Walking HP Home: The Diaries of a Caregiver

By Judi Purdy

Battles and fighting were cancer words we did not use. We chose to climb the mountain. Our hike up a very tall mountain was unplanned. It was as if the universe picked us up, took us to the base, dropped us off and said, climb. We were no more prepared for his diagnosis as we were to climb Mt. Everest. Together, we had an amazing climb. Day by day, we learned more about a cancer journey than we ever wanted to know. Quality of life, enjoying our limited time together, and falling deeper in love were the rewards that motivated us to get up each morning and face that day's hike. In our own way, we wildly succeeded. Writing was my therapy. I simply started with two sentences, the rest flowed. My written therapy turned into a book. I share deep feelings. Our journey has been the richest experience of my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798765237939

Judi Purdy

Judi grew up in rural Michigan. Her formative years were humble. Instead of college, she followed her dream of working for the utility. Climbing the proverbial corporate ladder gave her confidence. HP came into her life in 1974. He was attracted to her confidence. She was attracted to his worldliness. Each were attracted to their differences. Together, they were a complete set. They were both teachers and, eventually, entrepreneurs. For a work/life balance, she immersed herself in reading spiritual authors, practicing meditation and yoga. She found this avenue to be centering and calming. She credits these years of immersing in spirituality as the best preparation for what was to come later in life. Supporting HP when he needed it the most was the most rewarding and beautiful gift she could have ever asked for. Early in life, he was her rock. Later in life, she was his.

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Preface

Why do I write? First, I want to share our story about my husband’s diagnosis of Stage IV non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC) and the long journey back to health and quality of life. This diagnosis was handed to HP on June 24, 2017.

I write because it is my therapy for the most difficult journey of my life. Writing my blogs was a way to keep close friends and family up to date on HP’s condition and progress. While HP and I were in Portugal, I received a call from Balboa Press. That was when I learned my WordPress blogs were already public. She asked if I had considered compiling my blogs and making them into a book. Sharing my blogs with trusted friends and family was an easy decision for me. The decision to put my writings into a book that would be public was a hard decision for me. And then there was the investment. Could we really afford for me to do this when HP’s condition was generating the need for a lot of out-of-pocket costs for our holistic health care approach? HP encouraged me to say yes. So, thank you, readers, for helping me with my therapy during this challenging unplanned journey.

Another reason for writing and sharing my story is to keep my thoughts about HP’s healing. Releasing my thoughts is very cleansing. It keeps me on track. Without writing, without the release of them, they tend to build up, and my mind feels chaotic. Chaos, although it is subtle, brings in fearful thoughts. Chaos and fear are roadblocks to flow and inner guidance.

After making the decision to go forward with a book, I continued to write in my blog format. At that time, I discovered how to make my blogs private. The chronological order of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences was important for me. Many events on this journey were challenging to digest and keep straight. I felt like I was drinking from a fire hose, and knowing there would be a record for me to read later was extremely comforting for my mind.

I didn’t write if I didn’t feel inspired. Almost 100 percent of the time, I had no idea what I was going to write. All I needed was to start with the first couple of sentences, and the rest flowed. The only time I reread my blogs was when I was done writing the final chapter. So many times, it felt unreal that those words had flowed through me.

My story is a love story. My style of writing for this book is like a diary. It is a chronological dialogue. I often envision writing to my higher spirit, and her name is Lily. She isn’t my guardian angel. She is me—the part we can’t see with our naked eyes. With Lily by my side, I am never alone. And I truly believe, neither are you.

I share how a stage IV cancer diagnosis enhanced our relationship beyond my wildest dreams. The diagnosis helped illuminate a path, and our vision for each other became crystal clear. Before the diagnosis, we were on the path of the American dream—education, career, marriage, having children, a house, nice cars, and vacations—and taking life for granted. We were living our lives with the illusion that we were in control. If we live right, we are rewarded. If we plan for and execute the ideal American life, we are rewarded with an expected outcome.

After the diagnosis, the sense of control evaporated. In a way, after the diagnosis, we began our unplanned journey with a blank slate.

