Introduction: You Are Always the Hero of Your Own Story

----- Original Message -----

Subject: Thanks to All

Sent: 8/2/07

From: Karen

Hi to all,

I just wanted to thank you myself for being there and for joining us along this journey. And I want to thank Edward the most for being the best friend and husband ever. Words can't express how grateful I am for everything he's done and the support he's given me during this tough time. But mostly for sending out all those messages for me, when I was too tired or too scared to do it myself. When this started I didn't have the words and he stepped in to fill the gap. By the end, his was the voice that could say it best... I hope we didn't pester you too much with our messages.

I helped Edward with the list of thank you's. We hope we got everyone. But if not, then thank you for what you did to help me through this. What comes next will be easy compared to what we've been through so far.

So with that, we sign off.

Thank you again.

Karen

----- End Original Message -----

Just over three years ago, I received this message from my wife, Karen. That day she received her final radiation treatment for the breast cancer she had been diagnosed with eight months before. With that, her overall course of adjuvant therapy was complete.

In the preceding months, she had been through three surgeries, eight rounds of dense-dose chemotherapy using three different drugs, 33 radiation treatments (including 5 high-dose) and blood tests every one to two weeks. Her doctors included a surgeon, a medical oncologist and a radiation oncologist, with her primary care physician and gynecologist standing by. Briefly, there was an in-home nurse. Her prescriptions at various times included painkillers, steroids, red blood cell boosters, white blood cell boosters, sleep aids, antihistamines, anti-nausea medications and laxatives.

Sound a bit overwhelming? At times it was. But we were lucky. Karen responded well to treatment, both physically and mentally. With the exception of a couple side effects, today she is fine.

Back then, we had no way to know how events would turn out. When she was first diagnosed, I knew we were in for a long-haul journey, the kind from which you remember each grueling step for years. The kind that required more than just walking the physical path to make it through.

My first goal was to support her. I could make the fight easier, but could not fight the battle for her. I could take care of her, cook for her, shop for her, maintain the house and the cats for her. I could keep an appointment schedule with her, listen to the doctors with her. I could hold her hand, and sometimes her head. I could threaten to kick my neighbor’s ass if he woke her up after chemo again with his stereo blaring profanity-laden rap music.

Those were the physical things I could do to help her. But the physical is only half the battle. The mental component is just as necessary.

When we first announced Karen’s diagnosis to friends and family, many asked what they could do to help. “Be there,” was my one consistent reply. Stay in touch. I felt I had the day to day under control. And if I didn’t, I already knew who would be first on the list to call. Fortunately, I never needed to.

But I also knew from experience that not everyone would follow through on that simple request. In fairness, no one’s life stands still for 8 months or longer. Everyone has their own day to day crises to deal with.

Still, I wanted to fill in the gaps that I knew inevitably would open. I also wanted to update the people who had asked to be kept informed. I knew that fell on my shoulders. Karen would have neither the time nor energy on most days. Finally, I wanted to express what I saw and felt as we went through this. From the beginning, Karen encouraged me to write about it. It was either that or stand in the backyard screaming.

But this is not my story. All you really need to know about me is that I’m a fighter, a problem solver, a role-player and a writer. I prefer to be proactive as it gives me a sense of control.

As the situation unfolded, it quickly became clear that control was going to be in short supply. In Karen’s situation, it becomes easy to see yourself as someone things happen to, not someone who has any influence over how events turn out. Any expert will tell you that is a deadly mindset for survival.

I wanted Karen see herself as a person who still had a measure of control. It’s not that I doubted her ability to survive. I didn’t. She’s tougher than I am. I wanted her to see herself as the fighter I knew she was, a hero not a victim.

Many people compare cancer treatment to a journey. From the beginning, I saw it more like an adventure. Not the kind you read in novels, the kind that really happens, complete with hunger and sickness, soreness and sleep deprivation, rain and wind and cold. The kind you don’t know how it will turn out.

As Karen progressed through treatment, I sent out two kinds of messages, real-world “treatment updates” and creative “essays” in the form of fantasy adventures. The updates told people what was going on day to day. The adventures were re-imaginings of what we were going through in a fantasy setting. Karen has always read fantasy novels. These messages were my gift to her, stories to entertain her during treatment as well as communicate what she was going through with friends and family. I hope they do the same for anyone reading them today.

