Feels like winter again in OKC

Yesterday when I finally pulled into Oklahoma City after about a six-hour drive from Longview, Texas, where I had stayed after Saturday's long drive, I decided to make a quick stop at Walmart to pick up a few things I had forgotten from home. Naturally, I was wearing a pair of denim shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and flip-flops. As soon as I swung my leg out of the car and felt the north wind whip around the car door, I think I said out loud, “Oh, my word, it’s cold!”

I pretended to be cool about it as I strolled across the parking lot to the entrance, and it was then that I took notice of some of the other customers and what they were wearing—a risky thing to do in a Walmart store. Nearly everyone was wearing long pants and jackets. Some were even in sweaters and hoodies. I honestly had no idea a cold front had come

through and dropped the highs into the low 60’s. Here’s a look at the current temps and forecast. It’s not going to be seasonally warm here until Thursday! As I was going out the door at home on Saturday morning, I absently grabbed a light jacket that was hanging on my coat tree, but I didn’t think I would actually need it.

I made the drive by myself this go-round. John is planning to be my chauffeur for the drive home following my bone marrow transplant. We both agreed that I would need him more then. The drive wasn’t too bad. I

Mississippi River Bridge, Vicksburg MS

took a route through Hattiesburg and Vicksburg. One of these days I want to make a short trip to Vicksburg, situated on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi, and tour the historic city. The most eventful part of the drive along I-20 was, I think, in Jackson where the ride on the interstate is anything but smooth. You’d better have good shocks! I saw a family in an old Suburban that I thought was going to fly off the chassis, it was bouncing so ferociously.

Once I got through Shreveport, Louisiana and across the Texas state line, both lanes of the westbound traffic came to an abrupt halt. We moved at a slow crawl every few minutes or so, and at some point, twice, a fire truck roared by on the right shoulder. I could only imagine there must have been an accident somewhere ahead. So, I took advantage of the standstill to call the Hilton Garden Inn and book a room for the night. On a side note, the next time I book a hotel room, I am going to ask if there are any groups staying at the hotel for special events. Seems Saturday night there were two large groups: one was there for a graduation celebration and another group comprised little league baseball players there for a tournament. Needless to say, one of the groups—most likely the graduates—decided to whoop it up in the hallways until well after midnight. It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going to sleep well that night in a strange place by myself anyway.

Back on I-20 the traffic finally began to move, albeit very slowly, towards the next exit. The two lanes merged into one at the exit, where the line of traffic was routed along the service road for about two miles. Looking to my left I could see the deserted westbound lanes of the interstate, and it looked so strange. As we approached the entrance ramp where we were being routed to finally get back onto I-20, I snapped a quick picture of an 18-wheeler that appeared to be damaged that was being towed east in the empty westbound lanes. There were a couple of other damaged vehicles. I hope no one was hurt badly.

After my overnight stay in east Texas, I had considered taking the Indian Nation Turnpike route to bypass Dallas, but then I thought, it’s the weekend and Mother’s Day…traffic won’t be bad…right? Hah! Once my racing heartbeat settled a bit and I wasn’t hyperventilating, I called John and asked him to remind me next time I wanted to take the “short” route through Dallas that I will NEVER do that again! Not only do the locals drive like bats out of hell, whoever designed some of those interchanges should be shot.

One thing I do enjoy about that route is the northern end of it through Denton and especially Gainesville. When I was growing up, we had friends at church, Carl and Helen Davis, who owned a cabin at Moss Lake just outside of Gainesville, Texas, where Helen was from. They invited us to bring our boat and stay at the cabin anytime we liked. Sometimes, we would go when they were there. Other times, we would visit by ourselves. But always, the time spent there was enjoyable. In fact, my memories of Moss Lake are some of the best of my childhood. The Davis’ cabin sat on a hill near the end of a gravel road where other retreats in the form of small cabins or larger homes were situated good distances from each other and many with gravel driveways or pads with room for guests to park. I remember the anticipation I would feel as we drove through the Arbuckle Mountains down the stretch

A windmill on the Arbuckle Mountain Wind Farm

of south I-35, across the Red River, and onto the two-lane highway that took us to the pretty lake. I could hardly stand to take the time to help unload before I asked mom and dad, “Can we go swimming now?” My sister and I, along with the Davis’ kids, Calvin and Monte, and their cousin, Greg, would race down the grassy hill to the dock, drop our towels on the grass before we launched ourselves from the dock and into the cool, green water. They had a floating dock that Monte and Calvin would detach from the bank, and we would stand up on it and rock it back and forth in an attempt to knock each other off. In later years, the Davises built a diving board. Looking back, it seems to me it was 20 feet high, but I’m sure it was barely half that. Still, it took some courage to jump from the board. The Davis boys made it look easy. Mom and Dad would drive the boat around to the launch. Sometimes I’d go along so I could ride in the boat back across the lake and into the private inlet where the Davis’s dock was. I learned to water ski on that lake, which was almost always smooth as glass. We’d go tubing too, and we didn’t have fancy, brightly colored inflatables like the ones you can buy now. We had a genuine tire inner tube, and we’d skim along the surface of the lake hanging on for dear life while one of the Davis boys steered the boat in wild turns trying to throw us off.

When the sun started to dip below the horizon, we’d relax on the screened porch of the cabin eating burgers and hotdogs with Cheetos and Coke, then crawl into our sleeping bags for some of the best rest of our lives, only to wake up in the morning to do it all again.

Like every city, Gainesville has changed and grown over the years, but there were unmistakable landmarks that brought all the great memories rushing back. I found myself smiling as I left it in my rear view mirror as I crossed the Red River into Oklahoma.

Preparing for this trip has been an emotional ride as filled with ups and downs as that bouncy stretch of I-20 in Mississippi. Leaving home was really hard. The first tears came Saturday morning when I called upstairs to Keifer and asked him to come downstairs so I could go over some of the instructions I had written down for him about taking care of my flowerbeds, my plants on the patio, and of course, the cats. I have never been away from them for as long as I will be on this trip. I have never faced as daunting a challenge as I am facing either. When Keifer first appeared from the stairs, I felt overwhelming sadness and anxiety, and he hugged me as I started to cry.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he said quietly. I knew it would be. At that moment, however, everything just felt a little overwhelming.

This morning I had my first lab appointment at the Stephenson Cancer Center. The nurse who drew my blood sorted out 18 tubes with rubber tops of various colors to fill with my blood. Fortunately, it was done through my port, and I had remembered to apply the lidocaine cream before I left my dad’s house, so the process was painless, although I don’t think I’ve ever had that much drawn at one time. The nurse joked that I might need a cookie and some juice when we were done. Actually, I didn’t even feel lightheaded.

Tomorrow I will see Dr. Selby, who will explain the transplant process in detail and answer any questions I have. I will sign some consent forms and find out how to give myself Filgrastim shots twice a day in preparation for the collection, or harvesting, of my stem cells. In the meantime, I’m reaching out to friends to let them know I’m in town, and I’m making plans to see as many of them as I can before the transplant. I draw strength from their friendship and from their prayers. Keifer is right. Everything will be okay.