The Recipe

So I have been taking advantage of food these days. Using it to keep my spirits up and high. Which it never, ever fails to do. Even in the sad little closet I refer to as my kitchen.

Food has always played a huge role in my life. Sometimes negative. Sometimes positive. Right now it is a positive. Like, kittens playing, positive.

I go out of my way to create reasons to cook. Football game? What to make for dinner? Movie Night? What delicious snacks can I serve? Girlfriends coming over? What sort of cheese should we have?  Sunday? What shall I bake? Cold winter night? Which new soup recipe should I try?

There is something that happens to me when I set foot in a kitchen. When I take a handful of freshly chopped onions and toss them in a heated pan. The sound it makes. The sizzling. There is no other feeling like it.

I get lost in the mixing, chopping, stirring, and tasting. The rest of the world seems to get blurry. All I can see and all I can smell is the food in the pot, on the cutting board, or roasting in the oven. Just typing about it gives me peace.

To walk through the door, put my purse down, unload the groceries, put music on, and cook. Its the greatest gift I can give to myself.

This has been a successful little project. Although not a cheap one, however, it seems to be preventing me from drowning my money and sorrows in wine. Instead putting my time toward something that feeds me, both figuratively and literally. So I spend the money. And so begins a night of bliss. And a nice home cooked meal.

Phil seems to be benefiting from this new found hobby. He enjoys taste testing my little experiments, all of which are delicious. Or so he says. I can see his face light up when he sees me busy in the kitchen. It makes me happy to be the source of that smile.

It is funny how the smell of anything in the oven when you walk through the door can make any home feel like a home. Even mine.

So this is it.

This is how I will get through.

This is my recipe.

And I have all the right ingredients.

Message In A Bottle

I have not told a soul about this blog. Not a family member, not a friend. No one has seen it or read it. (exept maybe a drunkin evening with friends that neither myself, nor my reader probably remember)

This is comforting in the sense that I can write freely and I do not have to censor myself in any way. But at the same time it would be nice to just send a mass email to everyone, or post the link on facebook. This way I will forever be able to avoid the dreaded question.

"So how have you been?"

When this question is uttered my whole body tenses up. I start to feel dizzy. And all I can do is smile and respond "great!" If anyone knew how much more I had to say, they wouldn’t have asked in the first place. I have so many answers to that question. It just depends on what day you ask me. But to keep it simple, I just respond "great!". I prefer it on this ledge alone.

It makes the lives of both me and the listener much easier.

But in this chest of answers never spoken, a world of mystery exists.

Megan found Chad's journals. Journals beginning with his first transplant and continuing on, in one form or another, until the end. I remember him starting the first journal. Chad was not one to indulge in writing as a form therapy. He was more the "sweat it out" type. But after his first transplant he had to figure out new ways to handle the roller coaster he unwillingly boarded six months earlier. He wasn't ready to write directly after his diagnoses or even directly after his first transplant. It took four months for him to get his thoughts down on paper.

It was a black book and he had pasted a picture of himself post transplant in it. In the picture he looked like a transformed human being. He was thin, the hair all over his body was black, and to some he was unrecognizable. I have yet to see the journal but Megan has confirmed that the picture is still there. The one I took, so that he wouldn’t forget.

Chad never offered to let me read his journal, and I simply never asked.

My curiosity got the better of me, and when I was out to dinner with Megan, (who has been tirelessly typing up every word of these journals) I asked if she could send me a few entries. She promptly sent them. Two of them. The first two.

Starting December of 2001.

I thought when I received them I would get comfy on my couch and dive in immediately. This was not the case. My head is sometimes smarter than my heart. Sometimes.

These journals symbolize so much. I was afraid to read them for so many reasons.


• I would learn new things about a person I thought I knew everything about.


• I would learn new things about a relationship I had with someone who is no longer here.


• When I am done learning these things that will be it. There will be nothing left to learn.


After a week or so, I read one entry and it broke me down so far I could almost taste the bathroom floor. To hear him speak of me the way he did, to hear him describe the love he felt for me made me ache.

It was too much.

The second entry has been tucked away in an orange envelope on my shelving unit. Tucked away until I am in the right place. When I can read it and feel proud. When I can read it and feel warmth.

This day may never come but at least I know that there is still a small piece of paper living in my house that contains information about him that I have yet to learn.

I can visit him whenever I want, and this keeps him alive.

There's No Place Like Home

I can breathe again.

The last few months have been trying.

Trying to find hope. Happiness. Satisfaction. Comfort. Shutting out friends and family. Lonely.

Happiness was a chore. Smiling? Impossible.

Sad. Mad. Weak. Dark. Bored. Uninspired.

