Walking Lessons

 Today, we recognize that it has been eleven years since Hannah died. The pain today is far less acute than it was then—back when I didn’t know if I would survive her death. But I will always miss her. I will always wonder what she would be like and who she would have become if she had survived. I tend to think more about how she would have grown if she never had brain cancer, because it robbed her of so much that made her Hannah. I picture a tall, slim young woman with long blonde hair; probably a similar resemblance to her cousin, Caroline. She’d still have a pack of friends and maybe a boyfriend or a girlfriend (who knows?!) At twenty-three years old, she probably would have graduated college by now, in what field, I have no idea. Her childhood dreams ranged from being a singer or dancer to being a pediatric oncologist, (once she had cancer.) I’d hope she would live nearby, as it was my dream that we would be close, and that she would take care of me in my old age! Caroline told me recently that she would help take care of me when I’m older. I trust my boys will too. But I’m not an elderly person yet. I still have a lot of life in me. And hopefully, Bill and I have many years ahead of us.

After forty-two years in the real estate business on Bainbridge Island, Bill retired. He gave his life to that work. Sometimes joyfully, sometimes anxiously. But he always insisted on thoroughness, attention to detail, and excellent communication. Bill can be proud of the integrity he built in his career. He tells me over and over again that he is so grateful for being able to retire at this time in his life.

Bill has worked since he was twelve years old—pumping gas, doing yard work, helping in restaurant kitchens— and that was all before college. After high school, he went to Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo to study architecture. But before he finished, bills and a new baby on the way (Adam), led him to pursue work on Bainbridge. In 1979, he entered the real estate business and never looked back. Along the way, he engaged in some design and architecture work, including our two houses in Port Madison. He even went back to school to finish his architecture degree at the UW. But once again, the competing housing market and a second baby on the way (Ryan), precluded his finishing.

In 1996 when Ryan and Andrew were preschoolers, he was seriously challenged again. My mom had a medical catastrophe and ended up in intensive care in Cincinnati. I traveled back and forth to be with her for nearly a year, while Bill held down the home front with an increasingly busy real estate business and two young boys.

About ten years later when Bill’s mom needed help, we bought her a small house in Northern California where she and his dad had raised their boys. That was something we could do to support her when she became frailer and more aged, because we couldn’t visit very often.

In 2007, the same year that Bill’s mom died, Hannah was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Once again, he had to wear many hats. Although I was the primary care-taking parent with Hannah, Bill visited her or gave me a break at the hospital as much as he could, all the while, managing his work and making sure two teenage boys were okay at home. Credit also goes to his business partner, Mark Wilson, who took a bulk of the load when Bill and I needed to be with our daughter.

I am proud of the career that Bill has had. I’m also glad it’s over. Over the course of four plus decades in the business, Bill amassed a huge clientele and a great reputation. But you can’t do your job as well as he did without incurring a cost. After the kids and the parents and the real estate clients were take care of, there was little room for us.

It's our time now. As I talk about in my book, Bill and I have had very little time alone in the past few decades. In one chapter, I said:

With Hannah’s nightmare illness as a prime example, Bill and I learned that we are good in a crisis. We work well together. We know how to adapt, seek help, adjust our priorities, and share the load. We can be present for difficult conversations. Bill and I were with Hannah when she went in for neurosurgery, when her head was screwed to the table for radiation, when she heard the cancer was back, when she was airlifted, when we signed the DNR paper at Children’s, when she took her last breath. We make a good team when life is very, very hard.

But when the focus is just on us—when there isn’t an imminent emergency—we tend to retreat to our corners and wait for the next battle. Sometimes we can be too self-sufficient for our own good. With the cumulative stress, we’d also forgotten how to have fun together. We could lean on each other in the midst of a life-or-death situation, but ordinary life had become a challenge.

Bill and I have to learn to walk together again. I mean this both figuratively and literally. People who know me know that I love to walk. I love to walk alone or with my friends. Some days I feel like I could walk forever. But Bill and I don’t walk very well together. It frustrates me that he tends to walk a little ahead of me, seldom stepping into a rhythm with me, side by side. It’s especially frustrating because I love to walk fast! He’s the only one I know who does that and it drives me crazy. It drives him crazy when I call him on it. Mostly, I think he’s not even aware of it.

Currently, he’s using the excuse of being ahead of me because he’s trying to train our four-year-old dog, Bear, to heel. I appreciate his efforts, but honestly, walking quickly to try to keep up with a pulling golden retriever seems to defeat the training, in my opinion. At the same time, I looked forward to his retirement for the small reason that he could help me walk our big dogs, neither one of whom were trained as puppies because of one life crisis or another.

Since Bill left work two months ago, our walking has improved. I can’t expect things to change overnight! Mostly, I’m grateful that he has retired. Grateful that he made a nice nest egg to enable him to leave work. Grateful that we now have time together. Grateful that we can keep learning how to walk together, always believing that Hannah is walking with us.