Robin's (wonderful) clients

The phone number for Robin's massage business is still active. It is now forwarded to my cell phone and occasionally I receive messages from her clients which are intended for Robin, and in which the clients inquire as to how she is coping, how was her New York surgery (never happened), and whether she is up to doing massage again. I always return these calls and talk to her clients - usually the sooner the better rather than dwell on what the conversation will be like.

Robin obviously didn't perform massage as simply a business. She'd been a caregiver all her life starting with nursing and I got the distinct impression that her role as a massage therapist also involved being a listener and being there for folks who would talk about issues in their own lives. So in her support role she made connections with people that went beyond simply providing a service.

Anyway, this week I'd received an oddly different voicemail message. It was from a client who simply stated that she'd been away for a while and wanted to schedule a massage. This time it took me about five days to the return the call because I sensed it would be different. This time the caller didn't give any indication that they knew about Robin's illness.

It's always interesting returning a call because at first the person on the other end of phone doesn’t have a clue about who I am. Once I explain I'm Robin's husband (I never say I *was* because that would just confuse the issue) the tone in their voice becomes happy and they're open to conversation.

I didn't plan out how I would get through this one, but I simply started by asking if the client knew that Robin had been sick. Well, "No" they said. They hadn't seen her since last Spring. Well then, I had no way out. Just needed to say it. Just need to explain that she had gotten cancer and that it was a really nasty, really rare one, and unfortunately Robin passed away last Winter.

Whew, well that's a real conversation killer. But hey, how long can you beat around the bush? I've gotten a lot of practice now in being as direct as I can be, but trying to soften the shock. (Well, that's what it feels like to me, but in reality I probably have no influence over the shock the person is going to experience. Once I've told them the news they probably don't even remember how the conversation began...)

The best thing for me (and maybe the client) is that we get to talk about Robin a little bit. Over the years I probably only met about five of her clients face-to-face - it usually only happened if I went to the office to get a massage which was somewhat rare since we also had all the same equipment (massage table and supplies) at home.

This call did start off being tougher than usual, but I feel these calls always end up being helpful for each of us. It's great to hear people say how happy Robin used to be, how she was always smiling. The best part for me is the occasional client who says that Robin was always saying "what a wonderful husband she had". How many people lose a spouse and yet get to receive this type of continuing feedback months later! ;)

On the Beach

The next day I traveled to St. Petersburg, Florida on business. Staying at hotel on the Gulf has its advantages - primarily easy access to the beach! So there I found myself outside again at midnight, twenty-four hours later, on the beach. This time standing in the surf in what a Northerner would consider warm water - the locals say pretty soon it’ll be warm enough for them to swim in! ;)

In contrast to the deserted golf course, the beach was teeming with people out for walks. That was another reason to be standing in the surf - the beach was pretty busy! Presumably with vacationers enjoying late night walks. Couples, families and individual folks traveling down the beach, walking in, out and around the surf.

It was a little hazy so the moonlight didn’t seem quite as bright and the moon had taken on a yellowish hue. At a distance most folks were simply shadowy figures. It was impossible to make out details and features of other people unless you passed close by them on the beach.

It was quite a different evening. Both because of the number of folks out laughing and playing, and because I could stand in the salt water surf. For someone like me who doesn’t live near the ocean it takes some faith just to be able to stand in the water, in the dark, while wondering what sea creatures are lurking nearby. :)

But standing in the water and looking out into the vast ocean instills such a feeling of connectedness and serenity, it can't be passed up. The sensation of being grounded is intensified by the feeling of my toes digging into the sandy bottom, and the pleasantly warm water on my legs. There's just not much that needs to be thought about when you've got that kind of connection.

Moonlit golf course

Memorial Day weekend I'd had a full three days of fun. When I arrived home late Monday night I just wasn't ready to head into the house. Instead I parked the car in the driveway and started walking. There's a golf course close by and it's pretty easily accessible through a parking lot down the street. The parking lot is unlit so there's a transition from the tree-lined street where the lights give everything a yellowish hue, to the rear of the parking lot where there's nothing but inky blackness.

Before my eyes had time to adjust to the darkness it was time to cut through a short wooded section that's easy to spot in the daytime, but not so easily found at night. Well, I missed the path and I soon found myself getting hung up in the brush. I figured I must have walked too far through the lot and missed the intended turn so I veered to the left and made my way back a few yards.