I got so caught up in the big bad stuff, that I forgot about the small great stuff.

The smell of Banana Bread baking. A crisp fall day, where you need a sweater but you can still feel the heat of the sun on your face. The feel of a clean apartment. A good laugh with my girlfriends. Great sex with my boyfriend. Folding laundry. Curling up with a great book. A beautiful sunset.

All things I need and can not live without.

The only option left was to run away. Plane ticket. Take off. Landing. Freedom. I could start over, where no one knows me. I could be whoever I want.

I wish I could say this thought doesn't still cross my mind, but that would be a lie.

However, I don't feel like it is my only choice anymore. I feel like a can handle the life that I have been given. I feel like I can close my eyes, adjust, and figure it out. Whatever IT may be.

Somehow, through the fog and blurred edges I made myself sit still instead of running away, and in doing this, I found my way home. A place that houses my security, my confidence, my strength. A place I have been running from for a year.

As I wipe my feet on the welcome mat, I exhale.

Unraveled.

It is so hard to think of things to say, hence why no words for two months.


I feel like I am stuck between happiness and utter despair. One moment I am on top of the world and the next I can't stop the tears leaking from my eyes. Even while at work, at my desk, with the glare of the computer beaming on my face.


Just feelings. Frustration. Anger. At myself. At everyone. At myself.


It’s like I need a shock to get me back to what I was before.

I need something to happen to get me back to life.

Like my old mixtapes that I spent hours collecting music for, planning the song order, and timing, so that the tape would end at the exact moment the song would.

Record. Stop. Rewind. Stop. Record.

Inevitably, one day the tape would get twisted and kinked. I would take a deep breath, pull it out and with my little fingers meticulously unravel the mess and iron out the kinks.

Then take my trusty bic pen and spin the tape back in. As though nothing had happened. Just like new.

I wish I could unravel the mess, and put myself back together again.

Although, come to think of it. If the tape gets twisted once, it’s bound to happen again and again.

Sitting. Waiting. Wishing

August 27th, 2009

One of the highlights of my year! I was over at my mothers having a semi birthday party, thing, for my brother. He would have been 34. It was also the day before the tenth anniversary of his death.

My mother, sister, stepdad, and a few others, I think (memory is useless these days). We were all having a little celebration, a private party, a sad remembrance, all bundled into one. When all of a sudden, a marvelous surprise!!

My brother’s old friends marched up the side lawn.

Jeff Potts, Paul Van Horne, Jason Minello, and Chad Warren showed up with flowers and flying colors. I knew Chad would be arriving because I had spoken to him, but not the others. I remember how happy I was for my mother and sister. They needed that. They needed to know that people still thought of Jay, remembered Jay, and wished just as much as we did, that he was still with us.

These boys have been in and out of our lives for over 20 years! They played football with him, went to high school with him, partied, lived, and stayed by him while he was sick. They saw his every side, and loved every side of him. After he was gone, they stayed very much a part of our lives. But as times change, people change, people come and go. There were sometimes years that we would go without seeing or hearing from one another.

For them to show up on that day proved to us that how ever much time may go by, I can safely say that they are and will remain my big brothers.

Anyway, that day was marvelous! The sun was shining, the booze was flowing, and I vaguely remember a few drunken speeches being made.

One thing I do remember clearly though, was that Chad couldn't stand up for very long. He seemed tired and preoccupied. He had been doing so well the past few months. Almost a year earlier he had had another bone marrow transplant and after all the setbacks, and pain of recovery, he seemed to have made it. He had travelled to Europe for god’s sake!

But on this day, he looked tired. That's all I remember.


October 14th, 2009

Chad and I made plans to see each other. What to do? Who knows? Just see each other. We were always really good at just seeing each other. I suggested maybe we get a hot chocolate and walk the sea wall. So that was the plan. The day of, he called me and suggested maybe we just go to Cactus Club for lunch. At the time I was thrilled!! I love lunch!!

Looking back, I know exactly why he suggested this. He was unable to go for a walk. At least that day he was unable to go for a walk. He didn't have it in him. I remember walking from the car with him to Cactus and him getting winded.

Great lunch!

Worried Katharine.


October 31st, 2009

Chad starts a blog (http://www.chadwarren604.blogspot.com/) .

Describing his fight from the very start. But littered amongst his past were some insights into his present. Swine flu, congestive heart failure, pneumonia, cancer. It was back.

His body was being eaten alive from the inside out.

No problem, he will be fine, NOTHING can happen to him.

Chad was VERY good at keeping his illness to himself. Never wanting to worry anyone. I fought him pretty hard on this and, this time, I was able to get through. He let me in. He didn't have a choice really. I was relentless. There was no escaping me.