I’ve marked each message with one of those two tags. To that I have added two “guides” one for symbols and another as a glossary. Several people who read them told me their dictionaries got a workout. I’ve also posted each message with the original date it was sent so that they each come up in order, oldest at the bottom with the exception of the final essay, which I wanted to come up last. They can be read in any order you want. I’ve only edited the original messages for obvious typos and mistakes.

So why am I posting this archive now? Since 2007, I’ve wanted to make it available to others affected by breast cancer, both as patients and caregivers. It took so long because rereading it is still difficult for me even though everything turned out ok. I still choke up as I remember. My eyes still well with tears.

The road is long and sometimes hard. I only hope that this archive will help make someone else’s journey a little easier, their burden a little lighter, and maybe provide them with a map. In other words, I hope it helps whoever reads it as much as Karen says it helped her. I suspect if you’ve read this far, you are either on her same road or know someone who is.

If so, I would like you take away at least one thought from these messages: You are always the hero of your own story. You may not have a choice in how your life unfolds, but you always have a choice in how you react. Sometimes, that can be the difference between surviving and not.

Best of luck and Godspeed upon your journey, wherever it may take you. I hope Karen’s and my experience will help you a little along the way.

Edward

September 2010

Karen 2010

Epilogue

As she watches the sunrise from the end of the driveway each morning, Karen reminds herself of this saying that she's adopted as her own:

“No one knows the story of tomorrow's dawn.”- Ashanti Proverb

(to which she always adds, "I intend to listen the that story for many years to come...")

Karen

September 2007

Silence

Eight months of battle has come to an end. The siege is over, the campaign won. The war transforms from hot to cold with détente on the horizon.

A few tasks remain unfinished. In the coming months, the sally port will be bricked up. Sentinels will be posted and auguries performed to warn of any impending threat. She will stand a five-year vigil in the chapel every evening, lighting a votive like a prayer to ward off the grendel's return.

But these are the duties of a garrison not the deeds of an adventure.

The lists have been disbanded, the debris of battle cleared away. On the bailey tents have been dropped, banners furled and horses readied for the road. Mercenaries have been paid and ride toward their next contract. Friends and allies drift away toward home.

In truth many left long ago, worn by fatigue from endless months of siege. A few never answered the call at all. Some sought answers to unanswerable questions in advance, wanting to know whether the battle would be won or lost before committing their energy behind it. Others waited for a victory celebration without wanting to confront the possibility of defeat.

Only a handful understood that, either way, we endured this adventure with only words to convey our fear and pain, with only words to comfort us. These select were far fewer than I had hoped we when set our feet upon this path. But, like gold, they revealed themselves against the sediment as the water swirled relentlessly around the pan. And remain as cherished as rubies tumbled from a mountain stream.

The dovecote stands empty. All the pigeons have been released, their messages delivered if some unwanted or unread. Only one remains cooing in my hand, waiting for this final missive to be strapped against its leg, waiting for its time to fly. I sooth it with gentle strokes, wistfully remembering its companions before I lift it to the air.

Nothing more to say, I raise her banner one last time and watch the horses retreat toward the horizon. The quietude of night descends like the silence echoing against my ears. Above the gate an armored figure leans upon her spear, her shield slung over one shoulder, her sword still belted to her waist, ready to fight again if necessary but hoping it is not. As twilight deepens and friends depart, she waves farewell and Godspeed. Framed against the battlement, her silhouette sets in my mind as the picture of a hero. A veteran.

A survivor.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

De-ported (unsent)

----- Original Message -----

Karen's port came out this afternoon, not for much sawing and gnashing of teeth. Ok, not that bad, but it was apparently reluctant. Fortunately, the surgeon's staff would not allow me to bear witness to the blessed event though I did see the aftermath. Uncomfortable, but not too painful as it was described. At least it could all be done in the office and didn't take much time.

She has three stitches that come out next Wednesday, the day before we leave for Atlanta. This kind of closes the chapter on all but the maintenance for us on this adventure. We celebrated with a frosty Starbucks frappaccino on the way home.