Our cravings needed to change. Our food preparations and routines needed to change. Our interpersonal relationships needed to change. Our understanding of a holistic approach on this cancer journey needed to expand. We had no time to spare, and we needed to act quickly because our unplanned journey began with stage IV. Everything was now for life’s sake.

My story will talk about grieving. I don’t mean only the grief that comes with a loved one’s passing. Grief takes on many forms. We lose beliefs and physical abilities as we age. Each loss triggers grief. Our new blank slate required that we let go of the familiar. While letting go, I was not always conscious of my grief over the familiar little things. For example, along the way, I needed to let go of planning and executing. The hospitals and doctors were now in control of our schedule and next treatments. Not consciously, but subconsciously, with grieving the death of the knowns, I slowly fell in love with the now moments. My new best friend became flow. As it turns out, for me, living in the now and in flow are strategies for coping.

As of writing this book, the cancer journey is alive and well with no sight of the end. It is with profound gratitude that I share my story of transformation. Our holistic approach includes diet, movement, spiritual work, mindfulness, healing hands, traditional and nontraditional therapies, loving-kindness toward each other, and living each day to the fullest as if it might be the last. Many of our decisions along the way were not only made by our health care team of professionals. Our decisions also included universal downloads. Downloads typically begin with an idea, an idea that was received during a mindless time of meditation, and they frequently showed up after hitting a brick wall and surrendering.

As you read this, you will notice some gaps in time. There is good reason. Not always, but usually, the gaps occurred during the times of smooth sailing. We traveled. We made memories. We crossed off bucket list items. There were times when we hit brick walls and had nowhere to turn. Sometimes the medical team suggested a course of action that was not, in our opinions, sustainable. Writing helped me get in touch with my intuition, my gut feelings. Writing allowed me to go through the brick wall and come out the other side with a new course of action. Following my intuition, my gut feelings, turned despair into hope. So, it may seem that the gaps of time and absence of happy writings make our journey seem like rough roads dominated. That is not the case at all. I was inspired to write when I needed to write as my medicine.

This book is not a how-to book. The truth of it all is that we don’t know what we are doing, what we were, and are, willing to do, or how to walk this journey. We are making it up as we move along the path of our unplanned journey. Sometimes, our journey feels long, difficult, and scary. Other times, it feels short and easy, and we can approach it with confidence. The act of asking for and listening to guidance from Lily and my invisible team has never let us down.

2012:

Costa Rica and/or Bust

HP and I moved to Costa Rica. The path was longer than predicted, but there was no way of knowing it would take four years for our remote Colorado log home to sell. Honestly, over the years, I lost the vision of moving to a foreign land. HP did not. His vision became clearer. At the same time, mine became fuzzier.

The idea came when HP and I were at a martini bar in a close-by mountain town. The owner came onto the patio and blurted out, I need to get the heck out of here and get back to Costa Rica. My first reaction was, He must be having a meltdown. My second reaction was, Where is Costa Rica? Is it an island in South America? Sitting in the sun with a martini in hand, in the mountains, the name Costa Rica stuck. HP bought and read travel books. We watched International House Hunters each evening. The attraction grew stronger for an easier pace of life, a lower cost of living, and a faster retirement.

We told the kids of our plans. They knew we were serious for two reasons. First, we moved a lot. Usually, after eight or ten years, we got an itch to change our surroundings. Second, they knew we were serious when they saw the For Sale sign.

Both kids got busy creating their visions of moving and starting a family commune. They moved to Costa Rica before us. Everyone’s vision was crystal clear—except mine. I was getting cold feet. Not selling the house was my safety net. When it sold in February 2012, finalizing the sale and massive downsizing kept my mind busy. When the last task on the list was complete, my fear of this big move took hold of my emotions. I texted our daughter and said, I can’t do it. Her response was, Oh, no, you don’t. You can’t back out now. We’re already here. All you need to do is commit to one year.

After a year of living our own versions of our visions in Costa Rica, the kids moved back to the States. There was no clear path for them to get residency. Our family of five was now a family of two.

