I'll take you there

It was just about two years ago that we saw Mavis Staples perform at Jazz Alley. When we boarded the bus to go downtown, Sandy was complaining about watery eyes, feeling a little feverish, but she wanted to continue. We met some of Sandy's friends from work before the show, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing Mavis, an incredible performer. We walked back to Pike to catch our bus late at night, with the city feeling peaceful and the sky clear. Memory is quite remarkable: I was walking the same route the other day, and suddenly my body memory transformed my surroundings. It was no longer midday, nor raining. I was with Sandy late at night; we were on a high after an inspiring performance.

The day after we saw Mavis, Sandy and I biked to Issaquah and explored a trail that parallels I-90. We were hoping for a good alternative to the highway shoulder, but the trail turned out to be rough gravel. Sandy had a great time riding it with her mountain bike tires. I had less fun. We finally figured out why I'd felt so out of control when we were on a smoother surface and I was still feeling a kerchunk every time the tire spun round. It was completely flat.

I so rarely have flat tires that I've long since stopped carrying tubes routinely. We had our bus passes, so we figured we'd just take a bus home. But it was Sunday, and the buses from Issaquah to Seattle were neither frequent nor direct. Literally hours later, we were finally in the U District, shivering, waiting for the 43 that took us home. In retrospect, we realized we should have just locked up our bikes, called a cab, and come back for the bikes with our car. But that's the kind of thing you realize only after you've trashed your immune system.

That day wrecked us. We both succombed to whatever illness Sandy had been starting to feel Saturday night, and we each had a hard time shaking it. It dragged on for weeks. We had to abandon plans for other rides for most of the month, but we continued to think we'd make it over the mountains to Moses Lake Memorial Day weekend.

I want her to feel good and energetic, and to be surrounded
by beauty wherever she goes.

That spring was stressful for many reasons, but among them were Sandy's frustration with work and her frequent exhaustion. When we got the metastatic cancer diagnosis in May, I realized those two had been connected. She'd been working longer and longer hours, as she fell further and further behind. Meanwhile, in the notes I kept of our days, I mentioned repeatedly that she was having trouble catching her breath, napping on weekends, feeling weak when she worked out at the gym. She thought she was just out of shape, so her fatigue became one more thing to beat herself up about, adding to her stress. Having a diagnosis and quitting her job were a relief in some ways, even though the treatment that followed was incredibly difficult at first.

Cancer exhausted Sandy (and me) before we knew it had returned, and it exhausted us while we fought it. Its aftermath continues to exhaust me, but I believe Sandy is no longer so tired.

I've been listening to Mavis a lot lately, remembering the night we heard her, feeling the power in her voice.  "I'll take you there" comes up frequently in the inspirational songs Sandy collected in a playlist for my iPad. Every time I hear the song,  I hope once again that Sandy's beyond crying, worry, all forms of oppression, all the burdens that kept her from being her fully realized self. 

I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin'
Ain't nobody worried
Ain't no smiling faces
Lying to the races.
Help me, come on, come on,
Somebody help me now
I'll take you there.