As an added bonus, we don't have to show documentation for the port to Homeland Security during the scans at the airport. And I was practicing my top three things NOT to say it was on the way home. It's a less than one gram, non-felony cocaine smuggling container. It's the detonator for the two pounds of plastique she had surgically implanted in her left femur (funny, the scan should have set that off). It's a direct brain stimulation device to control her psychotic alternate personalities (tap, tap, I think the batteries are dead). Yeah, those guys don't have a sense of humor. No, I don't mess with them. They have guns, and the personality to use them.

Forgive me, I'm a bit punchy from having all this over and done, and from being worried from not knowing exactly what to expect as the appointment approached. But it's out. Yeah!

----- End Original Message -----

Ultrasound

----- Original Message -----

Went down and got the ultrasound done. Everything looks good. It looks as though what we felt was a lymph node (though neither doctor thought it would be). So no problem. But boy did going back to the facility to get it done put us both back where we started in December. Initially, they didn’t want to let me come back, but changed their minds once they figured out she was in for an ultrasound not a mammogram. We did get some lunch out together before we came home. Karen is headed back into work.

Tuesday, Karen gets the port out. Then probably a follow-up from that a few days before we got to Atlanta.

We're planning on going to a movie on Sunday (Stardust) with some friends. Other than that, no real plans for the weekend.

----- End Original Message -----

Appointments 4

----- Original Message -----

Made it to the follow-up with the radio-oncologist this morning, not without difficulty. I got in my Jeep and clutch pedal went straight to the floor. No hydraulics.

Karen's appointment went fine. No new information. He wants to see Karen again in 3 months, then every six after. He wants a mammogram about 6 months from November, her next scheduled one. Right now, she has follow-ups with all three doctors (surgeon and 2 oncologists) within a week in November. Plus her gyn in September. Plus I'm sure our primary will want to see her at some point. Never ending. But the radio-oncologist did say that while he would normally see her every 3 months that since she was seeing the medical oncologist every 3 that he could go with every 6 for the next couple years. At least she has a lot of eyes looking out for her.

He felt the thing Karen is getting ultrasounded tomorrow. He wasn't concerned as it moved with the scar and he thought it might be consolidating scar tissue or a pocket filled with fluid. Nice to hear, but I am still very nervous. This all started with an ultrasound. I can tell how much it's bothering me as I haven't been real good on sleep or productivity this week.

I'll let you know how it goes.

----- End Original Message -----

Appointments 3

----- Original Message -----

Karen scheduled with the surgeon for the port to come out next Tuesday, 8/21. It's done in the office under a local. Doesn't take any longer than a normal appointment. I think I'll wait outside on that one, if I have a choice, which I probably won't. She'll probably want me there. I'll go with her (or drive myself and meet her) to go to the other appointments this week. We have to sort out those details yet.

Talking to the doctor yesterday, he mentioned that he spent last night writing a letter to Washington to express his concern about groundwork being laid for what he saw as a two tiered medical system in this country. He was concerned about the rules for Medicare being talked about which drop the standard of care back 10 years. He believes that private insurance will quickly adopt similar rules leaving only the very rich able to afford some of the care given today. He said he didn't classify himself in that category. Scary.

I'll let you know how Thursday and Friday go.

----- End Original Message -----

Appointments 2

----- Original Message -----

Ugh, a long day of appointments. Karen's bloodwork and follow-up with the medical oncologist took 2.5 hours. They were very busy with chemo patients, as some Monday's are. We barely had time for lunch before we had to take the cats in for their annuals.

The doctor has Karen starting on Tamoxifen for her hormone therapy, at least initially. She has blood tests scheduled in 3 months that determine whether she is pre- or post-menopausal. If she is now post, then he will change drugs to Arimidex. They work differently. One is effective for pre- the other for post- in preventing estrogen from either binding or being created. He listed off a bunch of scary, but unlikely side effects. He also asked if she wanted to start on anything to control her hot flashes, but she decided to wait unless they got worse.

As the doctor was checking her scars, she pointed out a nodule that had come up from a ridge on the scar from her axillary lymph nodes. He ordered an ultra-sound on Friday just to make certain it is only scar tissue.