I was able to move on because of our growing friendships. I have never experienced such profound, tight, strong bonds. I am forever grateful for my friendships with other expats and Ticos. This doesn’t mean our other relationships are not deep—because they are—but it is just different with expats. We enjoyed our friends who are family.

Retirement became a reality for me, but HP continued working. He remained passionate about his career. HP and I found ourselves with different interests and on separate paths. Our divide happened gradually. I didn’t realize the shift until the day we separated. We never discussed divorce, and the separation never felt final. By the end of 2015, my emotions plummeted when I found myself alone. In 2012, we had moved as a family of five, and before 2016, I was a family of one.

After a fair amount of time grieving my losses and, during my moment of surrendering, an idea (a universal download) came to mind that allowed me to buy some time until I could decide where I wanted to land. With a large expat community, many friends were traveling back to their homelands for extended periods of time. Like HP and me, their houses were beautiful, and everyone felt at peace when our homes were being watched over while away. In comes my idea. Surely, there are folks who would love a house/pet sitter. It became a win-win for all involved. They could be away for long time periods. I could watch their house and love their fur kids. Eventually, I would figure out what to do next. House/pet sitting gigs bought me an additional year.

My path led me back to Colorado. Our sweet spots were 3,262.5 miles apart, but our separation never seemed final. We both had lost the clear vision for us bridging our divides. It didn’t seem impossible, yet we couldn’t find a path. It was a confusing time for me: What happened? How did this happen? What was the universe trying to tell me when I lost so much with this move? It all happened in a short amount of time. Once back in Colorado, my sadness turned into peacefulness. I was now living in a town that I had always dreamed about. I was in the same country as my immediate family. I had my beloved Colorado climate, change of seasons and all.

If and when HP decided to move back, we would take it slow and let the universe decide the best timing. We knew that after two years of not living together, we had become different people. It would be important for us to take the time to get know each other and, hopefully, fall back in love with the new people we had become.

In Costa Rica, while living alone, HP fell and broke his left hip and left thumb, and he had a hernia injury—all in the same day. He texted me and said a friend was taking him to the hospital, and he said, It’s not good.

That evening, he had three surgeries, a hip replacement, a plate inserted for his broken thumb, and the hernia repair. I told him I was flying down. He said, Let’s wait until I hear from the doctors. The orthopedic doctor was concerned about what he saw when he replaced HP’s hip. The bone had the consistency of Swiss cheese. He suspected cancer. An oncologist was called in quickly. Further testing showed HP’s non-small cell lung cancer was stage IV. He called and asked me to come quickly. He said, I need you. He received his diagnosis on June 24, 2017. I was on the plane June 25, 2017. On that day, our confusion about reconciling became very clear. It was the easiest big decision I have ever made. We were reconciling.

One of the benefits of being an expat in Costa Rica is that the plane ride is fast. I flew out the next day and was in his room that night. I typically enjoy my four-hour layover in Atlanta and make the most of the airport being my home away from home for so many years. This layover seemed to take forever. As you can imagine, it was excruciatingly long.

Once in his hospital room, I said without hesitation, It’s time for you to move back with me. I will take care of you, and we will get through this one way or another. His answer was an instant yes and relief for both of us. We couldn’t figure out how or when we would begin living together again, but the universe made it crystal clear. It’s as if the universe said, You have your answer, and it’s now!

After a week, HP was released to return to his Costa Rica home to begin physical therapy, radiation on the bones surrounding his hip, and a slow recuperation from the three surgeries. Ken, our son-in-law, flew down to help us with finalizing the downsizing and HP’s move. The trip back to the States needed to happen sooner rather than later because HP needed to begin chemo treatments as soon as possible. As life had it, recuperation, radiation, and physical therapy began in Costa Rica. HP and I flew back through Atlanta, and Ken stayed in Costa Rica to complete last-minute moving and financial details.

As I look back, the pressures from the diagnosis and a major move back to the States forced us into what we now call the unplanned journey.

The homecoming.