I felt the path rise a little and then suddenly drop a few inches. I stumbled, but I recognized the familiar dip - now I was on the right course! Funny how I found the uncomfortable jolt to be reassuring. I still couldn't see, but now I had faith in where I was and in which direction to proceed.

Finding the edge of the golf green was surreal - I emerged into a black and white world illuminated by a full moon. As I walked along my eyes adjusted to the foreign looking scenery. The moonlight was so brilliant that I could make out individual blades of grass, yet the fairway and trees were devoid of color. The sky looked a pale shade of gray and all but the brightest stars were blotted out.

I started to think about metaphors for my journey: going from light to darkness, stumbling blindly through the forest, re-finding faith in myself, and eventually emerging into a world that was familiar and yet at the same time so foreign.

Then I began to wonder when the hell I was going to be able to stop viewing everything as a metaphor! This could get to be *really* annoying! ;) This must be what it's like to have someone narrate your life while you're living it. I haven't yet seen the Will Ferrell movie "Stranger Than Fiction", the world for me was upside down when it came out, but now I'll have to rent it…

So anyway - I followed my usual route, staying on the paved golf cart path which goes down a ravine and then up the other side - but as I reached the lowest point I thought "why do I always take the same route through here". I immediately turned right onto the grass fairway and cut perpendicular to the path. I walked all the way to the far edge which was lined with woods and then turned left to parallel the tree line up the other side. Hey - I've been through here so many times, but it really does look different walking up the grassy side instead of staying on the paved path!

Just over the top of the ridge I arrived at a spot that I'd first found over twenty years ago. There's a view of the river valley where the dark hills are spotted with lights. You can even make out the location of a local highway, defined by the headlights and taillights of cars navigating its route.

When I was a younger man with a newly minted drivers license I used to seek out starry views late at night. Sometimes driving out into the countryside, parking in the middle of nowhere, laying on the warm hood of the station wagon and checking out the stars. Sometimes driving to a sandy hill next to Longmeadow High School.

I distinctly recall working one late night at the local amusement park and arriving back in my hometown at 2:00am, only to be drawn to the view at the top of the dunes. Laying there in the sand at age eighteen, looking at stars and wondering what life had in store for me. I guess these are the habits of someone who is "running solo".

So there I found myself at the end of Memorial Day weekend, on the golf course ridge. Observing the footprints of human existence marked by the myriad lights throughout the valley. Hearing no sounds except for the leaves rustling in the trees. Checking out the stars. Thinking about things. Wondering once again what life has in store for me.

unwritten

All right, I know the "connected to the universe" concept can seem a little quirky.

I was going to sleep the night that I’d written the last post. When I checked to see that the alarm clock was set, it was playing the song "the rest is still unwritten".

I swear! I had to laugh! :)

The Rest is Still Unwritten

Hmmm, recently I've been writing about things that happened over a year ago. I'd often felt the blog was incomplete because it started at the time of diagnosis and it only gave a brief history of preceding events. In my mind it didn't do a satisfactory job of conveying what the experience was like before the diagnosis. Originally I had thought about going back and filling in entries in chronological order – so events that occurred in May, June, July 2006 would appear in that part of the blog.

Instead I decided I would write about things as we came upon the anniversary dates. I guess it allows me to think back about things with a new perspective. I can't help but think that the bottom line is - it just helps for me to be writing :)

Oh well. I'll probably come across as schizophrenic, because at the same time I'm active in life again, so there are two parallel tracks of ongoing thought. There must be an eternal optimist in me because something inside feels like life is full of new opportunities, new possibilities – new friends to meet, new things to do, new activities to share. Occasionally I feel selfish that I should be feeling such optimism, but then I'm on my own path now and things are feeling OK. Hmmm...what is life except an opportunity to intersect paths with other people – some for a day, some for a month, some for years.

And finally, one last note for now. If I quoted every song that had some deeper meaning for me in the last few months the blog would have simply become a repository for lyrics. Anyway, of all the various songs, here are the lyrics from one song that continues to resonate with me whenever I hear it:

Natasha Bedingfield, "Unwritten"

I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined
I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

Memorial Day weekend 2007

I had considered returning to Montreal this year to do that annual bicycle ride once again. I figured I would do it by myself - in memory of Robin and the last big ride we had done together.

