Quietly, into the Sunrise

So much change, so quickly. My head spins when I think of all that has come about in the past 6 months since I last wrote and of all the mystery that lies ahead.

• Pete’s unexpected but “blessing-in-disguise” employment layoff in May.

It had always been an unfulfilling job, and all along Pete hoped only that it would someday soon serve as a “bridge” to something better. So there was no real profound disappointment, just a greater sense of urgency.

• Pete’s whirlwind, speedy, dazzling employment back in Albany, New York, where we both grew up.

Who says you can’t go home? East coast, eastern time zone, Red Sox baseball, the cottage, family. This is something Pete and I had always hoped for but never truly believed would happen. Now that it’s reality, it feels, well, oddly foreign. The thought of returning home, at age 53 and 30 years later, is having sort of a “stranger in a strange land” effect on me, and I'll admit to being a bit apprehensive. And what about the kids? For Pete and me, St. Louis, like San Diego and Tulsa, has been where we live but never “home.” Chris and Shannon know Albany only as an occasional Christmas or Thanksgiving. They’re 21 and 19 now and have spent most of their lives in St. Louis. Will they feel “homeless”?

• A job offer in Albany for me as well.

A technical writer position. At the risk of sounding like Maxwell Smart (I prefer the original Don Adams version), it’s Top Secret, so I cannot talk about it. (I love getting to deliver that line, but, truthfully, I really know very little about the job myself.)

     Timing is everything, I guess. I can’t help but wonder about the amazing timing of these opportunities. Jobs in my field are tough to come by in Albany, especially in the current economic climate. Jobs in Pete’s field, at his level, are hard to come by too. For both to happen at the same time and in our hometown is, I believe, more than just coincidence.

• House for sale.

I have to, resignedly, laugh about this. Pete and I have never had much luck in the housing market, always being transferred, and having to sell, during the most sluggish of times for the cities where we lived: Boston in 1991, San Diego in 1994, Tulsa in 2000—and clearly there is little room for optimism that this move will be any different. So we paint the walls, polish the floors, shine the granite, and hope for the best. And pray to St. Joseph.

• My ovarian cancer officially in remission.

It’s been 1 year since my diagnosis. Not that I recommend cancer as a life-changer, but this most recent, lengthy experience has been a gift for me in many respects. For starters, it has sharpened my senses: I think that I see more deeply; touch more meaningfully; and smell and taste more appreciatively. And though I don’t necessarily listen better, I know I hear more acutely. Even quiet is exquisitely quieter.


Pete left St. Louis 3 months ago to start his job in Albany. I am still here, along with Minnie the cat and Ziggy the dog. The house is always quiet. I found it discomforting at first, this stillness, this quietness, 24 hours a day, day after day, with very little to disrupt it. No CNN news chatter coming from Pete’s television, no heavy footsteps as he comes up the stairs, no ear-piercing screech from his broken top dresser drawer as he yanks it open to get a pair of socks, no robust sneezing that echoes throughout the house, no business calls just barely audible through the floor vent from his office to mine, no thud followed by cursing as he bangs his head yet again on a kitchen cabinet that he forgets is there. No laughter as he plays tug of war with Ziggy, and no gentle voice reassuring Minnie, while he coddles her and rubs her ears, that, even though she's tiny compared with Ziggy, she was here first and, therefore, still rules the roost.

     Funny how you can miss people’s “noise” patterns. The noises are comforting, I guess, but you don’t realize this until you don’t hear them anymore (or maybe it’s just me).

