Green grass covers the holes, flowers begin to bloom,
Dandelions and violets take over the holy gloom.
Sorrow like water seeps through my ailing brain
It soothes the worried soul, eases the gnawing pain.
There is no point to worry having a grassy head.
It’s funny,
It giggles and chuckles,
It laughs and dreams,
It’s not dead.
Finally, I am sent home, tired and stiff but relieved that one more mission in my battle to live has been accomplished. For a little while, there is nothing to do but wait and hope.
I take it easy the next day. Surrounded by my husband and children—Witek and Cheyenne are here now too—I feel almost joyous, as if we are back to a normal life.
The following morning, less than two days after the CyberKnife procedure, I wake up early feeling healthy and strong and as if nothing extraordinary has happened in the previous weeks. It’s a beautiful summer day, and I propose we go for a morning of light exercise in the woods of our favorite training ground, Prince William Forest Park. A gorgeous expanse with miles of hiking and running trails, the park was developed by the Works Progress Administration during the Great Depression.
This month, Witek, Cheyenne, and Kasia are preparing for triathlons. I was forced to put aside my own triathlon training after getting sick in January, although throughout this whole ordeal, I’ve never stopped working out—almost every day, no matter how I felt, I ran, walked, swam, or cycled. Today, as always, I’m eager for some physical activity. Even at the not-so-fast pace I now take, walking in the woods relaxes me. With my loved ones around me, it will be a great escape from the doctors and hospital rooms. I crave this trip. I need to feel as normal as possible.
The asphalt road through Prince William Forest Park is a loop of about seven and a half miles of hilly terrain. Whenever I’m training for a triathlon, I cycle it four or five times and then run it once. Since I have just been released from the hospital after being treated for profound brain swelling and since I’m two days post-radiation, I decide to take it easy; I will walk just one seven-plus-mile loop.
“Are you sure?” Mirek asks, concerned.
For our entire marriage, we’ve always checked on each other, but since I’ve gotten sick, Mirek has been obsessed with my safety.
“I’m fine, absolutely fine,” I assure him.
Mirek loads his bike and Kasia’s into our Toyota RAV4, and we head out, Witek and Cheyenne following in their car. It is already hot when we pull into the small parking lot we always use. We agree to meet back at the car when our workouts are finished and reward ourselves with a picnic lunch in the park. They all volunteer to check on me as we pass one another along the road.
Witek, Cheyenne, and Kasia take off on their bikes. Mirek kisses me on the cheek, hugs me, and pedals off on his own.
I hit the asphalt road and begin to walk, my arms swinging purposefully, my stride long and determined. The smell of the woods, the chirping birds, the waving branches of the tall trees make me feel free and happy. I breathe in deeply, and my lungs fill with fragrant air.
After about an hour, I pass a wide field that is yellow with chanterelle mushrooms. Chanterelles—meaty golden mushrooms with exotic ribbed underbellies and a strong peppery smell and taste—are a family favorite. They evoke memories of Poland, where they were abundant and we picked them in the woods around our summer home or on the outskirts of Warsaw. We love to cook them in various sauces or sauté them in olive oil and serve with scrambled eggs.
I’m delighted to see so many chanterelles and eager to gather as many as I can. But I have no bag to put them in so I keep power-walking. Luckily, Mirek soon rides up on his bike.
“There’s a field full of chanterelles just a little ways back,” I tell him. “Can you go to the car and get a bag and pick some? We’ll have them for breakfast tomorrow with scrambled eggs.”
Mirek takes off and I continue on my walk. After another ninety minutes of vigorous walking, I finish the seven and a half miles and reach the parking lot.
Although I was filled with energy when I began, two and a half hours ago, I’m now completely exhausted, so physically and emotionally spent that I feel like I’ve run a marathon. With an almost primal urgency, I feel a desperate need to rest and eat immediately.
But to my surprise, Mirek isn’t back yet.
I will call him.
But—I can’t remember his number. And for some weird reason, I can’t recall how to find his number on my cell. I fumble with the phone. And then I forget what I’m doing.
What’s this about? Oh, yes, I’m trying to call Mirek. But where’s his number? How do I call him?
I fiddle with the phone, trying to figure it out. And over and over, I have to keep reminding myself what I’m trying to accomplish. Finally, I locate his number in my contacts list and call him.
“There are so many chanterelles!” he says excitedly. “I’ve collected a huge bagful.”
“We need to eat lunch right now,” I say angrily.
“Great!” he says. “I’ll be waiting here for you.”
“No, no! You come here!”
“I can’t bring them on the bike, they’ll get squashed,” he answers. “I’ll wait for you on the side of the road.”
Only after we hang up do I realize I have absolutely no idea how to find him.
I know this park like my own backyard. I’ve cycled and run and walked it scores of times over the years. Just an hour or so earlier, I’d told Mirek where to find the chanterelles. But now my mind is frozen. I can’t picture his location at all. Driving the car to him seems like an insurmountable challenge, a feat completely beyond my ability.
I stand with