In the end I decided to stay home and spend the weekend with friends. I some ways the New York City ride in early May was enough memorial for me. Ever since then I've been getting out and doing new things and meeting new people. Time to go with the flow and find new adventures.

I made the final decision not to go to Montreal just days before Memorial Day weekend. Within an hour of the decision two different friends had called and asked if I was free for the weekend.

See, the Universe is still taking care of things.

May 2006 - Brush with death

After Robin's full recovery at the summit we continued the bike ride and everything seemed quite perfect. The remainder of the ride was miles and miles of downhill! In contrast to the early portions of the ride, the final miles were predominately on a four lane country highway where the speed limit was 110 kilometers per hour (about 70mph).

The road itself was smooth, but the shoulder where the bicyclists were riding had occasional pot holes and broken pavement. The ride organizers had meticulously marked the hazards with red spray paint, so they could more easily be avoided. I expect we easily exceeded 30 mph on several portions of the descent.

Arriving back at the car seemed quite a relief - we had completed a fifty-three mile hilly ride in a foreign country. We'd gotten through Robin's health issues at the summit and now we were done for the day. As we changed our clothes and packed the car we recounted portions of the ride.

As we talked about the long downhill portion, Robin matter-of-factly recounted an event that had happened to her. She stated that on one of the fast portions of the downhill she had been caught off guard by a portion of broken pavement. At the last moment she saw the red paint and without thinking she had swerved to the left to miss a pothole in the shoulder. Just at that moment, two sports cars were passing by her on the highway (doing approximately 70mph). Before she knew what was happening she saw the first car pass just inches from the left edge of her handlebars, with the second car following right behind.

Listening to her story and its ho-hum delivery left me feeling cold. Trying not to show concern I asked why she hadn't mentioned this earlier and she said she had not wanted to bother me about it while we were on the ride.

We continued with our packing of the car and finally got on the road. On the drive back to Montreal I thought through the significance of the event in my head. I've been involved in two serious bicycle accidents myself, but nothing would have compared. In my mind I pictured the first car hitting the edge of the left handlebar, sending the bike tumbling in the road, with the second car following from behind. It wasn't a pretty picture. I couldn't seem to stop my mind from thinking through what would have happened next. There would have been an ambulance, maybe a trip to the hospital, but somehow I didn't think she would have survived. I thought, what would have happened after that? Certainly I'd call home for help, my brothers would have arrived that night or the next day. We would have had to travel home separately from Robin.

For the first time in all our years together I had pictured the possibility of Robin dying. My mind even thought through the arrangements involved in transportation back to the United States. Holy cow - how did I get on this train of thought! I seriously considered the possibility that maybe we should just stop biking. Who needs this sport anyway?

By the time we'd arrived back at our hotel I thought better of saying anything to Robin. She hadn't made a big deal out of it. Life is already full of risks. To have suggested sheltering ourselves would have seemed backward from the way we were living life. I guess I figured we'd both learned something from the event, and somehow we would just continue on with our lives, somehow being lucky enough to avoid danger and death into our old age.

May 2006 - The initial signs

The very first blog entry last August gives a brief history of Robin's medical journey. In retrospect she actually began having issues in the Winter of 2006. She had been having stomach pains that were not responding to conventional medications (e.g. the little purple pill). She really disliked going to the doctor and taking any type of medication, so things had to be pretty uncomfortable for her to have sought out treatment. At any rate, things began to escalate in May 2006.

We had spent Labor Day weekend in Montreal in order to participate in an organized bike ride with a few thousand other cyclists. We got a late start on the ride and then within a few hundred yards of the start Robin blew out both her tires going over railroad tracks. A few minutes later another couple came by and one of them also blew out both his tires on the same spot. No one around here spoke English, though I knew enough French to understand the other fellow's swearing and comments of frustration including the words mon dieu (my god!).

No worries, we took our time, patched up Robin's tires and were on our way. The late start and the delay of the flat tires ensured that we would be biking through the countryside (an hour outside of Montreal) by ourselves - except for that other couple who passed us about thirty minutes into the ride.

I had to adjust my sense of perspective as we biked through the flat farmlands. While upstate New York has lots of farm fields, the fields in Canada were many times larger. In the Canadian fields a far away tractor looked liked a tiny toy and was so distant that we couldn't hear any sound that it generated. Biking on the country roads was extremely peaceful. There were no sounds from cars, airplanes, or even birds. So here we were - we hadn't worried about the dual flat tires, and now we were actually benefiting from getting such a late start!

