The Landscape of Cancer: Where We're At

I've started to write this post a number of times over the past few weeks, but each time I have eventually turned away from it, unable to express ... something.

Mark's cancer continues to progress. He has been experiencing more fatigue, less appetite and more pain, and he is therefore taking more pain medication. His mobility has become much more limited. It has been excruciatingly difficult for him to miss this ski season--the best we've experienced in years--but he worked through that and has come to a place of peace and resignation about it. He spends most of his days reading, drawing and napping. We enjoy an occasional night with friends. Sometimes we go out, but mostly they come here to our house. We're grateful for them and the laughter that fills our house when they're here.

We're also grateful for our children and the happiness, love and laughter they bring. Mark and I are especially proud right now of our 17-year-old son, Nathan, who just earned his high school diploma. There was a time when we were very concerned for him. He had dropped out of regular high school and lacked direction. Eventually, however, he found something that he thought would work for him, and it has. In just six months, he essentially completed three years of high school work. He has awakened to his potential, and it has been a thrill to behold.

As for me, I continue to work away at my memoir and a couple of other writing projects. I started a six-week creative writing class that meets one night a week, and I'm enjoying that. Between my writing, attending to Mark's needs, going to the gym and yoga and spending time with the kids, I am staying plenty busy.

Thanks to everyone for the prayers and thoughts. We feel blessed.

Christmas With the Koepkes

We flew to Portland early yesterday morning to spend Christmas Day (and the next several days) with Mark's family - his mother, two sisters, a brother-in-law, and quite a few nieces and nephews from two generations. In this picture, above, Mark is sitting with his sister Deb with Deb's granddaughter, Heidi, on his lap.

Deb's "Christmas Vacation" Moose Punch Bowl Set. I had to ask about it. Deb couldn't believe I've never seen National Lampoon's "Christmas Vacation" - a situation she quickly set out to remedy.

Mark's two sisters, caught making Mai Tais in the pantry

We had a wonderful Christmas dinner featuring prime rib that Neil, Mark's brother-in-law, had cooked on his Traeger grill and a beautiful "Christmas Salad" made by his sister, Sarah. Lots and lots of presents to be unwrapped, followed by wrapping paper wars among the grandkids. It was a fun afternoon.

This will be our last trip: traveling has become too difficult for Mark. As it is, yesterday was a somewhat grueling day for him. But it is fitting that we have come here to be with Mark's family to celebrate this last Christmas. It's something - this "lastness" - that we haven't focused on these past few weeks, yet we've known it was there. We both decided some time ago that we weren't going to focus on it because doing so would rob us of the moment. No efforts to make things "special." Just here, now.

It hasn't always been easy, and there have been moments, hours, days, when it's just been depressing and utterly sad. But, thankfully, those times pass and peace returns. I'm grateful for that. I'm also grateful for those magical moments when laughter vacates the sadness and I (later) realize that those moments will become magical memories.

The Christmas Full Moon. I was a sophomore at the University of Illinois
when the last one occurred in 1977.

The Landscape of Cancer: Where We're At

It's probably time for an update on Mark's health. We had some scary moments on our six-week European odyssey, but we made it. Mark made it. We had a wonderful time, and I have already looked back on various memories from the trip and smiled, knowing that every dollar spent for that time together was so worth it. Buying cheese. Seeing the Dolomites. Eating dinner at sunset along a beautiful Venetian canal. Having dinner with friends in Rome. Day-tripping among the islands off the coast of Dubrovnik. Sunset the last night of our cruise. Standing on a wind-swept moor looking at Stonehenge. Getting high in our apartment in Amsterdam, giggling like school girls. Standing at the summit of the highest mountain in Germany. Snuggling in our cabin on a rainy day while on our river cruise.

Every. Moment.

Since returning home, Mark has continued to experience increasing pain and fatigue. He has good days and bad days. He relies more on medications than he used to. Things are changing. We have entered new scenery in the landscape of cancer. We are adjusting to the surroundings, but this feels different than previous adjustments. 

There is much I could say, but it feels too personal and too amorphous to share or articulate. More than ever, I am confronted with the stark reality that lies ahead. Together and separately, we will feel our way through this, thinking new thoughts, experiencing new emotions, confronting new challenges, deepening our love for each other. 

