For the past few months, I’ve wondered if I might want to take a different direction with my blog (head to Substack?, become more politically local?), but this blog will change, unbidden by me.
Monday, my daughter took me to the ER for severe abdominal pains. An elevated white blood cell count made the nurse reappear with bottles he filled with my blood and gave me the heads up that I might not be headed home that night. I was wearing my twenty year old Danskos and a wool sweater I’d knit years ago and have worn to felt. Slivers from the firewood I’d brought in were hooked on the sweater. My younger daughter and the older daughter’s boyfriend appeared. My girls texted my brother. The nurse kept coming and going, talking to me and my daughters.
I lay on my back for hours with very kind people around me, who gave me pain meds and noted a soaring fever. The ER doctor returned with the nurse who leaned against the cabinets. It was the briefest thing, but when the nurse walked in he looked deeply at my daughters and then at the floor. I knew then that I was not going to like what the ER doctor was about to tell me about that CT scan.
So, on election night, hospitalized with scepticemia from the cancer, a traveling nurse told me about the beaches in Alabama where he lives while he tidied up needles and tubes in my arm. We followed that up with a long conversation about housing costs. Home again on this frosty and promising-to-be-sunny morning, I’ve been humbled by the gifts of visitors and food and kindness that have poured into our little family house, which made me see what a shadowy unhappiness had been creeping into my being for these past few months.
With the hospital and my brother, a biopsy at Dartmouth was pushed. Things will change rapidly. In the meantime, I’m doing things like putting my electric bill on autopay and arranging immediate work leave. But more profoundly, this: this week centered me right back to who I am — mother/daughter/sister, friend, writer — and conversely narrowed and widened my lens, hammering home that day by day is where we are.
The other afternoon, my daughter Molly ran in the house and told us to hurry out to see a rainbow. November rainbows in Vermont are rare, indeed — rainbows in late fall of this glossiness and color even more so. I saw this as a harbinger.
Last, I was reminded of one of my favorite Jack Gilbert Poems, “A Brief for the Defense.” A few lines read:
… We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
Stony Soil Vermont 
Good morning, My heart is sinking. I had just been thinking th
Thank you for sharing your rainbow. It is beautiful and uplifting. I am sorry to hear about your health struggles. I hope, like this new world we be experiencing, that there will be more healing than pain. 💙
My chaos is certainly not unique in this world, unfortunately…. but, forward….
Oh Brett! Abrupt turn indeed. My heart goes out to you. Here’s a poem I found in the PICU some years ago when my younger son was fighting for his life. Deep peace to you and your girls.
There is a brook in the mountains
nobody I ask knows its name.
It shines on the earth like a piece of the sky.
It falls away in waterfalls, with a sound like rain.
It twists between rocks and makes deep pools.
It divides into islands. It flows through calm reaches.
The years go by, its clear depths never change.
-Ch’u Ch’uang I
Goodness, Nancy, thank you for this poem.
Wow…life can change in the blink of an eye. I’m so sorry for your news, and hope that you are able to get the best care possible.
I know I’m fortunate to live in a country with terrific medical care and have a brother who will pursue every avenue. Thank you for writing in…
Dear Brett,
Oh my a big turn in your life and one that has rocked my morning reading your blog. You have given us readers a glimpse into your life over the years through your books, stories, and blog. Nothing is too ordinary to write about and this is helpful and there are many big questions you pose that make me think. Thank you for sharing your life with us and continuing to see the possibility in the rainbows.
I will continue to read and support you in whatever way I can but for today I wish for you the opportunity to find comfort in the November light with friends and family right by your side.
Love and always support, Cacky
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I’m so sorry to hear this news. Sending you love and hope and healing and strength. 💜
Thank you.
So sorry that you are going through this…..what a shock for you and all your family, friends, and devoted readers. Sending you Light and Love, and all the healing energy! Big hugs!
Thank you.
I’m so sorry you’re going through this. ❤️
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Rotten news, but it certainly puts my election funk in perspective. Wishing you love and healing.
Thank you for your blog and the wonderful poetry you’ve shared over the years.
Lisa
I really appreciate this….. and all the comments above and below. Your kind words and wishes mean so much to me.
All good wishes and blessings to you.
Gwen.
So sorry to hear this.
Sending you wishes of health and recovery, and more rainbows of course!
November and winter rainbows, too.
To a stranger across the country, thank you for sharing your words and wisdom. I wish you some sort of recovery, whatever is within reach. I’m glad you have family and kind people around you. It makes a difference.
Thank you, stranger across the country, for your kindness, too.
I talk to this guy above and asking good things for you.
Oh Crystal, thank you for this request!
Oh my goodness, such a time! And yet, you find the beauty. May you keep healing and writing as we hold you in our hearts. Thank you.
I intend to keep writing. One of the doctors who helped me out so much gave me some advice to make chemo treatments as effective as possible: stay hydrated and stay out of bed as much as possible, stay in the world, engaged in the world… and writing has always been my world…. Thank you, all, for being my readers, too.
Yes! Hydrate. That helped me so much, to keep the chemo washing from your kidneys. Good advice. Bless you.
So sorry to hear this Betty Ann, prayers for a quick recovery.
Oh my dear, my dear…oh life, life
Sending positive thoughts your way, Brett Ann.
Greatly appreciated, all!
I am so sorry to read this. It’s hard to conjure up the right words to say. I’m grateful you have such caring and close circle of friends that will pitch in and help in anyway they can. Wishing you strength and healing for the days ahead.
Thank you for this. 🧡
Oh Brett,
Words fail me, I just hurt for you and your daughters. Your writing has challenged, comforted and inspired me for years. I am awestruck by your thoughtfulness and deep humanity. Wherever you share your writing, I’ll follow. In the meantime I’ll put paint on a canvas for you…clouds on halcyon blue and birds and ripples on water and sunspots on floorboards… If I could paint away your cancer, I would.
What a lovely offer….. how I wish you could paint this away, too. 🧡
Thank you for sharing the story of your cancer journey with us. It is of course immensely personal and profoundly human. Sitting or lying in the ER, waiting. Sensing the growing concern of the staff. Taking home the knowing and the unknown. And of course, noticing the seemingly inevitable, “Good Luck”.
May your journey be as kind as possible and deep healing come to you. I know you will take solace and support from family, friends, community, and the world of wild things. Ask for what you need and allow those who love you to do what they can, even though it may not be enough.
Thank you for writing this…. Deeply appreciated on this November afternoon…
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I have only learned of your diagnosis today. I sincerely hope that all the love and support that surround you will help you overcome your cancer.
Sincerely,
Tanja
Thank you. 💛