For the next year, Karen will see the medical oncologist once every 3 months. For the second year, it will be every 4 months. After that, every 6.

The good news is that the port can come out as soon as she can schedule it with the surgeon. That might be able to be done in the office, which is creepy but makes it easier. She'll call the surgeon tomorrow to set that up.

I think that it for the moment.

Karen has her follow-up with the radio-oncologist Thursday morning, which I will also likely go to, as I will to the ultrasound on Friday. Busy week.

----- End Original Message -----

Tour

On her final day within the grendel's lair, I tour the laboratory of sorcerer-engineer.

Beyond the entrance, a sacrifice upon the wall in an illuminated style reminds me we have entered another religious enclave. In a simple cell, she exchanges her armor for a rough-spun robe, her weapons and equipment guarded under lock and key.

A choir monk, a sorcerer-technician, walks me through the checklist of spells he prepares while training a novice and replacement. A heavy metal door leads to a lead-lined vault sealed against legions of tiny, conjured demons, nines of millions in number, who can know no escape for the havoc they would wreak upon this world. She is positioned at the center of the armillary sphere that fills this room. It lifts and tilts on ponderous, whirring gears as they align it under mirrors reflecting calibrated shafts of light. A template is fitted to focus the fiendish magic. Numbers and symbols scroll through the air above her head, glowing, scarlet and angry. We retreat to safety before hoards of evil gremlins become unleashed.

The control room is carved to resemble a Norse rune called the Gateway, a thorn upon a rose marking Thor's domain where giants and demons stagger under his hammer blows. Each station faces a different chamber, one for penetrating demons, another for the superficial. Sorcerer-technicians scry upon her through crystal balls to monitor her progress, possessing no wards powerful enough to allow anyone to stand beside her. The demons have eaten through two apparatus with their vitriolic dispositions. Both will be replaced before the moon has turned.

The chamber is darkened, a button pushed, the magical accelerator uncovered and unchained. Its beam is set into motion, its ray invisible to our eyes. No torches dim, no candles flicker. Only a red lantern is raised above the threshold to remind us not to enter. The monks and sisters observe a moment of silent contemplation for the instants that the witching lasts.

And she is free.

She rearmors quickly before we depart. At the gate the lay sister who greeted her every morning from the tollhouse assigns an angel to perch upon her shoulder, a golden reminder of an ordeal now both judged and passed.

On the journey home, concentric rings spread across glassy pools of water with each drop of rain falling from a leaden sky like unshed tears of joy.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Final Update

----- Original Message -----

Radiation is done! Yeah! Treatment is finally over! WooHoo!

And we even get to go to Dragon*Con in Atlanta. Yippee!

Now things enter a maintenance phase, much less week to week or day to day. After eight months, we are finally free from a schedule.

I've decided not to send any further updates. In summary, Karen has a follow-up with the medical oncologist and the radio-oncologist in two weeks (8/13 & 8/15) and a follow-up with the surgeon in November. The port should be removed either near the end of this year or the beginning of next. She will take Tamoxifen daily for five years as an extension of chemotherapy. There will be tests and scans to make sure nothing is coming back. That's how it lays out today.

I have tried to thank you each individually for the things you've done during all of this. But in case I missed someone... Thank you for the cards, the plants, the flowers, the thoughts and prayers. Thank you for the letters, the phone calls, the visits, the e-mails. Thank you for the knitting and the hats. Thank you for the food, the meals that stocked our freezer, the lunches, the dinners, the coffees, the sunset. Thank you for the books. Thank you for the bear. Thank you for the all gifts. Thank you for the invitations even if we couldn't always accept. Thank you for the offers of assistance. Thank you for watering her plants and keeping her office rodent free. Thank you for taking care of the cats so we can go to Atlanta. Thank you for offering to stay behind so we could get away. Thank you for waiting with me that first time.

And a few special people to note, though I'll spare them the embarrassment of naming names. The one in the Golden State who we clung to as hers and Karen's treatments progressed. Two in the Bay Colony, the one who e-mailed Karen every day, and the one who picked me up each time I fell down. In the Sunshine State, the one who called on Sundays while Karen was home, and the two who came out for coffee every other week. In the chat room, the one who had walked Karen's path before and whose support, advice and encouragement eased her transition from cancer victim to cancer survivor. I hope you each know who you are as your company made this adventure tolerable on its darkest days.