Our Daughter's Blog Post About Mark's Cancer

"[Mark's cancer has] been a part of his life for a while now. My life, too. Almost like a person. Like an unexpected guest who shows up on your doorstep, telling you they are going to be a part of your family. You can't say no. So you let that person in. You let cancer into your life and tell it to go in the corner and keep its mouth shut, because it's easier to ignore something when it's silent. You forget it's there. But the thing is cancer never leaves the house. It's there, in every room, every conversation, every hug. You feel its presence."  ~ Rachel Broom

I am extremely proud of Rachel and thankful that she is our daughter. You can read the entire post by following this link.

The Landscape of Cancer: Depression, Grief and the Undertoad

Today, we leave for Europe, for a trip of a lifetime. One would think I would have been extremely excited about it, especially during the past few weeks.

But I wasn’t. 

Until last night. Mark has been excited for the past two weeks. He kept saying so, when all I could do was smile and wonder why I wasn’t experiencing the same thing.

Last night, thanks to some thoughts shared in an email from a friend and a couple of other thought-provoking circumstances, I realized why I haven’t been excited: I’ve been experiencing depression. I didn’t recognize it, however, until within the last 24 hours. As I wrote a year ago, I have experienced (mainly undiagnosed) depression most of my life, but it has been a long time since I’ve had a bout of it. So long, in fact, that I didn’t realize that what I had been experiencing the past few weeks was depression. 

Signs? I didn’t feel motivated to do much of anything. I simply couldn’t get excited about Europe. I lost interest in reading. I was feeling physically ill, having headaches that I haven’t experienced in a long time, feeling exhausted, nervous stomach, etc. At times, I was irritable. At other times, many tears came.

Why? To some extent, I’m not sure. But I think it was probably connected to another realization that came to me this morning. I didn’t recognize it because I’m not that familiar with it. 

Grief. 

I have grieved over things in my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever (consciously) experienced true grief, a grief that comes from the permanent loss of someone you are deeply in love with. This kind of grief is a stranger I don’t know very well, but whose strange power I have felt in the past couple of weeks. 

Of course, I’m referring to Mark, who has advanced, inoperable prostate cancer. There are times when his mortality comes sharply into focus and overwhelms me. As I looked toward taking this trip, the thought that this will likely be our last big trip was always there, tempering my excitement. And as we drew closer to leaving, those thoughts – I came to realize – engendered grief.

In my friend’s email, she referred to the presence of the “undertoad” – a word, she explained to me, that was used by children in the book, The World According to Garp (which I never read) to refer to the ocean’s undertow. The undertoad is always there. Sometimes I can hardly feel it. At other times, it is extremely powerful and can sweep me out, I have realized, into a sea of depression and grief if I am not prepared. This has been an important lesson for me to learn at this point of my journey with Mark through the landscape of cancer. 

As of last night, I am officially excited about our trip. Thoughts of Mark’s mortality have again been faced, but I’ve turned a corner. I intend to enjoy every day of our trip together and let whatever lies in the future stay there.

The Landscape of Cancer: Of Pain, Art and Europe

The last time I wrote about Mark's cancer was six weeks ago. Since then, he has experienced increasing levels of pain and decreasing levels of energy. He is no longer able to do any sort of exercise, and in mid-July, we canceled our cycling trip to Italy in September.

Mark now spends most of his time on his art - painting, drawing, and sketching. He's quite talented, and he enjoys branching out and learning new techniques and working with different mediums. In July, he spent quite a bit of time on a drawing of himself and his sister, based on a photograph taken in 1955, just before the family moved to Japan. He presented it as a gift to his sister, Deb, when we were visiting in Portland earlier this month.

We cancelled out cycling trip, but we're still leaving for Europe on August 31st. We had to rearrange some things and fill up the time we would have spent cycling with other activities, but we're going. We will see some sights, and Mark will likely do some painting while I write or read. Mainly, however, we will simply enjoy each other's company, have fun and create memories amidst the beauty of Europe.

The Landscape of Cancer: Where We're At

We're here in Silverthorne, Colorado, elevation 9000+ feet. We came to do some cycling, but between the rainy weather and other factors, we've only gotten in one ride on this trip. "Other factors" refers to Mark's cancer.

Back in January, I first wrote about Mark's pelvic pain in a location where a bony mass was detected when he was first diagnosed with prostate cancer. The pain manifested itself for the first time after returning from a trip to Maui. It eased off during the next couple of months, but it has become more intense and more persistent since then. 