Our son’s surprise: Welcome home, Dad.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017:

The Unplanned Journey:

Our New Norm

Before I get to the unplanned journey, which began with a diagnosis of stage IV nonsmoker lung cancer, it may be helpful to first talk a little about the past.

HP and I have been together since 1974. In the summer of 1974, he graduated from Western State Colorado University, in Gunnison, Colorado. His plan was to come home to Michigan for the summer and return to Colorado to live and work. That was the planned part. The unplanned part was meeting me, JP, and falling in love. HP didn’t return to Colorado in 1974. Rather, we both fulfilled the Colorado dream in July of 1998, twenty-four years later. Grown children. Houses sold throughout the years in Michigan and Virginia. One dog and one cat. And our stuff.

Fast forward fourteen glorious Colorado years, and the bug bit us. It was the we have to move and explore bug. In May of 2012, we took the biggest leap ever and landed in Atenas, Costa Rica. Our adult children had arrived in January 2012. Being renters, the kids were freer to move than HP and me. We had a house to sell. After four years on the market, our home in the Colorado wilderness sold. You see, not everyone enjoys the same things HP and I do. So, if I say we had six showings a year, I may be exaggerating. It was a miracle when it finally sold.

The liquidating and downsizing our stuff took only a few months. The most stressful time of the move was figuring out how our two kitties would do with the long plane ride. The kitties had their sedative, as did I. After five hours of plane sleep, we woke up in San Jose, Costa Rica at 5:30 a.m. It was surprisingly easy to uproot, downsize, and start an entire new book in our lives.

In the U.S., we lived a typical life: marriage, kids, careers, fancy cars, nice homes, travel for work, family, and friendships. In Costa Rica, we lived a typical life of expats in terms of residency, acquired our driver’s licenses, and began paying into their public health care system (for a mere two hundred dollars per month). I retired, enjoyed weekly yoga, daily swims, and retreats, hosted biweekly massages, and socialized with friends. Our house and casita were the perfect environment. Our little casita became known as the Zensita. Retirement for me became all about health, food, swimming and yoga. We made a bunch of incredible friends. I mean, they were truly incredible!

We moved a lot: from the boondocks in Michigan, to suburbia Washington, DC, to the Shenandoah/Blue Ridge Mountains in Northern Virginia, to lazy Florissant/Royal Gorge areas in Colorado, to Atenas in Costa Rica. Friends and memories. HP and I have been and are blessed. It seemed, we were living the American dream, and then the expat dream, all totally planned.

Or so it seemed …

Wednesday, November 22, 2017:

Being Grateful

Happy Thanksgiving 2017! On Facebook this morning, a memory popped up from five years ago. I thought it was appropriate for many reasons. ’Tis the season. It ties our new Costa Rican adventure in with our present Thanksgiving. It’s the gap between 2012 and 2017 that is so very interesting for us and our family.

Facebook memory: Happy Thanksgiving 2012, friends and family. I love you all. Making my first apple strudel with filo. Fingers are crossed. We are so fortunate to have Jai, Martine, Ken, and Chevy all here in Costa Rica. When I reflect on this, it is almost unbelievable. A lot of faith, commitment and hard work made it happen.

A few days ago, HP and I were reflecting on Thanksgiving 2012. A Thanksgiving with each other, our kids and grandchild. Then there were the years when we were not celebrating with our kids and grandchild in Costa Rica. If our memories serve us well, Thanksgiving 2017 is HP’s first Thanksgiving in the United States since 2012. Wow! I am over-the-top grateful that he is here and that we can celebrate Thanksgiving together in our beloved state of Colorado. (We miss having you with us, Jai, and I hope you are doing something special in Michigan.)

Today, I remember the importance of remaining grateful. Perhaps, in the past, I selectively practiced gratefulness. It was especially easy when there were special moments and times to be grateful for. It was easy to be grateful when everything went well. What I had not learned was how to be grateful during the darker times. I also had not learned how to live in the present moment when times are tough. Just like gratefulness, it was easier to appreciate the now moments with a gentle reminder from Eckhart, or Wayne, or Og (a special guru from many years ago). But what I had not learned yet, through life experiences, was that being fully present in the now moment was an actual place to reside. It has become my sanctuary.