When all this started, Karen asked me to send out these updates. Most of you asked to be kept informed. Some never did but I sent them anyway. I tried to take notes at each appointment, partially for us, partially to be able to relate what I had learned. I took the responsibility seriously, second only to taking care of Karen. Updates were usually written after getting her settled, but before my own food or sleep.

The creative messages attempted to put into words what we were going through and the impressions that it left. Though they were partially my own distraction and more for Karen's entertainment than anyone else's, those, too, I tried to get them out a timely manner. Many got started in waiting rooms throughout the county. They each took about three days to complete. The voice and language surprised even me. More received them than ever asked. Two more and those chronicles are complete. Then only nine will receive my ramblings unless I hear from others.

Now that my duty has been discharged, I return you to your own regularly

scheduled adventure. Thanks for sharing the path on ours a while.

----- End Original Message -----

(This was the last update sent out to the full e-mail list. The remaining updates went out to a handful of friends and family who were still interested).

Quick Update

----- Original Message -----

Looks like Karen's last few treatments are proceeding well. No new side effects, just some of the same ones as all along. She's not too tired, which is good.

Monday's bloodwork saw her white count fall back below normal, though the nurses didn't seem concerned or give her a booster. Her red count was also "low" but at least close to normal range. Another check in two weeks, at the same time we see the oncologist.

Looks like our sci-fi convention in Atlanta may be off the table for us. We're having trouble finding anyone to come in to take care of the cats while we're away. Something Karen had been looking forward to.

----- End Original Message -----

(Immediately after I sent that, the friend we were going to Dragon*Con with offered to stay behind to take care of the cats so we could go,. Then another friend stepped in to look in on them so he didn't have to and could come with us).

The Lair

We enter the final battle having tracked the grendel to its lair. Fetid air wafts from the entrance, bleached bones litter the darkened grotto beyond like an ossuary.

Before she proceeds, the sorcerer-engineer measures her to ensure she can squeeze through the cleft in the rock, remarking her in woad to reinforce the magic symbols already upon her side. I step back as he floods the cave with the final bursts of his scintillating ray, knowing it is too dangerous for me to accompany her any farther. Only she may enter the cave before us. Only she may slay the beast within. This battle will be settled in the old way, hero against hero, leader against leader. Mano a mano, or literally, hand to hand.

Throughout this adventure, we have been fortunate in our encounters. We pray our luck perseveres until the battle ends. Fortune favors the bold though not always the brave. But, the dice are hot and continue to roll our way.

Many believe their God does not play dice with the world. There was a time when the gods openly diced with men, a time before they retreated into deed restricted communities behind abalone gates where security stations turn away any who might intrude. Then, the gods walked among us, gathering in the agora for a quick game where the stakes could wager a life against immortal fame for no more than entertainment. Now, they skulk the back-allies of the keep, weaving drunkenly between the arsenal and the data mine like homeless addicts searching for a cure.

Perhaps others roam beyond the shadow of the wall, much reduced and mumbling though just as capricious when they throw the bones. I wonder if one watches over her, protecting her like Athena or Apollo shielding their heroes during the ten year siege at Troy. I don't remember doing one a favor, don't remember asking one to load the dice. Just another debt accrued, another payment due, one no dwarven lord with bear.

As she crawls inside and disappears, the dice go into motion, tumbling off the woodwork before they hit the cloth. Time stops. The cubes hang above the table, circling, spinning, deciding.

Alone for the moment, I focus on my surroundings: a shallow bowl, carved from the hillside by some long dead giant's hand, blocked in by a pool both green and stagnant. A narrow path leads around and in with a craggy wall behind like a rising gray crescent moon. A stream trickles from a stone encased well with an adjacent cell for meditation, perhaps a blessing or a baptism, or just rest and refreshment before our hero delves into the fissure by its side. The site is ancient and holy, its floor unexpectedly vibrant and alive. Orchids, white with blushing tips, cling to rough and tumbled walls. I wonder how they survive on only rocks and air, but that is what life does, in expected places, in unexpected ways.

