Mike moved in on Monday. He and Greener Visuals are now based out of Helena (though Greener Visuals serves the whole state) and reside at Hummingbird Court. He pulled up with the truck and friends were already waiting to help unpack and move boxes.
I had low energy after a morning of nausea and getting sick and was stressed feeling the beginning of mouth blisters developing. It felt like so much love having all these people show up and come in to bring him home to Helena.
Mike and I met last July. Our first date, we went to brunch, packed a picnic with cheese and wine (and he packed cribbage and two boardgames in a sweet midwestern move), and drove to the Yellowstone River in Paradise Valley. It was too hot to hike so we sat in the river and let it push us gently downstream, then walked the banks back up again.
I will always tell Mike that I can't believe we've met. I look at him and I feel so grateful I get to keep loving him, keep getting to know him more. I know I am a wise woman for having no fear in embracing how powerful and freeing it is to be loved by him. When cancer first came into our relationship, we both asked how it will change us. How do we support ourselves through this? I didn't want him to move in just because I had cancer. At first, I hated the idea of him seeing me scared, vomiting, bald, and sad. Since then, we just...did it.
Mike first saw me post-cancer-news on Thursday, March 3. He arrived in Helena minutes after I got the evening call that I needed to come to Bozeman early Friday day to get an MRI, meet with my nurse navigator, and see a fertility specialist. The realization that cancer will impact my fertility hit me. He walked in. My face broke. He held me and I cried. He held me, waited, and said, "Okay, now breathe. Take a deep breath, " and we breathed together.
Friday morning on the drive to Bozeman, we listened to Led Zeppelin. I absolutely thought Led was a man. Mike, whose soul rocks and flows with music, laughed and shared that nope, Led Zeppelin was a band and not a single person. We rocked hard to "Immigrant Song" and "The Ocean" driving straight to these appointments. The music coursed through us. I felt like a beast, feet strongly grounded, and ready to move. I've listened to "Immigrant Song" before each big next-cancer-step moment ever since.
At that first MRI appointment to assess where the cancer was located (left breast? lymph nodes?) and begin cancer treatment, we got checked in and sat down. I was nervous--I've never had an MRI before. He held my hand and said, "Today the healing begins."
We were in the hospital for the full day--no breaks--and had zero idea what information we would be getting, and we did it. We sat side-by-side at the fertility specialist appointment and were told how frozen embryos are more viable than frozen eggs. And I would need to start the process that day and we would have about two weeks to decide. We both felt blitzed that this was going to be a conversation--frozen parenthood?--after 72 hours post diagnosis and eight months together.
At my "chemo education" appointment, it was a Niagara Falls of possible symptoms such as heart damage, neuropathy, and all the usual. Before this appointment, I still held that perhaps I could do The Rut. Last Labor Day, I ran the 28k--18 miles and just under 8,000 feet of gain--and it was the most alive day of my life and, one of the most challenging and beautiful. I blew my heels up in blisters coming down Lone Peak, had to slow down substantially, and I wanted a second chance to train in 2022 to see how fast I could go. I can still drop down to the 12k and I can still just volunteer. But after meeting with Colleen, and realizing numbness in my hands and feet, lung scarring, and possible heart damage were now on the table, losses--temporary and permanent--seemed frighteningly real.
Before cancer was ever on our radar, Mike and I mapped out our adventures for the year. Skiing, cabins, backpacking, concerts, huckleberry picking, foraging for mushrooms, hosting dinners, travel... and after the chemo education, those goals seemed fragile. Colleen left the room and I said something to Mike about how much would be lost. He said we would make a new list. Later, I said I didn't really like Colleen. He wisely said that I probably wouldn't like whoever it was who gave me my "chemo education." He is right.
And one last great Mike story, since here you are, still reading, and you deserve a real treat.
Port day.
I knew I'd be slightly sedated. And, I was constipated. I was very stressed that everything could become a very worst-case scenario while, you know, relaxed, drugged, and not having had a bowel movement in days. Before I changed into the procedure robe, I said I needed to use the bathroom. I came back, unsuccessful and terror-filled. I told Mike of my fears, my agony. He laughed.
After the procedure, I was coming to and Mike was in the room. I asked him how everything went. He said things went well. Then he said, "Well." Terror-filled, I said, "WHAT?" He said, "Did you notice how the nurses couldn't make eye contact with you? One had to change her scrubs. Twice. They are burning them now in the parking lot." I died. DIED. Then, realized he is a sassy bastard and laughed. And that's Mike Greener.
Also, if you know of anyone in the Helena area who is looking for a photographer for family portraits, business portraits and headshots, weddings, feel free to tell them about Mike (and Greener Visuals). Mike started out as a photojournalist and his artistic style reflects this. I've seen him in action at two weddings and he goes after capturing relationships in-action. No cheesin' staged photos. Just you and your loved ones in a place that means home to you acting like yourselves and hanging out with my delightful Mike.
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