Yesterday, HP and I went to see his oncologist. (Prior to treatment 5, she wanted to see him to discuss the next steps. She hinted that she might move him to a maintenance plan after treatment 5 because he is doing so well as determined by his PET scan in October. As her words went through our personal filters, we both heard her say, Chances are very good that 5 is your last chemo treatment, and you will go onto maintenance.) So, with light hearts, we expected to get confirmation from her. But that is not what happened, which is often the case with our fabricated expectations.

Yesterday, she said, I will schedule treatment 6 for November 28, and then we will meet again after a CT scan to see what maintenance options will work best. From that point on, all our other questions evaporated from our minds. Our hearts became heavier. But why did this news hit us harder than we had expected? After our appointment, we stopped at a nearby restaurant to grab something to eat. (HP’s appetite or taste for good food has never waned through his five treatments.) We were both quiet as we processed what had just happened.

Our conclusion was that our hearts became heavier for one reason only. It wasn’t because we heard bad news. There had not been any new test results to drive her decision down this new path. The path was not new at all. It had always been discussed, six treatments, twenty-one days apart. She simply stayed the course. I can’t help but believe the primary reason our hearts went from light to heavy in a matter of minutes was because our expectation bubble had been popped.

The time between 2012 and 2017 has taught us some very valuable life lessons. Even if there is a dark time, be more grateful than ever. The now moment is where peace lives. And, for heaven’s sake, try hard to not fabricate expectations. When the bubble pops, the pop can be very loud. HP and I talked about still being able to dream and hope—but at the same time flow. When we are totally in the flow, there are no loud pops.

Yesterday, we experienced some sadness. And I am so grateful for the sadness because it was a great reminder of what is important in our lives:

Family + Friends + Love + Gratefulness + Now + Flow + Dreams + Hope = Quality of Life

I’m confident this unplanned journey will shine a bright light on other life lessons, and I say, I am grateful for what I have learned along the way and for what is to come. Happy Thanksgiving to you all and your loved ones.

Sunday, November 26, 2017:

Gratitude and Happy Tears

As the Thanksgiving weekend ends today, I hope you all had a very memorable, loving Thanksgiving holiday. And, for those of you who went out and shopped, I hope you survived and scored on some good deals. I’ve never witnessed Black Friday, firsthand, but from what I have seen on TV, it looks quite interesting and memorable—and it is something I have no desire to experience.

On Thursday, our family and friends sat down around Martine and Ken’s dining room table and held hands. Martine began the gratitude chain, and the tears quietly rolled down our cheeks as we tried to encapsulate all the things we are grateful for into a one-minute speech. One minute was not enough time to express it all, but what rose to the top were the highlights that we hold in our hearts every day.

From my heart, I expressed my gratitude for family and friends and, especially, for HP being home with his family to celebrate Thanksgiving 2017. Thanksgiving is a holiday that he and I have celebrated together since 1974, except for one year.

Yesterday was a special day too. HP and I went to our storage unit to see what Christmas decorations had survived our 2012 downsizing. Prior to moving to Costa Rica, we sold our house and furnishings and our condo in Keystone and furnishings—and most of our stuff was gifted, tossed, or sold. The stuff that survived (and had been in storage since 2012) were photos, pictures painted by our kids, favorite Christmas decorations, record albums (HP), spiritual relics (JP), reference manuals (HP and I were preppers in 1998 and 1999), ski stuff, winter stuff, business papers, and our kids’ excess stuff that hasn’t followed them into their new lives.

Last year, when HP and I were living in two separate houses in two different countries, we talked about our storage unit and the best time to empty and release it. It was ridiculous to pay their ever-rising storage fees now that I was back in the United States. The path of least resistance never materialized. I found the perfect little nest for me in October 2016 and was able to move some of my stuff from the storage unit to my nest, but so much stuff remained.