I climb the rude stair that leads to the top of the hill where I can see across the straights to the caers and eyries and snowcapped mountains where griffins dwell. Up here lie the cairns of unnamed heroes shrouded with drooping bluebells that silently toll their forgotten deeds with each passing breeze lifted from the sea. Perhaps a benevolent god pauses to listen as it wanders this headland as it has since time began.

Part of the grendel's magic is induced amnesia. When she emerges from its lair, she will not remember where the dice have settled, whether she has slain the dragon or wounded it into sleeping, passing the years within it own contented dream. Either way, I will show her to this place before we depart for home. From here, we can watch the sun rise and set over water, passing the day in beauty and the peace that stillness brings.

Behind the veil, the dice clatter to a rest beyond our sight. The battle now has been won or lost, and we eagerly await the outcome.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

The Boost

----- Original Message -----

Today was Karen's setup for "the boost," the last week of radiation where they target the tumor sight specifically with direct radiation. They took more measurements and marked another place around the scar, though this time drawn with only purple, permanent marker.

This one goes a little different. Up to now, they have been using protons at a glancing angle for radiation. Now they switch to electrons with a straight on shot. The electrons don't penetrate like the protons, maybe 1/2 inch into her ribs, but not into the vital organs.

Other than that, things are still going well. Not as much redness as the doctor expected, though it could continue to develop for a week after treatment stops. The boost will likely increase that. Her fatigue has lessened after the red cell booster last week.

The techs seem to like the radio-oncologist. They say he is one of the most on-time doctors they have ever worked with and generally a nice guy (of course, he's a sci-fi fan. How could it be otherwise?)

On a logistical note, I'll probably only send out 2 or 3 more updates. One next week after radiation is over (next Thursday, yeah!). I'll be going with Karen that day and she may take it off so we can celebrate after. Possibly one each following after the follow-ups with the radio-oncologist (8/8) and the medical oncologist (8/13) though I may combine the two.

For those who have been receiving the creative messages, there are three or four of those still in the queue, which should go out over the same period. If anyone wants the full compliment of creative chronicles, either Karen or I can handle the request. At some point I will do something more with them, though I'm not sure what quite yet. At some point they may appear on a website, though I'm not sure when that will happen.

Thanks for bearing with my sometimes chatty updates (like this one), especially those of you who don't know me that well. I know for those who work with Karen, it may have been strange hearing from me with her back at work. It has given me something to do during all of this other than focus on the negatives. I've found some peace in the creative messages even if it may not seem so.

That's it for this week. One more week to go and the day to day of this adventure is done.

----- End Original Message -----

Exchequer

The adventure is nearly over but for the counting.

Deep beneath the data mines lie the stone-lined vaults of the exchequer, pale and patterned gray, echoing and empty. For years we have maintained a contract with a dwarven lord, complete with provisions against bad stars and ruinous undoings, subsidizing his excavations in exchange for his fiscal expertise. Each month we navigate the maze of tunnels that lead to the hall of this mountain king where his agents pay our factors with script and promissory notes until more ore is processed and new coins minted.

From atop his granite dais, he directs an empire of which we are only an insignificant acre, arranging payments, brokering munitions, procuring provisions all discounted in bulk. He negotiates like a miser, mean as a magpie atop its pile of sparkles. He engages a syndicate of mischievous German house gnomes, moneylenders, coin-changers, pawnbrokers, who dole out silver to impatient lines of mercenary henchmen and sorcerers' apprentices. They are immune to threats and coercion, demanding precise protocol in their interactions.

We receive regular reports as transactions are booked and parchment pushed from pile to pile. Every newt's eye is classified, each ounce of bat's wool catalogued. Adders' forks are coded and blind-worms' stings collimated. Golems and trebuchets are itemized down to the eyelashes and strands of hemp. Each herb, each poultice, every potion that boils and bubbles is checked and cross-referenced to ensure the proper procedures and eliminate duplication before it garners the appropriate mark on the appropriate page of his personal Doomsday Book, where even jots and tittles bear a price.

