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Yesterday I accompanied my husband Rob to his infusion appointment. While attempts have been made to create a private space for each patient, one can often hear the conversation in the next cubicle. Yesterday our beautiful friend from St Mark’s was, unexpectedly, beside us. She’s someone I don’t see much anymore but whose voice I recognized in a second. Her presence made this odd and often sad medical process of chemotherapy seem ordinary, normal even. Something many people experience. It can even be interesting. Dare I say fun? Nope, definitely not. There is a limit.

Speaking of limits, Rob’s situation has definitely clipped my globe-trotting wings. I notice my travel lust sparking frequently and I grieve the slower pace.

Then I remember Travels by Michael Crichton, the book I give to graduates complete with an old-fashioned check or euro bill tucked in as a bookmark. In the first half of his memoir Crichton tells of exciting adventures on every continent—scaling mountains, scuba-diving famous reefs. Sometimes just barely getting out alive and returning to tell the story. In the second half, his tales become introspective, different kinds of travel. Spiritual wonderings. Am I remembering psychodelics?

Truly, my days of staying with host families and improving my Spanish are limited for now. I miss the delightful surprises that leaving home can offer, when time for spontaneity is built-in and a priority. But it could be that this cancer journey turns out to be one of my more remarkable tales. Not a voyage I will ever recommend, I know, but if I pay attention it will be equally as liminal and sparkly as other travel, guaranteed.

Fantastically, we can now actually see neurons connect instantaneously across small synaptic gaps in our brains. I imagine connections across great distances will become scientifically quantifiable too.

For me, this explains the power of prayer, how my fond thoughts on one side of the continent can influence outcomes on the other side of the continent.

I personally can’t put it into words yet but I understand the physicists can when they speak of quantum entanglement and the like. Not to mention the theologians.

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Who could have predicted such delight?

Crisp air. Bright blue sky. A pile of dry, crunchy leaves. A long expanse of grassy yard to run across.

And we two. 65 years apart in age. Hearts joined.

Thank you for sharing your grandchildren with me, Sweet Melissa.

Glad the notion of noticing—stepping aside, ideally in the moment, and just observing—has resurfaced this week. And just in the nick of time for our annual turn to host supper group.

Rob was a bit strung out (it happens when one’s body is under siege), so less helpful than usual…giving me a chance to watch my friends step in. Wow!

Last to leave were Ed and Laurie. Among other things, they had contributed homegrown pickled beets for our Salad Niçoise. Before leaving, we four gathered in the kitchen with the peeled yet lumpy hard-boiled eggs, the ones that hadn’t made the cut for the salad platter. Ed explained how to dunk these eggs in the remaining pickling brine, then to expect a brilliant surprise the next day.

OK, I’ve been watching for visits from my recently-deceased mother. This was one. I remembered her mother, Lola, my grandmother, creating these purple delights. In the very light of day and friendship, I grinned back, as we plopped the eggs in for an overnight bath.

Three short weeks ago I asked nephew Boyd if we could borrow his guitar for Rick to play at my mother’s memorial. Boyd’s 5-year-old was due for her second brain surgery to address epilepsy. Still I dared to ask him. It was something he could do during this epic time in my life; his too.

Now I am on a bus heading to Reykjavik’s airport after circumnavigating this island country on a cruise with my husband Rob. We have lived in luxury with other family members for a week. He, in the middle of cancer treatments, has not fallen or vomited or had any other reason to visit a medic. His fragile skin wounds are healing.

There have been many extra details to manage for this international trip. I did not have a chance to cover them all, including bringing smaller bills for tips or even visiting an ATM here in Iceland. So, anticipating wanting to tip Rob’s wheelchair assistants, I asked my here-to-fore unknown-to-me seatmate if she could change a 20 or a 50, my remaining bills. I now have two 5’s and a 10 (plus that 50). It was something I could ask and she could do. Asking, trusting, receiving.

And I am absolutely flooded with warm gratitude.