Over time we slowly began to catch up to other riders. We met a young couple from Montreal who spoke impeccable English. I asked if the entire ride was as flat as this portion near the St. Lawrence river and they replied that they didn't recall many hills from the prior year. What we didn't know at the time was that the route changes each year - an hour ahead would be a surprising series of long, steep of climbs to a mountaintop - about eight miles of climbing in total. As it turns out the route map did document the series of climbs, but we didn't quite have a clue since everything on the map (distances and altitudes) was in metric.

So it was that we found ourselves at the thirty mile mark continually encountering longer and steeper hills, occasionally referencing the ride map and trying to guess how close we were to finally reaching the summit. The route was so arduous that many bicyclists were dismounting and walking up the long hills. I've never seen so many hundreds of bikers walking their bikes before! We even saw an unlucky fellow pushing a tandem bicycle up a hill, his riding partner evidently too weak (or frustrated) to assist.

As luck would have it we'd trained sufficiently that we wouldn't have to walk our bikes, but the last few miles to the top were a constant struggle. Though I'd occasionally get ahead of Robin, I would turn off on side streets and into driveways until she would catch up and then I'd offer words of encouragement as if we were teammates doing the Tour de France together! :)

After a seemingly endless series of rises we finally made the summit and declared a rest stop! There were refreshments at the top and a rest area at a church which stood here alone. At first it seemed that we had made a great achievement and that we would take the time to celebrate, however Robin no longer looked so healthy. She got off her bike slowly and sat in the grass. Well, no worries, it was a long climb from which to recover. As we cooled off I began to find that she really was having trouble holding a conversation. I let her rest while I scouted out the facilities, looked for emergency help (in case we needed it), and refilled our water bottles.

When I returned she hadn't improved. There were gnats flying around and she was no longer shooing off the ones which landed on her. Hmmm…this wasn’t good. I helped her move to a spot a little higher in the grass where the breeze would help keep the bugs at bay. Twenty minutes later she continued to insist that she would be fine but her energy was still lackluster.

After nineteen years of learning to work together to solve problems, I remember thinking to myself that when we got home Robin was going to need to start seeing specialists to help figure out what was going on. There was no point in raising the issue with her, *it was decided*. After all our years together, it felt odd to be making a unilateral decision pertaining to her healthcare.

Eventually we took refuge from the cool breeze inside the church basement. When she could tolerate it I rubbed her legs and then gently rubbed her back while she lay with her head in my lap. About an hour later she had recovered to the point that she wanted to continue the ride.

Memorial Day Weekend 2006 - Montreal, Canada

Connected with the Universe

I such a small space as the blog I can't imagine how to explain the feeling of being "Connected to the Universe". Probably most people accept the idea at some level through their connection with God (or Gods), some accept it through their belief in metaphysics, still others simply sense the connection. The idea is that life is full of connections and that if you pay attention to what you see, what you hear, and what you feel, then you'll sense the subtle guidance the universe provides to you. Courage and a sense of Peace come from trusting that your soul knows and senses the way.

In the late 1990's after Robin had attended massage school we both began to sense a greater connectedness to life. I don't know if it was the training she had received, or a change to being more open to life, or maybe some other fundamental change in each of us. As with many folks we'd always thought there were some strange coincidences it life. For example, we'd talk about a friend from long ago and then suddenly that person would call up out of the blue to ask "what's new". Over the years these coincidences just became part of our daily lives.

I'd say the hallmarks of Robin's journey began in late 2005 when we read Lance Armstrong's book "It's not about the bike my ". Then in April 2006 she rented the DVD "The Tibetan Book of the Dead". It's about Buddhist spirituality - how they live life and how they view and experience death.

Wu Wei - working with Inner Nature

There are a few attitudes which helped Robin through her journey, and which continue to help me through mine. I may have already mentioned this idea in January when I was re-reading the "Tao of Pooh" to Robin while she was in the hospital.

Paraphrased from book:
----------------
"At the Gorge of Lu a great waterfall plunges thousands of feet into churning waters.

One day, K'ung Fu-tse saw an old man being tossed about in the turbulent waters below the waterfall. His disciples ran to the man's rescue, but by the time they reached the water the old man had climbed out.