Like a crouching spider at the center of this web of collation, the byzantine Nibelung lord remains still and sensitive to the vibrations of each strand and cross-thread of his financial network, his beard barely twitching as the confetti chaos flies around him, sprinting into action only once gold brushes against his sticky snare.

Practicing a proxy war game, he pits supply against demand on our behalf. His ink-smudged clerks, armed with quill and abaci, perch atop their desks, islands in a tumultuous sea of paper. Singing pirate ditties and brandishing their pencils, they prepare to hop island to island along the archipelago and storm the coastal fortress constructed of account books, their battle-map resembling Kafka's office, if Kafka were Bedlam's official CPA.

Each month we emerge from the maze slightly more befuddled and confused, never remembering the precise progression of tunnels in or out. The surface air clears our heads and slowly brings contentment. No wizards pound the postern gate, no mercenaries tap swords to hands upon the bailey, no pitchforked peasants threaten to storm the castle walls. Somehow the accounts of the exchequer remain in balance with this dwarf's twirling slight of hand choreographed like a ballet company of tiny angels pirouetting on a pin.

Slaying this particular dragon brings no hoard of treasure, no gold or magic rings, only reams of fine-printed, twenty-four pound paper that previously lined its cave.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Fractions

The sorcerer-engineer works in fractions, one of twenty-eight, one of five, one of thirty-three. Each day dawns with a three-percent solution until his magic reaches effulgence. He watches through his crystal ball as shaft of lights whittle at the grendel like wood from a carving or clay upon the wheel until nothing is left but a pile of dross to be buried beyond the wall.

No monument will mark the grendel's standing save the scars across her side. She will never see its body, never touch it, never know it is well and truly dead. Though its arm was nailed to the central pillar of her hall, she will always wonder how the monster could survive such a grievous wound and still drag itself toward home. She remains uncertain whether scattered kin will rise to demand a wergeld, whether its mother will swear vengeance before raising a retributive army of her own.

High in his tower, the sorcerer-engineer drops clear, cold marbles into a boiling cauldron to reflect on the patterns that emerge. Most shatter internally with a resounding crack but do not come apart. The sudden change brings beauty in the imperfections, a spiderweb of fractures refracted through the glass. He reads the sparkling veins like the lines of love and life etched into her palm.

She relies on his assessment. Like the captain-general, she works with her hands and does not practice magic, unless in the way that farmers do as they encourage the earth to grow. Or the Buddhist mage who transplants rather than terminates life, whether newly sprouted, green and out of place or many-legged and wandering astray. Perhaps in these simple actions, she has been buying back her own life one fraction at a time.

Fractions descend like fragments from a shattered ornament. Broken shards tumble from our eyes like the scales of a translucent dragon. Alternating days of war and peace, of mirth and woe, gift and loss flash and circle in the falling light. One by one, they trickle into our hands where we piece them back together to create a whole, a new beginning.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Appointments

----- Original Message -----

Busy day for appointments. Karen saw her dermatologist in the morning, radiation and bloodwork in the afternoon.

Radiation is still on track.

Bloodwork came back mixed. Karen's white count is up into normal range, but her red count was down slightly. That means she got an Aranesp shot (to increase her red count), but she also gets a week off from bloodwork. Yeah! The red count could be why she got tired a little easier this weekend, though that could be the radiation. Or the heat.

The dermatologist had another fun fact to share. In about 10-15 years, the radiation sight has an increased chance of seeing skin cancers. Something else to remember and watch out for. Not that the dermatologists don't like taking biopsies on Karen as it is. Must be her pale Swedish skin and Viking red hair.

That's the report for this week. Not many more to go.

----- End Original Message -----

Malaise

Hour by hour, day by day, time slips away in waiting. Waiting for the next day to come, waiting for the battle to end.

Keeping the sentries awake and on the wall requires effort with the battle beyond their sight. Defections have risen among the whites. The reds barely hold their numbers at the level to be called a company. At best the whites would be classified as understrengthed.

Battle fatigue has infected the veterans, pre-post-stress. Without action to engage them, they dwell on the details of what might have been and what might yet be. They think about returning to the routine they left behind, the coming harvest a distraction. The urgency has left them as they try to recall the puzzle of seven months ago, which pieces to pick up, which to leave lie.