Within the last month, Mark has realized that he can no longer use the elliptical at the gym. Now, it has become apparent that he will likely have to give up cycling. These are bitter pills to swallow for a man who has been very active his entire life. Nevertheless, he remains philosophical and positive, as do I. There is so much life to live, and we are more fortunate than others have been.

Meanwhile, we spend our time in other pursuits before Mark's family reunion starts on Friday. Mark's painting and sketching. My writing. Our reading. Last night, we had a wonderful dinner with a group of friends from Mark's ski patrol days at Copper Mountain back in the 80's. Tonight, we will drive to Denver and have dinner with a good friend there. Life is good.

Changing the Landscape of Cancer

Mark and I have entered a new space in the landscape of cancer. It began last week after returning from a vacation in Maui when we found out that Mark's PSA had jumped a full point over the past 4-5 weeks. Then came the sharp hip pain that manifested last weekend.

We talked to Mark's oncologist on Monday. On Wednesday morning, we drove to LDS Hospital for a bone scan. When he was first diagnosed, a lesion had been discovered in Mark's hip. This lesion, which had previously been contained, was now shown to be growing and active.  In addition, a new metastasis was discovered in Mark's neck that will require further investigation (MRI) next week.

We have always known that a day like Wednesday would come, but we didn't know how and when we would arrive at that day. The landscape of Mark's cancer has changed: he has now become symptomatic, the cancer is growing, there will be new drugs. And we will wait. 

Meantime, however, we intend to live life as fully as we can.

About Time: The Landscape of Cancer and of Memory

I have often told Mark that sometimes I write blog posts for my children, sometimes I write them for him, and I often write them for others. But just as often, I write them for me. There are times when I think perhaps I have shared too much of myself on this blog. But I come back to this basic point: I write because something inside of myself needs to write and to share. I usually don't receive comments, but this doesn't bother me, either. The important thing with some posts is simply that I write.

This is one of those posts.

On Thanksgiving Day afternoon, we decided to watch a DVD. We were working on dinner - well, Mark and our daughter Hannah were working on dinner. Nathan, our son, was playing with Hazel on his iPad. I was watching them. Cary, our son-in-law, was at work because American Thanksgiving - for some strange reason - is not a holiday in Canada. Hannah picked out the movie, "About Time." It is one she had spoken of before and obviously loved. She wanted to share it with us, and we were happy to watch it.

I personally enjoyed the unfolding plot of the movie. For those who are not familiar with it, it tells the story of an English family whose male members have the ability - once they turn 21 - to travel back into time. The story focuses on the only son of the only surviving male member of the family. Shortly after the son turns 21, his father brings him into his study and tells him the family secret. The son is incredulous - at first - but then tests what his father has just told him and finds that it works. 

The father - who appears to be independently wealthy - says that he has used the gift to feed his passion for literature. Fair enough ... though exactly how he does that is not spelled out. The son decides to use it for what he seeks most in life, i.e., to find a woman whom he can love who will, in turn, love him.

The movie, for me, had two primary plot lines that run more or less parallel throughout most of the film. The first: boy seeks woman, boy falls in love with woman, boy marries woman and creates a family. The second: boy loves his father, father loves his son, boy and father share the gift of time travel, boy says an unexpected good-bye to a father who has filled his life with light and love and laughter. A third plot line involves the struggles of the son's free-spirited sister to find love and light in her own life, but that line did not resonate as much with me as the other two.

The first story line was nice and romantic and fairly straightforward. The second, less so. I was already having my own dark thoughts about aspects of the movie when a curve ball was thrown: the father was diagnosed with a terminal illness. No one saw this coming. Not even Hannah. But, the ball was thrown, and all of us sat staring at the screen as the effects of that throw hit home.

No, no, no. This was too close to home. No, no, no, no, no. Please, no. Too late. We were there. I started to silently cry. I felt like I wanted to regurgitate all the pent-up anger, hurt, worry and grief that had  been walled off from my functioning self.

Mark, too, started to cry. Something about the movie had pierced his shell as well. I could see it in his eyes: the fear, the sorrow, the pain. No matter how positive we are, no matter how much for which we have to be thankful, no matter how hard we try to live in the moment, there are moments like this when, once an avalanche of grief has been triggered, there is little one can do to stop it until it comes to rest after cascading downward.

