Sandy's vacay

Before we even entered Arches National Park, we took photos
from the parking lot, amazed at the beauty around us.

A year ago today, we arrived in Moab. As we'd driven there from Salt Lake City, the landscape had changed in breathtaking ways. Sandy slept through much of the drive, and it was all I could do to keep from waking her over and over again to gasp with me at the rock walls and natural sculptures we passed.

I think of my moods now as a rollercoaster ride, but they're incredibly stable compared to the experience of that vacation. I went with the flow much more gracefully than I usually do, out of concern for Sandy and my desire for her to have the vacation she'd been dreaming about. But adapting to her shifts in mood and health were exhausting. One moment, she despaired, certain that we should abort the trip—just ship our things, drop off the rental car locally, and fly home. An hour later, reading about the region, she'd lobby me to extend our trip another couple of days so that we could visit the Grand Canyon, more of Colorado, and any number of other places.

Walking that line was hard for me. I wanted to honor her pain and her wishes, but I didn't want to make a major decision based on the way she felt at one particular moment. Sandy had always tended to assume that however she felt in the present was how she had always felt and always would feel. As the cancer crept further into her brain (unbeknownst to us) and her pain grew even less predictable, her perspective narrowed further. It was up to me to try to back up and look at the bigger picture, sort out the deeper goals, and communicate those in a way that led to a mutual decision, as opposed to tears.

Our full day at Arches, on the 17th of May, Sandy felt great.
She wasn't having headaches or hip pain, or that weird
tingling in her legs. The night before, she'd nearly convinced
me that we should head for home first thing in the morning.
I'm so glad we didn't; we both really needed a good day.

For most of our two-week trip, I had few opinions about where we should go and what we should see. Instead, I tried to gain clarity on hers. I'd been looking forward to our vacation, somehow imagining that we'd leave cancer behind and, freed from our daily pressures, be our vital, active selves out in the world. We may have intended to leave cancer at home, but it stowed away, hidden among all the camping gear and the backpacks. Within a couple of days, it had become clear to me that I was not on vacation; I was there to make sure Sandy had the "vacay" she wanted. I'd gone from having my caregiving role integrated into the larger fabric of our lives to having it be my only role. Sandy's pain left her understandably self-absorbed, and I don't think she had any idea how stressful those weeks were for me. I certainly didn't tell her.

Sandy pointed out the formation that looked like Nefertiti,
though our books didn't mention it. Later, we found a
reference to it online and Sandy beamed. Really, it was
irresistible to see people and familiar icons in the rocks.

I did enjoy seeing some beautiful sights, and I loved those moments that Sandy felt clear and witty, experiencing the beauty with the same awe I did. I didn't love the moments that she was in pain, upset, accusing, or frustrated — but a year later, I long to be on that road trip again. I don't want her to be in pain, of course. What I remember most clearly are the moments of grace, the times that she was herself and felt good, that we interacted as equals, that I could believe that we'd move past the pain into a better future together.