Easily six feet five and solid as an oak, he stands in the kitchen telling us his story as we prepare dinner for the current residents of Hope Lodge, a home away from home for cancer patients and their families. He and his wife have come for treatment of his lymphoma, which is firmly attached to his brain stem. He places a hand on the back of his neck, explaining the location of the tumor, which had robbed him of speech, partially paralyzed his face, and left him without use of his right arm. So far, treatment has been effective in reversing these symptoms. He has a prominent nob on the top of his head where a port has been installed for direct flow of chemotherapy to his brain. He laughs, explaining that the oncologist warned that he might have excruciating pain as a result: “I told them not to worry; there is plenty of extra room up there.” If all goes well, he will be eligible for a stem cell transplant in several weeks.
A month before his diagnosis, he started a new research director position at a highly regarded university. Tears fill his eyes when he explains that the administration voted to hold his position until he was “better.”
His face lights up as he shares his family history in New York’s north country where his Welch ancestors have made maple syrup for generations. He describes the delicate process of tapping thousands of trees after a hard frost and a spring warm spell. He remembers fondly roaming the woods with his father, inserting “antiseptic” pills into the trees to help prevent damage, a different sort of chemo.
His grandfather decided to grow Christmas trees, planting four thousand and then, before they reached maturity, he died. “I went out the following spring and, sure enough, there were young trees everywhere. He knew I’d take care of them. And I have.”
Listening to him talk about his forbearers, I can almost feel them in the room, clearly part of what makes him the sturdy, plain spoken, hopeful person that he is; someone who loves the land, loves his life, and wants little more than to continue living it for as long as possible.
Everyone we meet here seems to have hope, no matter their circumstances.
We are happy to see a woman who has come from Georgia with her husband for treatment of his prostate cancer. We have come to know them over the last few months. Since coming north for treatment, their house back home was robbed, she was waylaid in Chicago where her luggage was lost; she broke her arm and had to return to Atlanta for surgery; and her husband has been in an excessive amount of pain, so much so that he doesn’t join her for dinner. We pack food for her to take back to their room. “I must be doing something right,” she says, and I think I must have not heard her correctly. Must be doing something “right”? “The devil keeps fightin’ me and I just keep going on. Thank God!”
It is almost time for dinner. More folks are starting to file into the dining room, greeting each other and sharing the day’s news about their treatments. Our Welch-scientist-farmer friend smiles. “I’m often tired, but when I’m able, I like to walk through the park at the bottom of the hill all the way to the cooperative extension office. On the way back I take an easier route. I was checking out the benches along the way. All of them are in memory of people who have gone. I found one that matches my philosophy. It said---‘Today is my best day.’”
David B. Seaburn is a novelist. His most recent work is entitled, Chimney Bluffs. To learn about his other books, click on "more..." by his picture above.