Challenges go unuttered, rounds unattended. Orders go unwritten, unread and unexecuted. The discipline of duty becomes more difficult with the quiet of each day. The heat siphons our energy, our vigilance, our will. Dogs of summer have replaced the dogs of war.

The grendel becomes more ephemeral each week its once powerful army remains unseen and unheard. Only the most experienced warn of its specter lurking in the miasma behind the waves of humidity. One lightning raid could see our hasty retreat to the tower keep while the remaining whites conduct a sacrificial holding action in the chapel above the gate praying for an infusion of reinforcements.

But summer beckons with blue skies and long lit evenings. Squirrels chase and frolic on the front bailey, occasionally congregating in strange conclaves. Blue jays splash through sun showers by the water gate before teaching their young to feed. Turtles scoop burrows from cool, dry sand to insulate their eggs until they hatch. Snakes entwine around each other on the flagstones like caducei.

Life breeds life, and we long to forget what follows, as eventually we should. We want to linger in each moment, each sliding instant slicing past from future like a well-stropped razor. Adrift on this languid raft, the sea carries us farther from shore with each backward wave that slowly lulls us toward midday sleep.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Half Done

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Today marks halfway through Karen's radiation, 17 of 33. 11 more broad blasts left, then 5 boosts that focus on the tumor site specifically. Yesterday was her weekly x-ray to re-check positioning. Today, her weekly meeting with the doctor.

Still so many appointments, radiation every day, Monday blood counts, Tuesday x-rays, Wednesday radio-oncologist. Fortunately, most are in the same place, or very close. She got a notice yesterday from the surgeon to schedule a mid-year mammogram, then a follow-up with the surgeon. Another with the medical oncologist next month. And a miscellaneous dermatologist next week, with an annual gyn coming soon. And the port eventually has to come out. Busy, busy.

Sounds like between the nurses, the doctor and the women who have gone through or are going through radiation, Karen has a lot of moisturizers she can put on the site of the radiation as it reddens (yes, Heather, they make a cream for that). So, far, so good on that score, no blisters. She describes it as being sore, like the first days of field hockey practice when she was in high school.

As a final aside, Karen found out today that the doctor is a sci-fi fan. So he must be ok. He asked her about vacation plans and she mentioned Dragon*Con. That set off a conversation. Cool to know she's in good hands.

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Level

----- Original Message -----

Today's bloodwork numbers for Karen leveled out. Still low on the white count, about the same as last week. No Neupogen booster this week. A check again next week. She's still getting the lecture about running a temperature and infection (from the nurses, not me).

Radiation is progressing. She's nearly halfway without any major complications, thankfully. A few more weeks and it's done.

Not much more to report. We're almost to the point of getting back to our routine from seven months ago and remembering where we were.

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Routine of Days

She circles back to where she started, the grendel retreating toward its cave, elusive.

Each morning, she enters the enchanted wood alone and unarmored, her red hood just coming back pale and baby fine. Armed only with a basket scented of butter and fresh custard, she appears defenseless, naked bait hinging the release of the sorcerer-engineer's trap each time the grendel's jaws snap beside her ear while she struggles against its cruel embrace.

From high within his tower, the sorcerer-engineer traces her progress through the simulacrum's crystal eyes, now his familiar, his black cat stalking her shadow on silent paws, his eyes upon the night. Locked outside, housecarls listen intently as each report drifts down. Should the horns sound, we ride with axes shouldered to quickly render aid.

But grendels are cautious, and cunning by nature. It will not approach should it scent sorcery upon the wind. She becomes the lure, the apple, the forbidden fruit whose temptation is too powerful to resist, the betrayal waiting at the end of each day in a sudden blaze of fiery pain that only it will feel.

Like a moth drawn to the flame that devours it, instinct compels it to return. Like the wax of that votive, to provide the light she, too, must prepare to burn. Transformed from fuel to smoke a little more each day, she lights her own way in the darkness, seeking out the path to her redemption and release.

Each morning finds her slightly more sunburned and sore from the previous in the field as her searching slowly spirals toward an end.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III