Visiting him on the 15th floor of Vancouver General. A place all too familiar to me. It felt so strange going back, yet, because I had spent so much time there, it was almost like coming home. I got kitted out in my swine flu armor. Gown, gloves, mask, goggles. I delivered cookies, played games, talked, told stories, fixed pillows, got water. All things I had gained experience with during his first transplant.

Early November he was still fighting, he had it in him. He had some 'fight' left. Although time was ticking and treatment options were slim.

They had stopped treatment because of the swine flu. So Chad was just waiting. Waiting for someone to come up with an option for him. SOMETHING. ANYTHING.

They took too long.

No problem, he will be fine, NOTHING can happen to him.

The doctors decided to let him go home since there was nothing they could do for him in hospital and he would be more comfortable in his apartment. They came up with a cocktail of drugs and everyone’s fingers were crossed. Hope was high.

I remember an evening spent with him when he was still healthy enough to drive. I was just checking in to see how he was and if he needed anything. I thought I might stop by for a bit. He said he needed to get out of the house and would come and get me. He picked me up from work and drove back to the apartment. But on the way, he got a craving for a McDonalds Chicken McNugggets and a Strawberry Sundae (I got caramel). By this time he had been in the car for about a half hour and he was reaching his limit. I can’t describe the urgency in his voice when waiting in line at the drive-thru, waiting for red lights, and waiting for the elevator to his apartment. It was like he was Cinderella and the clock was about to strike midnight. He was so exhausted. Needing to sit down so badly. No matter how hard I try, I cannot begin to imagine how he must have felt.

I got a few great visits with him. His wonderful girlfriend and (I am proud to say) my friend as well, asked me to stay with him for a weekend while she went for a reboot in Whistler. I jumped at the chance.


November 21st, 2009

I got off work and went to his apartment. A place that when I drive passed, still makes my eyes leak. He was in his spot on the couch watching UFC. There wasn't much to say except "So you wanna order pizza?” He had a craving for something, and I vaguely remember it being ham and pineapple but I am not certain. (No words can describe how much this upsets me, as I don't want to forget a moment with him)
Pizza was ordered. Food in Chad's belly. I have done my job!

We sat. Quietly. A small few words here and there, but mainly quiet. He had nothing left to give except to fight. Focusing on a conversation was tricky for him. He dozed in and out of consciousness. His belly was distended because his organs were so swollen, so finding a comfortable position was not an easy task. He was up and down all night. I just watched him, and helped him in anyway I could. It was not until the sun came out that he got into a deep sleep. It lasted maybe an hour which was great! An hour of peace for him was a godsend.

One thing I remember well is his stubbornness even through the pain. A trait he had carried with him his whole life. That night he would never directly ask me to get him anything. It was always:

"Hey, do you feel like maybe sharing a muffin?" or "Do you maybe want some juice?"

"Sure Chad, would you like some too?"

"Ya, that would be great, thanks."

If only he knew how much it meant when he asked me for something. How much purpose and pride it gave me to be able to help him in any possible way I could. If getting a muffin for him, or helping him put his jacket on was going to make his day a fraction easier, then I was going to be the best muffin getter, and jacket putter onner there ever was!

Having that night with him has meant more to me than anyone will ever know. It was a night I will tuck away into my memory box and never throw away.

I did not know he would die one week later.

Love Courage Energy

When I think back on Chad and my relationship there are a LOT of Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda's. He would be the first person to tell me to "GET OVER IT".

Back and forth we went. Break up, make up, break up, make up. Until we made up. As friends. As we stayed for many years.

I moved away for 5 of those years, and throughout that time he was always the person I would call when feeling lonely. He always made me feel better and usually made me laugh my ass off. Chad was always the first person I called when I got into town and although we didn't really have common friends anymore, we were fine. Just us. And the city of Vancouver where it all began.

He made me feel safe in this world because I knew, no matter what; I could always call that familiar phone number (which is still programmed in my phone, obviously) and hear his voice.

In 2001 on my 19th birthday he took me (on his trusty Honda CBR600) to a local tattoo shop. We forever inscribed the three tools that Chad needed to get through the battle that he was facing. The symbols Love - Courage - Energy. On the small of our backs.

They symbolized the important materials he would use to survive. And for me, they did and still do represent everything that Chad ever gave me. Love - Courage - Energy. That about sums it up.

Chad and I walked this world for eight years with those 3 little symbols following us. Whether we were separate or together, side by side or a country apart, we had them on us. They weren't going anywhere. Now that he is gone I sometimes feel as though I am walking this earth alone or at least that the match to my pair is missing.