The tumbling grief also triggers avalanches in others. Nathan and Hannah were also affected. She was so apologetic about the movie. She had forgotten about this aspect of the movie. The eyes of grief change one's perception of the world and things in it.

But there was another aspect of the movie that saddened and depressed me before we had arrived at the plot twist involving the father. The film had reminded me - especially since I was in Vancouver where we had lived the first ten years of our marriage and where our five older children were born - of what a better dad I wished I could have been to my older children.

There were scenes in the movie that beautifully depicted the tender love between the father and his son. I found myself wishing that I had had the gift of time when I was a young father, to be able to go back and fix things. I realized while caught in this reverie, however, that what I really needed to have the ability to do back then was fix myself, and that was not possible via travel backward in time. Rather, that work would have to be carried out day by day and on into the future.

I have thought much, during our time here in Vancouver, about those years here. About my struggles. About the migraines I suffered on a weekly basis. About the constant tension in my marriage. About the financial constraints. About other frustrations and challenges. About regrets. I have occasionally thought that things could have been different during those years if only ... But things were as they were, and as much as I might like to will them different, they weren't.

It is time for me to make peace with the past. In the end, all we really have is today.

The Landscape of Cancer: Thankfulness

Mark and I have much to be grateful for at this Thanksgiving season. Just last Friday, we received an early "Thanksgiving gift": for the first time since it started rising almost a year ago, Mark's PSA actually went *down* a half-point over the past month. His oncologist was (pleasantly) somewhat surprised. Now, rather than having the PSA drawn every month, we don't have to come back until January. If the trend continues, every other month will become every three months. Of course, the cancer is still there. It will always be there. But, for now, it is contained, and we are grateful.

Mark expressed some of his thoughts to members of his family in an email this past weekend. With his permission, I am sharing some of what he wrote:

"Just wanted everyone to know that my PSA (tumor marker) has stabilized and my last visit on Friday showed it decreasing. It means the medication I'm on is working. I was curious as to why after slowly rising for several months my PSA leveled off and is now going down. I believe it's related to several things. Every time we start our physical yoga practice, we are asked to set an intention for class. Mine has been to send my love and consequently the love of the universe to my cancer, never to be adversarial or have any other negative energy regarding the cancer.  

"Additionally I believe all the love sent to me by my family is a significant factor. Most importantly I have the love, support, and extremely positive influence of my husband Joseph who keeps me on the hopeful rails and reminds me daily to be here now. 

"I generally feel well. I skied everyday last week. My yoga practice is deep and refreshing. The ducks in my life are all in a row and I am content."

As it happens, we are currently on our way to visit our daughter Hannah and her family in Vancouver, B.C. for Thanksgiving. What a sweet time it will be, to share this special time with family.

Wrapping our granddaughter Hazel's (belated) birthday presents yesterday. I used to read these books to my daughter Hannah when she was little. Now, she reads them to Hazel, teaching her to say "their good old Bulldog *Jack*, just the way I did with Hannah. 

Before we head on up to Canada, however, we are stopping in Anacortes, Washington for a couple of days to visit friends we have met on our cycling trips. I wrote here about one of the couples we are visiting who have had their own experience with the landscape of cancer. Jen was the one who leaned across the table at lunch on the last day of our cycling trip and said to Mark, "Decide not to be a number [a statistic], Mark." He has so decided, Jen, and Jizo continues to watch over him.

Patmos, Mykonos and the Landscape of Cancer

It was hard, sometimes. In conversations aboard our ship with other passengers, talk would invariably come around to travel. Most of the people were retired and liked to travel. But when we told them of our cycling in France, etc., some would look at us askance and make well-meaning comments like, "What do you do for a living?" When first Mark, then me, said we are retired, it would be, "But you're way to young to be retired," or something similar.

There were many times when I wanted to say, "Look, we're retired for a reason. Mark has advanced stage prostate cancer, ok? We're doing a lot of traveling now because there will come a time - unbeknownst to us - when we will not be able to do this."

But I didn't.

Except a couple of times. Discreetly.

The first was after our incredible day in Patmos which I wrote about here. We were having an early dinner aboard ship that evening. Then, Nadia our cruise director told us there will be a "surprise." We surmised it would be Greek dancing, and Mark wasn't in the mood for that. We slipped away before dinner was over.