As our unplanned journey unfolded this year, HP moved back to the United States a little sooner than planned. We are embracing what was once my little nest in Manitou Springs and making it a two-person nest. It has been perfect for us in terms of location. We have quick access to his medical team, stores, and services. The setting is peaceful. It is a true fairytale setting. We are in nature, walking distance to Manitou Springs (and back, if we are being ambitious), and twenty minutes to the hospital where HP gets his treatments. We love our neighbors, and the drive to Guffey to see family and friends is a beautiful road trip.

Yesterday, HP and I made great memories while decorating for Christmas. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving holiday and weekend. Gratefully, we shall store all the blessings and memories in our hearts.

Thursday, November 30, 2017:

The Summit

In a few hours, we will be at the summit. It has been a six-treatment journey that began on August 15. Back in late June, when HP got the diagnosis, I was on a plane to Costa Rica the next day. Early in July, we began processing the diagnosis for HP and planning our next steps. The remaining time in Costa Rica was a flurry of activities, including ten radiation treatments on his hip. We got to work, with the help of Ken, our son-in-love—who always loved living in Costa Rica—getting HP ready to move back to the United States with me.

Some of the most fabulous friends in Atenas came to our rescue. Every day, I hope to be able to serve others as we have been served by friends and family. Sometimes it is not easy to ask for help. But this medical event was big and one we never, ever thought would be ours to handle.

As we processed more and more, the sixth treatment seemed like a lifetime away. But here we are. It went fast. Easy for me to say, right? I think HP would agree as he has made this journey, this trek, look so darned easy. He has been an awesome example for me, our family, and our friends. He is a true inspiration. His strength has been fueled by a positive attitude and an optimistic outlook.

Today, I thought we would wake up feeling lighter and celebratory. Maybe we will feel celebratory tonight. Yet, as we flowed through our morning routines, our energy seemed heavier than I had anticipated. We talked about it, and we were both thinking the same thing, which took us into the future. Every time we leave the now moment, heaviness settles in. With a lot of practice over the past two years, we have learned to recognize heavier energy, and we are getting pretty good at flipping the switch to return to the present moment where peace and light live.

When we allowed ourselves to go into the future, for only a few minutes, we agreed our thoughts went to the next test, a test that was yet to be scheduled. The doctor will order a CT scan to help her decide on the maintenance plan, and then we will meet with her in December. After talking, we quickly recognized that the test was just another stop on our descent. We will take it in stride and with grace.

That’s another day, and today is today.

Today, we will stand at 29,028 feet on the symbolic Mount Everest summit and enjoy the view from the top, stronger in every way than we were just a mere 158 days ago when HP first got the word. Our undying love for each other, and from all of you, will give us the light, peace, and strength that we need to see the way. For this, we are eternally grateful.

Thursday, December 14, 2017:

Hope Beats Not Knowing

In my last post, I mentioned HP will be getting a CT scan to assess the progress in shrinking his lung tumor. The doctor was emphatic about not ordering a PET scan due to the amount of radiation.

Today, true to form, the unplanned journey continues. The doctor ordered CT and PET scans, along with a blood test. I mentioned to the staff that the doctor’s wishes were to skip the PET scan, and she replied, No, HP will complete both tests. I’m convinced that the pecking order goes like this at the cancer center: Top dog is scheduling, next in line is supporting staff, and third is the doctor.

Today is the day we meet with the oncologist to discuss the results and hear her recommended course of action. Since his last chemo cocktail on November 30 (Zometa, Carboplatin, Alimta, Keytruda, anti-nausea and steroids, and the occasional B12), I have been in this strange tug-of-war between fear and love: fear of not knowing and love of hope. It puts my mind at ease when I compartmentalize so, in my mind, the feelings of love and hope reside in the present moment, and the feelings of fear and not knowing reside outside of the present moment.

What a beautiful, gigantic life lesson this unplanned journey is providing through what seems to be a never-ending supply of examples. I suspect these examples will keep coming up as often as needed because it is my desire to ace the test on present moment living.

What I know for