Promising a Rose Garden

For gardeners that first flush of bloom and color is of paramount importance.  For rosarians the first flush in the rose garden is ecstasy.  The First Flush varies from year to year in magnitude; some years better than others.

There was a time when I could experience this in my own garden with numerous hybrid tea roses of brilliant color and pungent fragrance.  Due to lack of sun, I can now grow only Knockouts and a few antique roses, and while these are beautiful, they cannot compare to the first flush of the tea roses that occurs around the second or third week of May in our area.  And so I must seek this elsewhere.

Last year was a special year in that on the 17th of May I had surgery to remove cancer from my breast.  I knew I was facing a bit of a recuperation and then radiation so the First Flush took on even more importance to me.  So during Memorial Weekend we headed down to Brookside Gardens, a public garden in Montgomery County that features a beautiful rose garden.

We could smell the roses even before we could see them.  I approached the garden and there it was:  one of the most magnificent flushes I'd ever seen! 

I headed to a bench in the middle of the garden when someone yelled,  "YOU CAN'T GO IN THERE!   WE'RE HAVING A PRIVATE EVENT"!  Sure enough folks were inside the garden milling about.  We have been there before during events, even sharing the gardens with an occasional bride, but had never before been blocked from the garden -- especially on a holiday weekend -- and rudely at that.  After being taken aback, I replied I'd only take some pictures of the roses from a respectful distance and we would leave.  

As we walked the path to leave the gardens a garden volunteer kept yelling at us that we couldn't go in, they had to rent out the gardens to earn money, but if we wanted to wait two hours we could go inside.  We didn't.  And needless to say, we won't be going back.

While At The Mercy of Others

Walking into the Johns Hopkins Cancer Center was both humbling and scary, but I was greeted immediately by one of their many concierges.  He took both my hands and said, "You're new here; we're going to take very good care of you."  He directed me to a registrar who confirmed my information and gave me a badge to wear.  The badge had a GPS chip in it; my doctor knew I was there and how long I would be waiting, and if I wanted to, could sit in their cafe, and the doctor's assistant would come and get me.  Amazing.

My surgery went well.  The surgeon was able to extract clear margins, and the seminal node is clear.  I'll start radiation in a couple of weeks; chemo is a remote possibility.  I'll also do hormonal suppressant therapy for five years.  Those treating me were competent and compassionate.  I am beholden to them.

I'm well.  I'm happy.  I'm blessed.

"To laugh often and much;
to win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty;
to find the best in others;
to leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;
to know even one life has breathed easier
because you lived here.
This is to have succeeded."

from ROBIN by David Itzkoff taken from Ralph Waldo Emerson

Take Care Your Wishes

Notre Dame Cathedral virtually burned to the ground this week; still more immigrants seek asylum; our country 's divide grows as those corrupt and hate-filled saturate the news with anathema and their power.  Temperatures wold-wide have increased two degrees, and Mother Nature becomes more and more violent in her response.

More importantly, this is the week I was told I have breast cancer.  I saw the mammogram; I intrinsically knew it didn't look good; I saw the look on the faces of the technicians and the radiologist;  I saw they wouldn't look me in the eye,  and yet I was devastated when told.  I waited until my husband left for work, and then sobbed.  

I wonder if the fates heard me when I've frequently said I don't want to grow old.  Frailty terrifies me.  What I'm feeling now is a close second.  I'm at the mercy of others.

I mourn the loss of my normal.  I mourn that a part of my body that I love is now sick.  I see the shirts that boast, "These are fake; my real breasts tried to kill me,"  and while I appreciate the humor, I cannot join in with the laughter as something I treasure, with which I've lived for 67 years is sick and will soon  be under the knife.  And as trivial as it seems, I'm saddened by my soon-to-be bald head, and wondering if I can learn how to tie a scarf, a pretty one that makes me look as if I'm handling my illness well.