Thankfully, I am a lucky enough girl to be able to say that I am in a relationship that has made me feel whole enough to survive Chad's passing. Without it I don't know where I would be today.

One thing is for certain, there is no way to describe what Chad and I were. But he once wrote me an email saying:

"You said it is hard not to love me, but you are supposed to love me as I love you. The context might be different than before, but it's still love"

And he was absolutely right.....

Through To The Other Side

I have never been one to think for a moment that people actually care about my life. People love me, I know that, but no one REALLY cares about anyone but themselves. It's a hard truth. But a true on.

Or am I wrong? If I am, then I should breathe a sigh of relief and start talkin! People do care and will listen, to a point. Let’s say that.

Everyone has a breaking point. I think 11 years/8 months might be it.

Many times I have stared at this page and wanted to write, but I am so worried that it (this page) will think I am self involved, narcissistic, a pain in the ass. Many times I have stared at a friend and thought the same thing.

Time to get over it. No more complaints. Just continue.

I have known Chad since I was 7. He was my big brother for 10 years, and my best friend for 10 years after that. Somewhere along the way, he was my boyfriend for three. He nurtured me back to life after my brother died. I always gave him credit for that, but when I think about it, maybe I nurtured him through that pain as well. He had lost that same special person. We leaned on each other and came out the other end the best we could.

Unfortunately, waiting for us on the other end was a scary monster called Multiple Myeloma (Blood Cancer) who decided we needed to complete another test.

Not more than a year and a half later Chad started feeling ill, weak, exhausted. Foods weren't sitting well and things just weren't right. Test, after test, after test.

DIAGNOSIS!

I was working at Second Cup at Park Royal at that time, and Chad insisted I did not need to come to that particular appointment. "Everything will be fine", "Don't worry". I get a call at work saying he is outside and needs to talk. We drive over to Capilano River and with his shaken voice he tells me. I have no idea the words that were said that day. All I remember was that I stared down at my shoes the entire time he spoke.

I had been through the diagnosis explanation before, except with my brother it all seemed like a dream, like it wasn't real. At this point I had learned how 'real' cancer was and I knew this was no joke. Although, come to think of it, I did feel as though the world outside had stopped.

The world did stop, for a day. Then it began like a hurricane. Chad had treatments, scans, appointments, prescriptions, tests, blood work. On and on it went. He was put on the bone marrow transplant list and off WE went.

We enjoyed one of the best summers of my life. We made the most of everything. Every single moment. Trips to the Okanagan, motorcylce rides to Whistler, eating out, and barbecuing in!

Then we got the call.

Transplant time came, and there we were. The week before he was admitted was a busy one. You would think it would be filled with panic attacks and stress but it was filled with adventure. We went to my cabin in Moat Lake to spread my brother’s ashes. Chad (days away from a month long stay in the hospital managed to hike four hours out) he always did the best he could to feel alive. The DAY he went in to the hospital my dad had made a reservation for Chad to take a flying lesson. This guy actually flew a plane hours before he checked in. I don't think he was able to take the whole experience in but I believe it gave him some extra oxygen to hit the ground running.

He got situated in his new digs at Vancouver General Hospital. A quiet room at the end of the hall with a beautiful view. One great thing about VGH, spectacular views. They should put that on the brochure.

He was in for a month. They had to bring his counts down to zero, so that his body couldn't fight the foreign bone marrow that he would be receiving in a few short weeks. Radiation, chemo, yuckity yuck. Poor guy felt like garbage. I got pretty comfortable in that hospital, I have to tell ya. I had my spot where I would buy my lunch, I knew how to use the dumbwaiter to order food up for Chad, I watched his counts drop every day, did the arts and crafts that Chad should have been doing but was too weak to bother with, I had my regular walks, and regular restaurants that I would take people when we had visitors. I began to read his movements and his facial expressions and it made me feel special to know him that well.

The transplant was remarkably uneventful, drip, drip, drip, into his IV. That was it. Chad remembers that I was in the other room playing cards with his mother but he is wrong. When that IV began, I was standing right next to him until the very last drip.

Recovery.

He worked his body like a mad man, no different than how he had treated it in his earlier, healthier life. Bit by bit, he got stronger and stronger. Our relationship struggled during this part because I had lost sight of the fact that we were a team. The moment he was diagnosed, our relationship changed and we became a team, not a couple. As soon as he showed signs of improvement, I wiped my hands and said "now we are back in a 'relationship' and I have needs!" I figured that just because he wasn't lying in a hospital bed he was fine. I forgot that this was our test. Transplant and treatment was Chad’s test. The aftermath was ours. And I failed.

Big time.