Looking Up

3:47 a.m.

A few seconds after awakening, I glance out the window and register a skyful of stars plus the faint, familiar glow above the northern horizon. To get out of bed or not? My response aligns squarely with FOMO, so of course I get out of bed and check things out.

There is parlance in the aurora chasing community about it being a “pants on” night when conditions are such that we have a good chance of seeing northern lights in our area. This means one should go to bed dressed and be ready to hop out of bed at a moment’s notice. In my experience, I’ve concluded that flannel or polar fleece pajamas do nicely and are far more comfortable than pants.

The good tripod stands near the bottom of the staircase, and my coat and hat hang from its head, bringing to mind the silhouette of Cousin Itt. Next are shoes, headlamp, and Bluetooth shutter remote. Out the side door I slip, savoring the embrace of the dark. My phone has logged several aurora alert text messages already, and I glance at the times while I walk to the shore, while also taking note of clouds and moon.

A goose squawks, startled, and swims away in a huff. Other mysterious splashes occur. From across the lake, a barred owl hoots its distinctive eight-hooter call. This past summer I sold my old Nikon and its lenses, and I am researching mirrorless camera systems with which to replace it. Paralysis by analysis would apply to this process. In the meantime, I’m using my iPhone.

Cameras reveal greater intensity of color than our eyes can perceive at night (the whole rods and cones thing), plus shutter speeds of 3-20 seconds capture more color on photographic images. I check the north sky with the iPhone camera and see that the pulsing, milky cloud is actually the color of springtime ferns. A few faint, pink pillars rise delicately out of the green. Now, where to go and set up for some photos? I’ve scoped out several good places along our road, some featuring field, others trees, and, of course, the lake.

From the moment I found my breast lumps until earlier this month, my interior burned with relentless dread. IhavecancerIhavecancerIhavecancerIhavecancer. I scarcely slept. I wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t concentrate on reading, do a crossword, watch a movie. The only time I wasn’t thinking about cancer and mortality was when I was out beneath the night sky, looking up at auroras. I would never have guessed that energized particles slamming into the earth’s atmosphere could be an effective remedy for anxiety. For feeling small beneath the vastness of the cosmos, yet at the same time part of it all. For contemplating the purpose and meaning of life. Of death. Assessing—and reassessing—faith. Of recognizing goodness, generosity, and giving thanks for things large and small.

As we approach the peak of the eleven-year solar cycle, the northern lights have been visible at our latitude with increasing frequency. I’ve seen and photographed them more than a dozen times already this year. While it is not reasonable to believe that they are glimmering and dancing for me alone, some nights I choose to believe they indeed are.

The darkness is soothing but not quiet. Insects hum, nocturnal creatures move about, night birds call. Fish jump, coyotes howl, and the occasional car drives past. Many nights after visiting various locations and taking photos, I make my way back home and lie on my back in the grass or on the dock and study stars and constellations, the positions of planets, the moon. The dense beauty of the Milky Way never fails to intrigue me and leads me to briefly ponder the cost of a really good wide-angle lens for the new camera I have yet to select. Some meteor showers boast as many as 50-100 shooting stars an hour, others fewer, yet each streak across the sky is thrilling to behold.

What hasn’t been thrilling are the side effects of this second round of chemo. They remain problematic despite the reduced dose of carboplatin and proactive measures to treat them—so much so that the oncologist initiated a virtual visit this past week. Though my port can remain accessed for seven days at a time and I can give myself IV fluids at home, Dr. Beckwith is troubled by the extent of diarrhea I continue to experience despite antidiarrheal medications, the nausea for which we have limited treatment options, and the electrolyte disturbances that require frequent monitoring and correction.

She wants to change up my treatment plan. “TCHP is one of the tougher chemotherapies we use,” she explained, “and I think it’s going to be too hard on your body to do another four rounds. In addition to the severity of your side effects, your becoming malnourished concerns me greatly. That results in poor healing, and you have a surgery coming up.”

She went on to say that she is very encouraged by my body’s response to the first round of chemo, with how much the tumors had shrunk. While acknowledging that it may sound scary to stop carboplatin, she assured me that the THP therapy she is now recommending will be equally effective and should be more tolerable. The monoclonal antibodies Herceptin and Perjeta will remain in this treatment; the T in THP stands for Taxol rather than Taxotere.

So on October 7, the day I had been scheduled for my third infusion of TCHP, I will instead begin THP. This chemo is typically given once a week for twelve weeks. Because of the TCHP treatments I have already completed, I will require six weeks’ treatment with THP. More imaging will be scheduled for mid-November to assess tumor response.

Next week I will have a virtual visit with a genetic counselor who will go over the results of my genetic panel testing. As you may recall, if I have no genetic mutations that increase the risk of breast cancer, the surgical option of lumpectomy is on the table; otherwise, the plan will be double mastectomy. I’m wishing, of course, for the former.

Dare I hope the side effects of this new treatment regimen will subside to the extent that autumn hiking might be possible? My Minnesota State Park hiking club and passport books have been gathering dust, as has my newly acquired National Parks passport. It’s energizing to think that a North Shore getaway might be conceivable before the snow flies. Could I be lucky enough to view the northern lights over Lake Superior, or once again from that scenic location along the Gunflint Trail that a Grand Marais resident shared with me? Play outdoors with my grandchildren and let them crack all their silly Mrs. Potato Head jokes at my expense? Dance at my daughter’s wedding in November? Tromp around on snowshoes this winter? All the hours spent looking upward have helped me reflect and be more mindful, to see things more clearly, to delve deeper inside my heart, and to resolve to do more good in the world in the years that remain before me. It’s challenging to find words that adequately express how much gratitude I have for the people in my life. Recognizing the amount of care, thoughtfulness, and generosity that have been lavished upon me and my loved ones takes my breath away. As do the northern lights that may or may not be meant for me alone.