     I miss the kids’ noises. Shannon came home for about 34 hours a few weeks ago. I couldn’t help but smile every time I heard her toss around in her bed as she slept—until midday—in the next room, adjacent to my office. I could hear that she was home, here with me. I didn’t have to see her, didn’t have to touch her, hug her, or brush her hair from her face to take pleasure in her presence. Just hearing her noise filled me ... my whole body felt full and happy. During the night, while I slept, I could hear her scavenging—as she always has done—for a midnight snack, anything edible and not fat-free. Shannon’s a voracious carnivore, and I knew she was hoping to find a big hunk of leftover steak. I could hear the fridge door unsucking itself open, a pantry door slamming, the crunching of ice tumbling down from the icemaker, and then the steady stream of water splashing over the cubes, taking forever to fill Shannon’s tall glass (most of which will later inevitably flood the carpet after Minnie paws at the glass, toppling it, so that she may, too, get a drink). The next day I hear Shannon’s laughter as she plays with Ziggy and tries, in vain, to teach the dog to roll over. I hear Ziggy yelp with devious pleasure: She steals the proffered treat and runs, trying to instigate a game of chase instead. Later I hear Shannon say “Love you too” as she pulls out of the driveway, heading away from me, back to Colorado.

     I miss the shuffling sounds of Chris’ feet across the carpet when he first gets out of bed in the morning and lazily, sleepily makes his way to the bathroom. Then he shuffles himself to my door to say hello. The springs on the daybed in my office groan as Chris throws his 6’2” frame on top of it and rests for a while longer, clearly in no rush to jumpstart his day. He makes small talk; I listen. Chris typically generates a lot of noise around the house: banging pans as he fries up an egg and bacon sandwich, yelling from his favorite TV chair to his dad in the basement about how the Red Sox might not suck this season after all, hammering in the garage as he builds a beer pong table or some other valuable project. In my mind, I can hear him grunting on the living room floor as he does his push-ups. He collapses in defeat and laughter when Ziggy climbs on his head and licks his face, trying to get in on the action. Chris is always laughing, always talking, always making noise, rendering his presence in the house even bigger—and his absence bigger still.

     With no one else around, I talk to the dog and the cat a lot, though the conversations tend to be lopsided and boring after a while. They cock their heads when I talk (sometimes simultaneously and to the same side, which is pretty funny). I used to think this meant they were trying to understand what I was saying, but I’ve come to realize that instead they’re thinking, “Why are our food bowls still empty?”

     We've had an amazingly long string of absolutely gorgeous fall mornings here lately, so, partly to offset our isolation, Ziggy and I walk, to where it’s not so quiet but still peaceful, reassuring even, with the early sounds of life resuming, picking up where it left off the day before. Sometimes we get so caught up in the moments of our walk and in our rambling thoughts—Ziggy’s may not be quite as depthful as mine but she’s just as easily distracted (so many bunnies and squirrels)—that we keep walking, and walking, and walking. Yesterday morning we walked more than 9 miles; 8 the day before. At the risk of sounding preachy, not a day goes by when I don't remember where I was, how I was, exactly 1 year ago, and every day I am grateful for the ability to stand upright and move my feet purposefully, for the energy that propels me forward, for my good health so that I can not only walk but walk for miles and miles and explore, see, hear, smell, and touch.

     My favorite route takes us up and down and around to Still Creek Pass, a perfect name for this peaceful street: tree-lined, so that the morning sun breaks through in bits and pieces, streaking the vibrant gardens of autumn marigolds and mums; impeccably manicured lawns; fine but unpretentious homes. It’s a little bit off the beaten path, so there’s like a blanket of quiet as we walk here. The noise is gentle: the crunch of fallen leaves under our feet; moms calling to their kids to get moving; neighbor dogs barking playfully at each other as they sit at the corner with their boy or girl, waiting for the school bus to come; the screaming brakes of the bus as it approaches and slows, the bus then rumbling by. A happy black lab retriever lives in the corner house. Sometimes he’s on his back deck observing, guarding his domain, when Ziggy and I pass by. He’s excited to see Ziggy, but unlike every other dog in the world doesn’t bark his enthusiasm: He instead starts running round and round in an endless tight circle, maniacally. Reminds me of the Tilt-a-Whirl amusement park ride, where you’re spinning so fast you can’t see straight and all your brain matter collides inside your skull. And you get off the ride, dazed, maybe a little thrilled, your head still spinning. I think that’s how the dog must feel; I can relate. I love walking this street. From my perspective, the people who live here are really lucky.

     Next week Pete flies in, and then we’re packing up and heading East. Quietly, into the sunrise; quiet no more.