My friends stayed one day longer in Oregon so we could meet for coffee as they were passing through on their way home.
And I stood them up.
I’m going to blame it on my niece who had her baby the day after Thanksgiving. And I’ll probably also blame it on my bro- and sis-in-law who talked me into staying in Boise longer.
But really, it was my own flakiness. And despite this flakiness, my friends left gifts. This Life is Good mug. And two boxes of yummy teas.
It’s normally a five-and-a-half-hour drive across the high desert from Boise to Bend, including a Chai tea stop. Yesterday it took seven hours to get home because of all this beautiful white fluffy stuff that had decorated the landscape. And the mailboxes.
It may not be as safe driving alone across this barren land in winter as it is in the not-winter months (although Daughter Summer is quick to point out it’s not yet winter according to the calendar and they still have autumn color on the east coast). But the adventure is worth it. Always.
When Hubby was diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer—because he was relatively young and in good shape—they gave him two years. So what do you do when you’re told, “Maybe two years of life left”?
The truth is, no one knows how much time he/she has. Cancer or not. So maybe the question ought to be: “Given that none of us are going to live forever, how, then, should we live?”
Photo credit: Pixabay
The company where Hubby was employed as Data Processing Manager was bought by a competitor. He was in his mid-50s. Two years went by before he finally landed a job. But it paid less than half his previous salary and with no benefits.
Meanwhile, we sold our home, cashed out our 401(k), depleted our savings and accrued some debt.
Photo credit: Unsplash
And then the news: “You’ve got cancer. And you’re probably going to die of it.”
This is my favorite time of year. Beginning with the melding of autumn leaves into gold, orange, russet; layered sweaters and scarves against colder temperatures; winter white on the mountains; geese taking off over the river; anticipation of first snow in town.
And in between all this winter beauty — family holidays and welcoming in a New Year.
Photo courtesy myfreetextures.com
But face it. The holidays – whether they’re firsts without your loved one, or the tenth – just aren’t the same. Because there’s a large hole in the shape of someone you very much loved who is no longer here.
A year ago today, my husband, Gary, checked into Hospice House for the second time. Never to return home.
Not too long after, I was running errands and came upon this billboard, which I’ve seen numerous times. But still it caused my heart to flutter. Because these were the women who lovingly cared for Hubby in his final days.
And if I had to put a name to the heart flutter, I’d say it was a mixture of gratefulness and sorrow and gladness. Which sounds a bit oxymoronic, but those last days were sweetly sorrowful, and my heart was grateful for Hospice House and its compassionate team of doctors and nurses.
I just finished reading a really great story. The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown. About the University of Washington’s eight-oar crew that competed for gold at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. With Hitler in the audience.
I watched the patient don her graduation cap and gown and, with her arm linked through her husband’s, walk triumphantly out of the cancer center having finished her last radiation treatment.
Celebrations. They come in all shapes and sizes. Parties. Ceremonies. Fireworks. Single grads leaving cancer centers.
Why is it important to commemorate events? Because it acknowledges that something critical happened here. On this date. To someone you love. Birth. Graduation. Engagement. Wedding. Promotion. Retirement. Yes, even death.
We braved Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Thunder Mountain and Seven Dwarf’s Mine Train this sunny week in a land called Florida.
Oh, and Aladdin’s Magic Carpet. And probably at least 47 other rides. Fearlessly.
A year ago this month, Hubby came home from his first stay in Hospice House. On oxygen. Packing a morphine pump. Only one nephrostomy tube draining.
With his filters down, he is childlike in an endearing way. He scolds me, rolls his eyes, stalls when he doesn’t want to take his meds. I pull a favorite-yellow-garage-sale-find child’s chair close to him.
His voice is weak and I don’t want to miss a word.
Copyright © 2026 Marlys Johnson