Kung Fu-tse hurried up to the old man and asked how he had survived.

The old man said it was nothing special. He explained that he began to learn when he was very young (and continued to practice) how to go down with the water and to come up with the water. He follows it and forgets himself. He survives in the turbulent water because he doesn't struggle against the water's superior power."
----------------

Ahhh…massage…

I can't believe it has been three months since I had a massage! Today I received one from the massage therapist that Robin used to see. It helped tremendously with some chronic back discomfort - and just overall felt great!

I'd recommend an occasional massage for everyone. If nothing else get together with a partner and exchange foot rubs!

"Permission to have fun" - granted

About a month ago I asked Alex (my counselor) for assistance with an issue. I noted that I was having trouble getting to sleep at a reasonable hour. I tended to spend the early evening napping, then cleaning up around the house and sorting through paperwork. Around 9:30pm I would turn on the TV, and by 10:30pm I would have dinner. Even though I realized it was getting late each night, I would typically not get to bed until 1:00am - and then my alarm would wake me at 6:15am. I had two weekends in a row where exhaustion caught up to me by Saturday and I would crash on the couch for the entire day!

Alex reflected on my question for a moment and then, well, stated the obvious.

He said from where he was sitting, it appeared that I had been through a very tough, stressful year. He suggested that I "give myself a break". Take time to do some fun things. Let go of the paperwork and the household chores. Don't nap in the evening, go to bed on time! Get out and have some fun, unwind, visit with old friends and make some new friends. Holy cow - how long would it have taken me to figure this out! ;)

Well, that was golden advice!

I started to do some bike rides with the local club. I met a nice woman who bikes about the same speed as me and we now do bike rides together nearly every week. One night we went out to dinner and she was explaining to me the technical difference between traversing glaciers and ice climbing (and the different gear that's involved). She's done winter adventures in South America, the Northwest U.S. and Alaska (Mt. McKinley)! Holy cow!

In addition I've been getting out to dinner at least once a week with friends. On the weekends I've flown several times with friends just to go somewhere for breakfast. I've also been meeting friends for coffee every couple of weeks. (How convenient that an independent coffee shop just opened up a mile from my house, and a Starbucks just opened up near my workplace! As usual I'm in alignment with the universe!)

One morning I met a friend for coffee near home and I expected to be there about 20 minutes. Before we knew it nearly two hours had gone by! We chatted about all kinds of topics. She noted that she wished she had spent more time getting to know Robin because she seemed to have been such a positive force in the world!

I've been so sociable lately it made me wonder why I didn't get out this much before. I came to the conclusion that my life had always been so full between doing things with Robin and pursuing various personal interests that I just didn’t make the time to meet with friends.

On a recent bike ride with my cyclist friend we passed a horse farm with many new foals - most of them seemed to be only days old. One of the young foals couldn’t resist running around the field, bouncing on his skinny, stiff front legs like it was his first day using them and he couldn't contain his excitement!

I do realize I've experienced a shift in my own life. Nothing will go back to the way it was before. Life will never be the same, the way I think about things will never be the same, the things I focus on in life will never be the same - but so far this new life feels like an exciting new adventure!

Inner Compass

I do truly recognize that all the great support which folks provided to Robin and I continued in support of me after she died - and I'm thankful to continue to be surrounded by such thoughtful and caring folks!


I'd have to say there's no way to explain how debilitating the grieving process can be. Debilitating is the only word that seems to comes close to describing what I went through the first four to six weeks. I do like to refer to grieving in the past tense, though I'm continually reminded that there are aspects that will be with me for some time to come! On the one hand I wish no one had to experience such crazy emotions, but on the other hand I hope each one of us cares so deeply for another that it can't be forever avoided.


In March I had described to a friend what I was going through, and the support I was getting and she said "it sounded like I was following my inner compass, and as long as I continued to do that I couldn't go wrong". That day I drew pictures of a compass and put them on the computer monitors at home and at work as a reminder to myself.



Grieving is such a personal thing. I wouldn't begrudge someone who said they "did it in a month", or someone else who said that "things hadn't improved after a year". When you've been through it you know that although grieving people share many commonalities in the process, you also realize that you can't know how anyone else experiences their grief. I think that's one of the core strengths people find in support groups. Knowing that they "can't know" what's going on in someone else's head.


