs that can drive you crazy, making it almost impossible to sleep peacefully through the night (let alone hibernate!) and making you feel like maybe your life will never be normal again. But what would life be without ups and downs eh?

When Di and me ran The Great North Run last months we had tags on our trainers (made by the amazing Nicky Lopez at Run Bling, herself a cancer survivor) that said 'Let your downhills carry you uphill' and I guess that goes for life as well as running. Next Sunday Di and I will do The Great West Run in Exeter which has more hills than the GNR but hopefully no one will collapse and require us to resuscitate them this time (that story didn't get into my blog about the run did it?!) so it should be a wonderful run and I'm looking forward to my second half-marathon. If you haven't donated to our fundraising page yet you still can, maybe this second run will spur you on!

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/run-or-die