there are worse places for a "forced vacation"

about two weeks ago, Tres and I returned from an impromptu trip to Lompoc.

The week before, I'd received a call from my uncle informing me that my grandmother had been hospitalized, and diagnosed with stage four colon cancer, with pretty severe mets to the liver.  She'd had a colectomy to remove the tumor from her colon, and was recovering in the hospital before she would meet with an oncologist to discuss possible treatment.  All I could think was again? Only two years earlier, we'd gotten a call that my grandfather was hospitalized with metastatic cancer and only had a few days to live, so we jumped on a plane to say our goodbyes.  (You can read more about that trip here.)  It's hard to believe it's been 8 years since dad called me into his room to tell me he had cancer and would need to go in for surgery,  but I remember it vividly- knowing it was cancer before he even said anything.

So naturally, I felt a surge of deja-vu when I got the news about Mimi.  It didn't surprise me at all that she had waited until the DePriests left to tell us about the diagnosis, and while the outlook was bad, it wasn't as severe as with Papa.  Still, I had a strong feeling that I needed to go, to be there with her in the hospital.  So two days later, we did.  I asked Tres to come for support, so he talked to his boss and scheduled people to run the services that weekend, and I called work to let them know I wouldn't be working my next few shifts.  We booked flights and rented a convertible when we landed, because why not, it's California. (and you get a pretty killer discount with your Costco membership.)  I put the top down and drove up the 101 on a gorgeous California Tuesday, stopping only for In-N-Out.  Highway 101 between LA and Lompoc (the 1) is a bit like memory lane for me, especially when it winds through Santa Barbara- remembering countless trips and adventures with Gramma and Grandpa Kingston and our cousins.

We've done it countless times, but I have one other very specific memory of making the one-hour drive between the Samarkand and Gardenia.  Dad and I spent two weeks in the area for Spring Break my senior year of high school, midway through his first round of chemotherapy, and I was allowed to drive his car back from the SB Airport to Lompoc all by myself when I dropped him off for a work conference in Palm Springs.  The drive is beautiful and captures all of my favorite California scenery.  It starts right on the Pacific Ocean, winding along the coastline until it turns inland.  You merge from the 101 to Hwy 1 which leads into Lompoc through rolling hills and vineyards.  It takes about an hour, and it one of the most therapeutic drives I've ever made, each time I make it.

During the drive, I tried to figure out my goals of being there.  Simply act as a family advocate?  Push for treatment? I found myself desperately wish Dad was around to talk to, since he was probably the person most personally understanding of her situation.  I knew that she's been fairly miserable since Dad died, and has had an especially hard time since Papa died.  I don't blame her- this is a life she never expected to be living, and didn't have any time to prepare for.  They married when she was 17, and were married for 61 years.  She quite literally didn't know how to do life without him.  I knew she probably wouldn't want treatment, and I wanted her to know we were okay with that, but I also didn't want her to just give up.  Chemotherapy with an 80 year old woman is a difficult journey.  I remember thinking about quality of life a lot when I was working at the oncology clinic during nursing school, and watched the elderly patients struggle through treatment.  I knew that if Dad was around to talk to, he too would be advocating for quality of life, since we'd had many similar conversations around his treatment regimen and lifestyle choices during his chemotherapy. But I didn't really know how to have that conversation with someone who liked to avoid talking about it.

She was actually in much better shape, and spirits, than I expected when we got to the hospital.  She was grateful that so many people were visiting, and eager to advance her diet when they would let her.  The first day I tried to get a grasp of what was really going on- do a general assessment of the situation.  Each day following, I prayed that whatever conversations needed to happen, would happen naturally, and slowly but surely they did.  I felt like we talked about options, how she felt about them, and what she wanted to discuss with the doctors when she did.  I encouraged her to be vocal about her issues and concerns, and reinformed what I'm sure my other family members were saying- while we love her and want her around as long as possible, we don't want her to suffer in the process.  If she decided chemotherapy would be too much, we'd support her in that decision, and work to make the rest of the time we have together meaningful. We also watched a lot of Jeopardy and election commercials.

It felt like a strange break in the space-time continuum.  Days felt long, but the week went quickly, and it was as if life outside of Lompoc stopped all together.  One of my favorite things about that little town is how isolated it is- and how that gives me a chance to relax and recouperate, regardless of the reason for the visit.  My Aunt Carrie's house is easily one of my favorite places on earth for just this reason- it's like an oasis.  I have countless memories that include people I miss regularly, but being surrounded those memories makes me feel like they aren't actually gone.  The way the sun hits her courtyard provides the best, almost perfectly still spot for reading. 

Flying back to Maryland meant the real world came crashing back into view, but I'm so grateful for the chance to get away and enjoy some time with my family, even if it wasn't for the best reason while we face the fight with cancer for the third time in four years.

Just make your parents get a colonoscopy already, will ya?