The only way to get a glimpse is to simply ask the person "how are you?".

Grieving here, grieving there…

OK, two quick grieving stories.

Story #1: I was traveling on an airplane for business and sat next to a fellow who was wearing a yellow Livestrong bracelet and a similar purple bracelet. It took the entire flight for me to finally ask him why he wore the bracelets - "did he know someone who had been impacted by cancer". He said he had been cured of prostate cancer (the purple bracelet) and his son-in-law had been cured of another type of cancer. Try as I might I couldn't bring myself to tell him about Robin. The words went round-and-round in my head for a few minutes and then I just closed my eyes, leaned back in the seat, relaxed, and had those hot steamy tears start running down my cheeks. Geez - I thought I'd been getting pretty good about being able to talk about this! Sometimes the whole story comes out just matter-of-factly, sometimes not at all. It's usually easiest if the person didn't know Robin at all, and easier still to talk about it if the person has had a cancer touch someone in their lives.

Maybe the difference was that this fellow had been a patient? I guess up until now when I've met someone whose life has been touched by cancer it's been that they knew someone "in their lives" - but they weren't the patient. Does it matter somehow in my head that the person I'm talking to has actually had cancer themselves? I don't know if I felt that my story might unnerve him, or if somehow I didn't think Robin's story compared to his (after all he's alive…). Maybe there is some other meaning which hasn't occurred to me yet…

Anyway, one big difference these days is that I can still have the tears, but I don’t have roller coaster emotions. Now it's just something that happens…


Story #2: Our corporate culture while on business travel is such that when the business day ends if there's a group of travelers returning to one hotel, they'll often agree to "meet in the lobby in an hour to go to dinner". This gives everyone time to go back to their room, call home to check in with the family, change their clothes if desired, maybe check some e-mails and wind down a little before dinner. So the first night on travel our group gets back to the hotel, we make plans to meet, and I walk into my hotel room. Then the grieving sensation hits as I think "it's time to call home!" and then I realize "there's no one at home to talk to!". It really caught me off guard that these thoughts would appear in my head. It didn't last long. I changed my clothes and went to meet a coworker at the hotel bar where I talked to her about what had happened. Thank goodness I have such wonderful support all around!

The next night when I got back to my hotel room I called a family member. The third night I got back to my hotel room I didn't call anyone. I just took time to relax before dinner.

After writing these two brief stories it did occur to me that I no longer have the "three days up, three days down" which I was feeling a month ago. I've begun to settle down into my new world and things are looking OK.

Five Boro Bike Tour 2007

Sunday May 7th, *2006*. Robin had just turned forty-three years old. We'd just spent one night in an absurdly expensive New York City hotel in the Wall Street District of lower Manhattan. In the last couple of years we'd learned to do some pretty crazy things for fun. On this vacation weekend we'd spent the night in the city so that on Sunday morning we could arrive early at the start line of the New York City "Five Boro Bike tour". A forty-two mile bicycle ride originating in lower Manhattan and ending in Staten Island just after crossing the Verrazano-Narrows bridge.

For the 2005 Five Boro ride Robin and I had found less expensive accommodations in New Jersey, but it had meant that we had to wake up before 4:00am to catch a very early Staten Island ferry. In 2006 our one night of indulgence allowed us to rise and shine at 5:50am and yet still arrive at the start line by 6:20am. This tactic would put us near the front of the pack and when you're riding through Manhattan with 26,000 other bicyclists it's pretty handy to be near the front of the crowd!

Unbeknownst to Robin and I, the 2006 Five Boro ride would be our last "trouble free" bike tour. The weather was marvelous. We had not trained as much as planned, but we finished the forty-two miles without a problem. The ride had been our first milestone in preparing for a July 2006 bike tour from Niagara Falls to Saratoga Springs, New York (500 miles) in seven days. We would never get to do the Niagara Falls ride. Instead that would become the week of Robin's first exploratory surgery which would uncover the cancer.

Well, fast forward to 2007. Robin couldn't be with us this year - but my brother Corry, my friend Larry and I commemorated the event by riding to the Five Boro tour together. Since the ride finishes in Staten Island, Corry and I each parked our cars at the Staten Island finish line last Saturday afternoon. We brought our bikes onto the ferry and upon arrival in the city we biked to a hotel in Lower Manhattan.

