I’ve been thinking about weeds a lot lately. Not that weed, though it’s entered my mind a few times. I’m referring to the weeds that have overtaken my back yard.
It was inevitable. Last summer, instead of watering and tending my yard, I was tethered to an IV bag of 5FU. For those unfamiliar with chemo shorthand, 5FU, stands for fluorouracil. An oncology nurse explained that 5FU stood for the five different chemicals that comprised the chemo treatment. All I know for sure is that fluorouracil or 5FU is aptly named. Fluorouracil is given intravenously for aggressive cancers – colon, rectum, stomach, and pancreas. I fell into the latter. 5FU has one purpose – to stop the growth of cancer cells. It also greatly stops life as you know it.
I’ve always taken pride in my yard. But when I became a single parent, it became my sole responsibility. Mowing my yard – the front and back – was an outward sign that I was holding it together. Even if life was going sideways, my yard never showed it. Plus, there was the sense of accomplishment. The clean, uniform rows and raked clippings made my lush lawn look like it’d been properly cared for. Whenever I pulled up to my house, my groomed lawn made me smile. It brought great joy. Sure, it was hard work, but the payoff was worth the sweaty hair and grimy, grass-stained sneakers. When I looked at my lawn, I saw progress. I saw beauty from ashes. I saw what it meant to hope.
Labor Day weekend 2021, marked an entire year of mowing my lawn following my unexpected divorce. But as more time passed, and the more I mowed, the more I realized that I had often taken my husband’s yard work for granted and most likely the balance of our marriage.
As the season wrapped up, I changed my front planters from colorful annuals to a harvest of autumn gourds. September rolled gently into a long fall. It was as if Mother Nature herself ensured I was on solid footing before winter hit.
Winter was late arriving in Wyoming. I was more than happy to keep my snow shovel tucked behind the front door as long as possible. While mowing provided a great sense of achievement, shoveling snow had the opposite effect. No sooner would I clear a path from my front door to the street when the wind and snow would instantly erase my efforts.
By mid-November, my wood-burning fireplace bestowed an impressive amount of stacked firewood waiting to be burned, the outdoor faucets were capped and covered, and the front screen dormer had been exchanged with the winter version. I was set.
I wasn’t thrilled to start another winter without the love of my life beside me, but my outlook, like the weather, slowly changed. Instead of feeling like a victim of circumstances, I felt somewhat like a victor. After all, I had successfully mowed every week of summer and my yard was spectacular. In that area of life, I was winning.
Then it happened. It was Friday night after a long workweek and I thought I was having a heart attack. A sharp, piercing pain that radiated below my left shoulder blade was unrelenting. I wanted to call my mom, who was a nurse, but she wasn’t alive to talk me through my symptoms.
“This’ll pass,” became my mantra. But it didn’t.
The pain continued until I heard my mom’s voice as clearly as if she was beside me.
“Referred pain.”
Referred pain can make someone think they’re having one thing, like a heart attack, when in reality it’s something else.
Was it a heart attack? Or was this referred shoulder pain something else?
I did the only thing I knew to do and called Ron, my former husband. We were on good terms and the only alternative was my 15-year-old teenage son, who couldn’t drive.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I said when he answered my call.
“Well,” he said calmly, “We won’t know until we go to the ER.”
I watched the first snowfall cover my front yard as Ron drove me to our small community hospital. It was Sunday night after a full day of football games and the emergency room was teaming with sick people. When I quietly told the intake nurse that I thought I was having a heart attack, the locked double-doors behind her instantly opened. That’s when it hit me – what if I am having a heart attack?
My dad died suddenly of a heart attack when he was 62. Besides his brown hair and eyes, did I inherit his weak heart too?
An EKG showed normal heart rhythm.
While tests were ordered, I lay on a hospital bed and Ron sat on a chair beside me.
“I forgot to wrap the tree trunks,” I said of the new trees I planted.
Ron nodded.
“They have to be protected.” My focus centered on something I could control.
Ron rested his hand on mine. “We’ll do it this weekend.”
Only I didn’t go home. I remained in the hospital and then a series of hospitals when what was thought to be pancreatitis resulted in the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I was 53, looking down the barrel of one of the worst cancers. But I wasn’t alone and I knew I wouldn’t be. Ron never left my side.
I began chemo on December 20, 2021 and left the infusion center tethered to a portable pump of 5FU.
I didn’t see my back yard until late spring. When I wasn’t throwing up or hooked up to chemo, I slept. I slept to avoid the pain. I slept through the winter and most of spring.
In March, I underwent the Whipple surgery, which made 5FU seem like a warmup.
My tumor was resected along with most of my pancreas. It was a long, painful recovery with more chemo to follow.
When I returned home, my head was as bare as the limbs on my trees. My body was equally as thin and brittle as their unprotected trunks.
“I think they died,” I said to Ron, who steadied me.
“They’re strong,” he said, “They’ll make it. You’ll see.”
When the last frost of the season gave way to warmer mornings, the neighbors on either side of me, took turns mowing my front yard. They made sure my front yard maintained its appearance. But the backyard, which was fenced, was left unattended. After work, Ron would water the trees in the front yard. Collectively, they kept my front yard alive. And in turn, my spirits.
By the end of summer, I rang the bell at the hospital, which marked a huge milestone – the conclusion of chemo and the hardest battle of my life. I had soldiered through nausea, surgery, and nerve damage to get to this point. However, I remained weak and exhausted. I didn’t have the energy to mow or even the drive, which saddened me.
When would I return to life? Or was this my life? My front yard was in good shape, but when I finally saw my backyard, I stood in shock. The prairie had taken over and went wild. Weeds stood a foot high. They were everywhere, choking off the grass and trapping in heat.
It felt suffocating. The weeds appeared seemingly out of nowhere and were as invasive as cancer. They spread and continued to spread, consuming my back yard and my thoughts. Any time I stepped outside, I turned and walked back into the house. There were too many weeds. And it was just too much.
Still, I couldn’t stop noticing the toxic takeover of my back yard, which made me mad. The emotions that rose in me were as ugly, thorny, and as unwanted as the weeds. Because what I really wanted was someone or something to blame – for the deterioration of my yard, my body, and my marriage.
Buried anger is tricky that way. It seeks a culprit, like a weed, rather than deal with the underlying issue – the root cause.
My marriage and my yard were no different. I had stopped tending to my marriage with nurturing words and actions. Over time, our relationship overgrew with resentments, anger, and loss.
It took a heart attack scare for me to sort through the debris and find my way back to my former husband. Ron is my best friend, my hospital hero, and the love of my life. Again, I was one of the lucky ones. I was given a second chance.
The only thing that remained in need of repair was my back yard. The more I stared at it, the angrier I became. I finally had enough. I laced up my grass-stained sneakers and headed outside. It had recently rained and the yard was still wet. I reached for a weed and firmly grabbed the thick base of it, expecting a good fight. I was ready. Bring. It. On.
Instead, the weed came out root and all with such ease that I shook my head. That can’t be right. It can’t be this easy.
I reached for another weed and yanked so hard I threw myself backwards, the weed still clutched in my hand. Weed after weed – ground ivy, stinging nettle, thistle – I ripped until my yard was as clear as my last CT scan.
And then I lay on my patio and wept.
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