These Days Arrive Quietly
A lesson my mother taught me many years ago comes in handy. Over and over.
Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up and an immense sadness washed over me. I missed our girls. I was tired of the fear of contracting coronavirus and the lockdown. The return of my cancer weighed heavily on me, so heavily that I didn’t think I could get out of bed. The comforter felt like it was made of lead.
It had rained hard during the night. I crawled out of bed, pulled up the window cover and looked out above the rooftops to the mountains. The peaks were shrouded in heavy clouds. I probably wouldn’t even be able to ride my bike. Not that I had the energy for it, anyway.
Carol was already on a phone call downstairs, working away. It is not lost on me that my early retirement and this lifestyle we enjoy in Santa Barbara comes in part because of her desire to continue working. I’m a kept man, and I am greatly appreciative. She carries on without complaint. Like any job, she enjoys her work — most of the time. But I also know she dreams about putting it behind her at some point, driven in part by my prognosis.
I don’t have many sad days, really. I don’t like them. They seem like such a waste of time when time is at a premium. But they come, nonetheless.
My therapist, a wise man from Northwestern who specializes in counseling people with cancer, reminded me shortly before we left for Santa Barbara in late January that these days will come. That I should not fight them or feel guilty for having them. That grieving is part of the process.
I understand. But I also know that I have to push through them. I cannot wallow in them. I am fearful of falling into an abyss. I am aware and alert. Keep moving forward.
I am often reminded of a time when I had a break-up with a girlfriend — I think it was high school, but it may have been early college. I had been sulking in my bedroom for three days, wallowing in self pity, when my mom came in and said, “That’s enough now! There are a lot more girls in the world. Knock off the nonsense and get out of the house.”
I thought of that conversation as I made my daily ration of steel cut oats and took my pills. The rain had stopped. The clouds remained, but the streets were drying. It was not a day for riding in the mountains, but riding along the ocean flats brought its own pleasures.
“Get out of the house.”
I went back up to the bedroom and put on my cycling gear. The comfortable bed called to me in a low whisper, “You don’t need to ride today. Come back. Rest. Nap. Sleep.”
“Shut up, bed,” I said to myself as I slathered on the sunscreen even though it was cloudy. An Irishman can never be too careful with the sun.
Carol was on a call at her desk as I loaded my water bottles into their cages. I signaled goodbye and rolled the bike out of our place, through the electric gate off the alley and rode out into the street, heading toward the ocean route.
Up over the hill near Butterfly Beach, down the road toward Summerland, across the 101 onto Padaro Lane, home to the stars (even though I’ve never seen any), and through Carpinteria.
I was soon on the bike path that parallels the 101 and skirts the ocean. A pod of dolphins frolicked together near kelp beds, mocking us and our social distancing. Or so I imagined.
A calmness came over me. I pushed the bike hard in a low crouch in the drops of my handlebars, trying to maintain 21 mph. Pushing. Pushing. I felt better.
When I reached the end of the oceanfront trail at Pier Shoals Public Beach, 18 miles from home, I stopped and sat on the wall and looked out across the water at the Channel Islands. I could see it was pouring rain out there. The islands have their own micro-climate.
I sat on the wall for 10 minutes, relaxing, taking in the beauty. The weight on me had lifted. I got back on my bike and headed home. I rode up Bates Road at Rincon Point, a beautiful little climb up to Highway 150 that affords some spectacular views, especially on a day with dramatic clouds over the mountains.
Things could be worse, I thought. I felt lucky to be here. Lucky to be alive.