(Corry and I Saturday afternoon)

(Statue of Liberty viewed from the ferry)

Saturday night we met our great friend Luis who took us to his favorite NYC restaurant! Over dinner I showed Luis a slightly worn picture of Robin which I'd brought in my wallet. I had intended to present it to him as a gift, but twenty-four hours in my wallet had irrevocably bent the edges. Noticing the wear and tear I made other plans for the photo.

Corry and enjoyed a quiet Saturday night at the hotel. In the morning we picked up our bikes from the valet parking and met Larry at 7:00am. For the first time in years I wasn't obsessed about getting to the start line early! It was actually quite relaxing to arrive just forty minutes before the start, rather than an hour and forty minutes. It turned out to be a beautiful day for a bike ride!

(Corry, Larry and I - 7am Sunday)

In lower Manhattan as we passed 14th street I looked eastward and could see the Beth Israel clinic where Robin had received her radiation treatments. By midtown (42nd street) I could see the neighborhoods Robin and had walked through for exercise last Fall. The reminders continued right through Central Park where Corry, Larry and I biked past the Children's Zoo.

After Central Park the memories began to change. Familiar sites beyond Central Park were all related to the bike rides of 2005 and 2006. Sites like the Astoria Park rest stop where in 2006 Robin and I stopped to shed some cold weather layers, but we had decided not to stay for long so as to stay ahead of the crowd. Then there was a McDonald's in the Bronx where we'd stopped in 2005 to use the restroom - along with fifty other cyclists. On that day in 2005 the "biker" women had proclaimed that the McDonald's bathrooms were to be unisex - essentially to shorten their wait!

And so last Saturday's ride essentially mirrored what's been going on in my head lately. As I once again grow roots in the familiarity of a daily routine my thoughts and memories of Robin have been changing too. My recollections these days are less about the cancer journey and more of the times before cancer. The fun times, the happy times.

On this year's ride as Corry, Larry and I approached the Verrazano Narrows bridge (and the end of the ride) I explained that we would plan on stopping at the high point of the bridge. I noted that there might be ride officials in that area warning bicyclists to "keep moving, don't stop" but that we would stop anyway.

As it turns out there was no one to badger us when Corry and I reached the top. As I held onto Robin's photo, Corry and I took a look around us at the places we'd been that day (Manhattan, Queens, Bronx, Brooklyn), the distance we'd covered in that morning's ride, and the riders trailing us way down by the river where we'd just been riding ourselves. Then, just about the time Larry caught up to us, I gave the photo one last kiss and let it go off the bridge.

(View of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge from Staten Island)

Chimes singing with the wind

It's amazing how the crying comes and goes. It's been explained to me by many people, many times, that grieving is like an uphill journey. Every once in a while the road takes a dip downward again (more crying), but then it climbs some more (things get better). The uphill (and upbeat) periods become longer as one slowly reconnects to the world.

It used to be a combination of crying, fear and emptiness all at the same time - mourning for Robin and for the part of me that's died. With no children I pretty much lost my entire family when Robin left. It was worst the first six weeks or so. Then out of nowhere I started to feel occasionally like I had a personality again. I didn't know I had lost my personality. During those first six weeks it was like I had no walls between me and the world - no boundaries. I was just in the moment feeling raw and wounded. I didn't realize how intense it was or how much of "me" was missing until an "I" began to emerge. Kind of like a computer reboot. Beginning in an initial state of nothingness, not even being aware that there was an "I" inside.

Luckily it's evolved to more or less crying without a sense of fear, and a less strong sense of loss. Well, I guess it's more sobbing than crying. Hot tears running down my cheeks, a quick breath-out and then stuttered breathing in. I can't remember the last time I'd cried before Robin got sick - it was years and years. I guess there is balance in the universe, because it feels like I have had ten years worth of tears in the past ten months.

There's no timetable to it. These days the crying starts out of nowhere and then subsides pretty quickly. I'm so used to it that I can even continue typing or talking while the tears roll down.

In the beginning I kept pretty sheltered. Never answered a ringing telephone. I always took days to reply to e-mails. Since I've gotten my personality back I started to answer the phone again and I've cleaned up the backlog of e-mails.

It helps that Spring is emerging… A friend had given Robin a set of outdoor chimes last year. I've hung them back outside recently. It makes me think of Robin when I hear them ringing.