As we passed Nadia's desk, she importuned us to stay, saying we'd have time after dinner to go into town. Mark stepped outside. I leaned over to Nadia - whom we had grown fond of during the past few days - and said three words to her. Why, exactly, I said it, I don't know.

"Mark has cancer."

Her eyes found mine and she said, "Oh. Go. Go! I understand."

Why did she understand? What did she understand? That sometimes exuberance can assault the senses and almost mock someone who has a terminal illness? That sometimes, it's too much?

It didn't matter. She understood.

But those three words - "Mark has cancer" - unleashed a torrent of emotions in me as we walked off the pier and into the village. We saw Vera, our guide from earlier in the day. I had wanted to talk to her about something she had said in a quiet moment during our tour to both Mark and me, as well as privately to me. But she breezed by on a bicycle, saying that she was on her way to an appointment. Further deflation.

I tumbled into despair. I felt as if everything I had experienced that day, all the euphoria, was phony, a fake. We went back to our cabin where I proceeded to lose it. I don't remember a lot of what I said as Mark tried to comfort me, but I do remember saying, "It was like I experienced this euphoria, this happiness, then turned a corner and saw Death sitting there in a chair, smirking, blocking the sidewalk, not letting us pass." This has been a characteristic of so much of our life together since Mark was diagnosed: moments of euphoria, exquisite happiness and exhilaration with life and with each other contrasted with moments of sadness, angst and even terror over what we know awaits around some bend in the road that stretches before us.

Two days later, we were in Mykonos. The highlight of that day, believe or not, was seeing a pelican. We had been walking around "Little Venice" with its warren of tiny streets, and as we turned one of many, many corners, we saw a large pink pelican waddling its way towards us. Seemingly unperturbed by our presence as well as that of two other couples, it slowly wended its way into the tiny square where it began to preen itself, occasionally flapping its wings.

Mark was transfixed. He has long loved pelicans. When he took his first cycling trip to Europe five years ago and blogged about it, he named his blog Pelicanus Maximus. When he got his Serotta bike prior to going on this trip, he named it Pelicanus. We have a watercolor print of a pelican that we bought several years ago in Mendocino, California. But Mark had never seen a pelican up close and personal ... until that afternoon in Mykonos.

He was powerfully moved by the experience. For him, it was almost spiritual. An omen. A good one.

That evening, we had gone back to the ship for a quiet evening. We thought almost everyone else was in town. As we watched the fading sunset on the sun deck, George, the chief steward, approached us and asked us if we'd like to join a group of ladies for dinner. They were all older and single and had elected to eat on board (as part of their tour package) rather than go into Mykonos.

The dinner ended up being a delightful experience. Lots of good conversation and laughter.

One of the ladies was a very interesting woman named Kassia. She had intrigued me for the past several days. An American, she has lived in Florence, Italy for many years. I would guess her age to be around 75-80. She was always one of the first to go swimming in the ocean when we had that opportunity, and she always went barefoot around the ship. I also detected a sharp wit. I didn't formally meet her until a couple of days into the cruise, but once I did, I felt something toward her that I guess could be described as a "connection."

Kassia

As we were sitting at dinner that evening, Mark told the story of meeting the pelican that afternoon. Of course, he didn't explain what a profoundly spiritual experience it had been for him. For some inexplicable reason, however, I got up and whispered in Kassia's ear that Mark has advanced stage prostate cancer. She looked up at me, nodded ever so slightly, then I went back to my seat.

The next morning, Kassia, along with others, sat at our breakfast table. Everyone was talking about what they had done the previous day in Mykonos. Mark briefly retold his pelican story and mentioned at the end that he saw it as an omen. At that point, Kassia leaned over to me and said, "Yes, it was an omen."

After breakfast, Kassia drew me aside and asked if I could spare a few minutes. We sat down and she proceeded to tell me that a little over 25 years ago she had a metastasis and was given six months to live. She decided, however, that she wasn't ready to die. But she would not "fight" her cancer. Rather, she began a program of alternative medicine and meditation in which she imagined herself holding and loving her cancer, this part of her that was diseased and injured. 

Kassia determined that she would love her cancer, much as she would hold and comfort a beloved injured child, rather than seeking to "defeat" it. "We," she added, "tend to say, 'I have cancer.' That's not correct. Each cancer is individual, personalized. I have *my* cancer and you have *your* cancer. Mine is a part of me and yours is a part of you. It is personal, not some generic thing 'out there' that needs to be fought and defeated."

