Spring Training
By Kathleen Daelemans

I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my back on June 2nd, 2006. It's no accident that it happened 56 days after a very dear friend (and culinary assistant) I'd been caring for in my home died of colon cancer at the age of 44. The way I see it she was flexing her ghostly muscles and kicked me down the stairs for all the rotten things I'd done to her.

Before either of us knew she had cancer Miho and I operated on the premise that she was the incompetent employee and I was Meryl Streep's Devil-Wears-Prada alternate. I subjected Miho to my work place histrionics imposing impossible deadlines, always demanding more and better while she cooked, missed every deadline and patronized me.

When Miho's grapefruit size tumor emerged I went from shouting, “Just cook the damn vegetables to just eat the damn vegetables.'" Miho was Japanese and better behaved than me. She never talked back. She held everything in. She never screamed at me for any of my mistakes. Not a peep when I'd explode in a tirade over something that was no more important than a misspelled word in the West Popperfield Beacon, circulation 64.

Not a word when I'd get us lost on the way home from chemo even though I'd driven the route 100 times. Not even a dirty look when I'd explain to the same indifferent pharmacist that it mattered to Miho if they submitted her insurance card because she was on a fixed income and couldn't work because she was dying which meant cash flow was a problem. “If you could just (do your job and) submit the insurance card Miho will be able to afford groceries this week,'" I'd explain through clenched teeth.

Red Velvet Cake Hair
Miho wasn't Vogue gorgeous. She was a large Japanese woman with crooked teeth and (for reasons known only to her) hair she dyed the color of Red Hot Tamales. “It's the color of Red Velvet Cake'" a friend one said.

Miho's funky looks and almost complete inability to speak even conversational English despite having lived in the United States for eight years (I no like-uh take-uh these class Kath-a-leen. This stupid waste of time.) apparently was all some people needed to feel empowered to treat her like crap.

So I ran interference tap dancing 12 steps ahead of her at all times. I wanted to spare her anything that would zap her emotional or physical energy. I wanted people to be nice to her. I wanted her room to be ready upon arrival when we traveled. I wanted her upgraded to first class.

I wanted her seated immediately when she had the energy to go to a restaurant. I wanted her food to come first and I wanted it to be perfectly prepared. I wanted Miho to have the best life possible. And she wanted me to shut up and leave her alone and treat her “normal."

I fought to stay in one peace. To do my best. To be good to her. To provide her with every single creature comfort she deserved. I fought to protect her from everything wrong in the world that she might encounter, everything I knew was wrong in myself and everything that was wrong with anyone showing Miho even the slightest bit of disrespect.

Miho fought the cancer. She fought science and reason and every prognosis she was ever given. She never accepted that she would die. She fought to live until we lost. Cancer ate us both from the inside out.

Selfish Self Pity
When Miho died I fell into an abyss that formed with her death. I grew the abyss as though building a house. Brick by brick I put up walls to protect myself from the pain of losing her, the pain of my fall down the stairs, the pain of realizing my body was no longer the invincible machine I'd long since taken for granted.

I insulated myself from the pain of figuring out how to pick up my pieces. The pieces of my career, my health, my relationships; my soul. I didn't know how to walk back into my life. So I walked away.

I walked away from opportunity. From the privilege of having a second chance. A second chance to get things right. To be a better person. To utilize all the gifts of the past year. The gifts Miho planted firmly in my heart. The gifts good and kind people planted in my soul along the way. Gifts selfless doctors and nurses, parking lot attendants, my own parents, nieces and siblings gave freely and selflessly to Miho and me.

The End of My Rainbow
It's almost been a year since the fall. A year since Miho died. For the first two weeks after the fall I stayed in bed most of the time and then started physical therapy. I went four to five times a week for almost mine months. It was a full time job. In between physical therapy, heat and ice packs, I underwent various procedures that never lived up to their billing. The drugs and lack of physical exercise brought unwanted pounds to my waistline. I tried not to let it devastate my already fragile self esteem.

Zillions of needles into the spine later and only moderate relief I was emotionally and physically burned out facing the same decision that had presented itself at the bottom of the stairs and the day Miho died; wallow or walk away. Wallow in the urges to quit and give up and stay in bed. Walk away from grueling hours of physical therapy. Wallow in the pain of being forced to live with physical and emotional pain or just walk away.

The Pot of Gold Was There All Along
I could become a casualty of my pain. Or I could patch myself back together. Intellectually I knew I needed to pick myself up but I didn't know how. I was weak, out of shape and sad and mad and broken.

So I did what I always do when I'm sick of being depressed or sad or mad or broken or stuck. I force myself to feel. My sad, mad, broken feelings didn't resonate. They didn't make me feel connected to anything. They just made me feel numb. But I knew that if I could feel, I could move. Away from everything I didn't need to hang on to anymore.

So I started working out. I walked on the treadmill. I worked out using one and two pound dumbbells. Comatose muscles wrenched out of slumber wailed in protest. But feeling something felt better than feeling nothing. I started riding my indoor bike. My workouts went from rehabilitative to energizing and along with an improving physique brought a sense of accomplishment and hope.

I worked out faithfully throughout the winter. Now that it's spring I've taken my workouts outdoors. There's all new pain. But I know now that I can make it through pain especially the normal physical pain threshold of transitioning from carpets and treadmills to pavement and bike paths.

Miho's Blind Sight
The purple crocus outside Miho's old bedroom window have returned. They remind me of her last days. One of her last wishes was to see spring. On the first warm day we walked her to the kitchen bay windows to show her that she'd made it.

Ignoring our hovering and the caution we exercised by not taking her all the way outside she pushed her way past us, walked down the two steps leading to the back door and using her body as leverage she pressed it open. I'll never forget the smile on her face as she experienced the breath of fresh air spring delivered. It kissed her skin and danced through her hair. It made her nightgown dance.

Miho was blind then but tilted her head up towards the sun as though to greet it one last time. She looked down and smiled as if she could see every early blossom that blanketed the bed beneath her feet. The colors called out to us. Miho cut me off as I recited the names of all the bulbs we'd planted in the fall.

“You forget-uh daffodils Kath-a-leen,'" she said matter of fact and turned to go back inside. “They next to Iris'" she said. I felt a sob knowing she'd never again see the brilliance of a flower's bloom. And swallowed it when just as I stepped inside I saw a cluster of malnourished miniature daffodils not yet open save for the one receiving the most sun. It was tall and proud and yellow.

Cherry Blossom Pie
I don't know how to fit back into the life I had before Miho turned my heart and home upside down. I can't even remember where my life left off. Where was I going before I met her? What were my goals? What did I think my destiny was? I've learned that it doesn't matter. It just matters that I don't waste what I have. Not my health. Not the lessons gifted to me. Not my life.

When Miho died, my nieces and I planted a Japanese Ornamental Cherry Tree in the garden in her honor. She told us that to the Japanese, to her family; the trees and in particular the cherry blossoms are a reminder that life is fleeting and beautiful. Miho's Cherry Tree will blossom any day now. The buds are strong and fat and ready to pop. A reminder that life is fleeting and beautiful.