"I would say this to Mark," Kassia added," but you are the one who shared this with me. But please feel free to tell Mark, and I'm happy to repeat my story." When I told Mark, he smiled and said, "Before every yoga class, I sit in meditation and imagine myself loving my cancer. That is always the intention for every yoga class." He had never told me that before.

I choose to believe that it wasn't an accident that we saw that pelican in Mykonos. I choose to believe it wasn't an accident that I decided to open up to Kassia and she in turn to me. I choose to believe it wasn't by chance that Vera was our guide that morning in Patmos. And I choose to believe that, in the landscape of cancer, one is sometimes led to sources of inspiration and knowledge, to teachers and healers. I choose to believe, because I know how I have felt in my heart when such serendipities occur.

Day 13: Gourdon, Jizo, and the Landscape of Cancer

Yesterday (Saturday) was the last day of our cycling tour. The weather was perfect – clear blue skies with temperatures in the 70’s. The riding was not too strenuous, which I appreciated. The scenery, as usual, was beautiful, and it was thrilling when the Mediterranean Sea came into view. But the highlight of the ride was lunch with many other members of the tour at the hilltop village of Gourdon.

Mark writing in his journal the night before at our hotel in Castellane

A candid taken by Jen as we awaited dinner our last night in Castellane.

In particular, we enjoyed sharing lunch with our new friends, Bill and Jen, from Anacortes, Washington. Jen shared with us some of her experiences with yoga, meditation and religion, which both of us could relate to. I also felt at home with Bill. He admitted that he's not very good at small talk, and I appreciated that because I am not exactly a sparkling conversationalist. I could also really relate when he said he's not great at remembering people's names - something I struggle with all the time.

As Jen was discussing the meditation she had practiced that morning to block out the annoyance from the squeak her bike shoes had developed, I was trying not be to annoyed that everyone else in our group - even those who were seated after us - had received their food before us. 

Then, everyone else at our table was served but me. I heard a crash and the sound of china breaking on the cobblestones behind me, and I thought in my mind, "That is probably my quiche and salad." Sure enough, it was. But all was well once my food arrived. (It was good.) I was more fortunate than another member of our group who ordered a full menu of the day and only received her appetizer. She had to resort to a Cliff Bar or two to see her through the afternoon.

One of the main topics of our conversation with Jen and Bill was cancer. Jen had had esophageal cancer and had survived. She told us about two friends who each have stage 3 melanoma. One is not "doing the protocol" and is doing well. Another is following a protocol and struggles with the side-effects. They are both very active in their 60's and 70's. Jen spoke of another acquaintance who was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer 10-15 years ago and is still here.

"I decided not to be a number," Jen said, referring to her odds of surviving her cancer. And she didn't. "Decide not to be a number, Mark," she added. We both appreciated her sharing these stories. The fact of the matter is, we don't know how long Mark will remain healthy and vigorous. The statistics are not in his favor. But he is not a number. And his life need not be dictated by numbers. Certainly, his attitude need not be and is not dictated by a number. 

I'm getting a bit ahead of the story, but last night in Vence, Jen gave something to Mark and me. It is a tiny Jizo that her yoga instructor had given her to give to her pregnant daughter. Jen had been carrying it around France on this cycling trip. She had previously mentioned it to us as we had told her about encountering many, many Jizo statutes in Japan a year ago. (I wrote about him here when we were there.) Jizo occupies a very special place at the heart of Japanese Buddhism. He has vowed not to become a Buddha until all have achieved enlightenment. He is the protector of travelers, pregnant women and deceased children.

Jen said that she had emailed her yoga teacher back in Washington about Mark, and she had replied that the Jizo that Jen had been carrying for her pregnant daughter should be given to Mark. It was an incredibly poignant and emotional moment when Jen presented this to Mark, a moment I - and I'm sure he - will never forget. Thank you, Jen.

Bikes lined up against a stone wall across the street from where we ate lunch. The Mediterranean is visible in the background.

After lunch, we mounted our bikes for a descent from Gourdon, followed by our last climb over the Col de Vence. From there, it was all downhill to our hotel in Vence where the tour concluded. We had our final dinner last night, then went our separate ways this morning, Mark and I leaving for the Nice airport at 6:00 a.m. 

Terri took the lead photo, above, as well as this one, on the last day of the tour. We had decided to wear our matching "Maui" kits to commemorate arriving at the sea.

It was a magical time this tour of ours, a time when our strength was tested, our training was tested, our nerves were tested, and our will was tested. It was a time when I experienced periods of euphoria and periods of frustration. It was a period of growth and reflection. A time to savor goals accomplished. But also a time of enrichment, of meeting new friends, sharing our lives and celebrating this wonderful thing we call life while being thankful to those who share our journey.

A la prochaine (Until the next time) ...

Day 10A and Day 11: Of Sisteron, Castellane and Cancer

Our day was not over following our ascent of Mont Ventoux. Rather, it was just beginning. We enjoyed a beautiful descent into Sault, where we stopped for a beverage, then continued on into a much drier area of Provence. Our destination was a picnic site the tour company had set up.

Mark and I have remarked many times over the course of this tour how often one sees a lone tree in the middle of a field - in this case, a harvested lavender field. Even in agriculture, the French express art.

The lunch spot was the half-way mark, but the afternoon ride was pretty straightforward, on to Sisteron. Along the way, we passed the Chapel of St. Bernadette, pictured in the lead photo, and quaint houses. The countryside was dry. I told Mark it reminded me of central Oregon. 

Our total miles and vertical feet for the day: 82.5 miles (making our longest day of the tour) and 7513 feet.

Our overnight stay in Sisteron was unremarkable. The lobby of the hotel was quaint; our room was not. The dinner was probably the worst we've had on the trip. I gave up writing about food because, frankly, there hasn't been much to write about.

Me navigating the streets of Sisteron

Dinner in Sisteron

Yesterday was not a particularly good day. (It reminded me of a day on our Corsican tour two years ago that I wrote about here.) I didn't have much to eat for breakfast and forgot that I had some Quaker instant oatmeal that I had brought on the trip. Unfortunately, there's not a lot I can eat at the standard "Continental" breakfast that most of our hotels have provided. My braces are problematic, preventing me from eating anything hard (like bread crust), and other things upset my stomach. I have made do the best I can, and that has generally been sufficient.

Yesterday morning, however, we started with a long climb right immediately after leaving Sisteron, as the above graph shows: 2500 feet in about 17 miles. I started bonking. Then I realized - duh - that all I had had to eat the day before (when we climbed Ventoux in the morning) was a couple of pastries, a tomato and a few chips for lunch, very little for dinner (because I didn't like it), and almost nothing for breakfast.

I was grateful for the support van that met us at the top of the ascent, where I was able to get at least a little nourishment. 

Roman inscription chiseled into a rock on the ascent.

This is the scene that greeted us shortly after starting our descent. When we came around a curve very shortly after seeing the above, we were greeted with the scene pictured below.

Fortunately that long climb was followed by a long descent, where our lunch spot was waiting for us. After a salad and an omelet and some fries, I was feeling much better.

The afternoon was a slog. The landscape wasn't particularly inspiring and we had a climb right at the end of the ride. This was the closest I've come on the trip to mentally bonking. All the cars, trucks and motorcycles passing, the exhaust, my lack of nutrition, my sore knees and achey muscles, missing my family, and lingering frustration with the quality of some of the meals we have had and places we had stayed (as part of the tour) - all of this brought me to the edge. As I commented in my previous post, I really felt like getting off my bike, throwing it on the ground and stomping on it (after 67 miles and 5700 vertical feet).

Mark, as always, was very supportive. He has his own aches and pains, but he rarely if ever mentions them. I've often thought in this regard of a line from a British comedy, "As Time Goes By," when Lionel, a character about our age (played by Geoffrey Palmer), while referring to Mrs. Bayle, his fathers housekeeper who has known Lionel since he was a child, says, "Mrs. Bayle is a spartan. If I had a spear sticking through my chest, she'd say, 'Do pull that out, it's ruining your shirt.'" 

Mark is a Spartan in some respects. He's driven himself his whole life - professionally and athletically. He's always felt that he had to try harder to work harder. He accounts for some of it as overcompensating for the fact that he is gay. Now, I see him driving himself because he wants to prove to himself that he is stronger than his cancer. That he has to overcompensate. Where I would have the tendency to give up (or at least throttle back), he charges on. He always tries to take his daily cancer-fighting medication at the top of a climb. For him, I think, it's a silent sign of victory, of defiance, of hope.

I love him.