I went to Seattle, unsure of how I could be useful to Jacqui during her cancer treatment. The requirement to have a “caregiver” was imposed by her medical team, partly because no one knows how an individual will respond to treatment. Given her strong response to previous procedures, Jacqui figured the caregiver requirement was mostly a formality.

That’s pretty much how it panned out, in part because the actual treatment was postponed several times. Except for one hospital procedure and an emergency early-morning coffee run, I was most useful as emotional, not physical, support.

As a result, our relationship was very balanced between “giving” and “receiving.” We were caregivers to each other, rather than a giver and a receiver.

That is, until my world turned inside out on Tuesday. As usual, Jacqui was up before me, making coffee. I slowly drifted awake, enjoying the aroma. But what was this? Something wasn’t right. I swallowed. Ouch! I had a sore throat.

I gave it a few minutes, some water, and a cup of coffee. The sore throat persisted. “Jacqui, I have something to tell you,” I said. I knew I had to speak the truth, and quickly, but I was mortified about the disruption I was about to unleash.

No one with a “bug” could be this close to an immune-suppressed patient. But the transplant hadn’t yet begun, so did I have to leave?

Jacqui left a message with the clinic, then headed out for a morning appointment. A little while later, she phoned me. The medical team said I had to leave immediately. Using her car for transport was out of the question. And no goodbye hug!

I started packing in a daze, feeling like a pariah. How could I foist my sick self on friends? Nobody would want to risk catching this cold. Maybe I should hole up in a hotel room, alone, as penance. My luggage had expanded to twice its size; instead of a carry-on plus laptop, I now had too much to carry on a bus. I kicked myself for the shopping I’d done at five thrift stores and three international groceries.

I took a deep breath, put aside my martyrdom, and called my friend Tina back. She’d offered me their guest room in a phone call a half hour earlier. But in a strange coincidence, Tina was also undergoing cancer treatment. I wasn’t sure it was wise for her to invite Typhoid Meps into the house.

Tina got the go-ahead from both her partner, Will, and her oncology team, and a little while later, Will appeared at the door. He kept me company while I attacked every surface I could find with a disinfecting bleach solution. Then he took me to their home, with a brief stop for a soothing smoothie. I still felt dazed and disoriented, and I attributed it to the fever that was setting in. But it was something else: I had suddenly gone from the role of “caregiver” to “caregivee.”

Many of us live our lives feeling that we don’t have enough, so we can’t give to others. We don’t have enough time or money or energy, so we have to hoard what we’ve got.

I tend toward the other extreme, feeling that I have lots to give — time, skill, love, creativity, energy. Sometimes, though, I run low on supplies. What I was running short of on Tuesday (and Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday) were energy and health.

Ensconced in Tina and Will’s beautiful guest room, decorated with Eastern art and photos of family, I suffered my physical ailments without complaint. I accepted their gifts of hospitality and caring, and laying flat on my back, I thought about how I could give back. I couldn’t wash dishes or cook or make myself “useful.” My voice had given out, so I wasn’t even very good company for talking.

In that time, I figured out a simple thing I could return to my friends to help maintain the balance between giving and receiving: Gratitude. It’s good stuff.

A few days later, my cold and I were sitting on a plane, heading back to Barry and North Carolina. I opened my pack, and there was the little paper bag Tina had given me as I left their home. Inside, I found a napkin, a baggie of apple slices, some ginger cookies, and a favorite exotic treat — jackfruit chips. Alongside, I’d packed one of the organic, dark-chocolate-covered pomegranate bars Jacqui had squirreled away when she discovered how much I liked them. I made my snacks last through all three flights, and each time I opened the bag, I beamed my gratitude, not just at my friends, but at the whole world.

Thanks, y’all.

When I arrived at the gate for my Charlotte flight to Seattle, most of the seats in the waiting area were taken. The other travelers avoided my eyes as I scanned the area, looking for a place to sit. I found a spot between a woman engrossed in a novel and a teenager engrossed in a cell phone. “But I texted her, and she never texted me back!” she complained, loudly, into the phone.

I boarded the plane and was soon settled in a window seat near the front of the plane. As the rest of the passengers streamed down the aisle, lugging their carry-ons, I chatted with the man seated on the aisle.

We were engrossed in our conversation and almost didn’t notice that all the passengers were aboard until we heard the telltale clunk of the doors closing. Then I craned my neck in amazement and looked around. Every seat on the plane was full, except for one — the seat between me and my row-mate. We tucked our bags under the spare seat and luxuriated (OK, that’s an overstatement for coach class) in the additional space.

By then, I’d heard some of his story. Craig, the father of five, was the owner of a large construction business in the Seattle area. He was returning home from an errand of mercy, a cross-country trip to the North Carolina hospital where his brother had just had three emergency surgeries. “He’s going to be OK now,” he said, the relief showing on his face.

I listened in understanding to Craig’s story. I was traveling on a similar mission, flying to Seattle to be with my dear friend Jacqui during her intense cancer treatment. Back in North Carolina, I’d discussed the situation with Barry. I decided it was more important for me to be with Jacqui than to work on the boat. Fiberglass can wait.

Craig had decided that his brother was important, too — more important than his own day-to-day life. As we compared our situations, we joked about being rewarded for our good deeds with the most comfortable seats on the plane.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such an easy cross-country flight. We chatted a little, but mostly, I read and listened to music and napped and looked out the window. The time flew as I did.

When I arrived in Seattle, I contacted my ride, a volunteer from the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance named Wendy. We’d never met, so I told her which door I’d be near. “I’ll be wearing bunny ears,” I said. I slipped them on when I got to the curb, my infamous fur-trimmed, sequined rabbit ears with flashing, blinking LED lights inside. To my surprise, none of the people standing near me even smiled. As a matter of fact, they sidled away and wouldn’t meet my eyes!

But my technique worked great for Wendy, who spotted the ears from a block away. She seemed less surprised by the bunny ears than by the fact that she had arrived at the airport, received my call, and driven right up to me without either of us waiting. She marveled that she’d picked up hundreds of people and never had this happen before. I just smiled and nodded. After my karmic experience on the plane, it was no surprise. Wendy was being rewarded for her kind deed, too.

Wendy’s volunteer work involves adopting families from out of town who come to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance for long-term treatment. She serves as their local guide, helping them find the bank, the post office, the grocery store. She’s a navigational beacon to them, physically and emotionally.

That’s how I see Jacqui, too. She’s an extremely bright light, a navigational beacon to me and to others. Even while she’s going through difficult and painful times and I’m serving her, as driver, medical advocate, and sherpa, she’s sharing her knowledge, insight, and deep wisdom. Meanwhile, we’re ensconced in a fantastic downtown Seattle suite with a view, enjoying wonderful books, movies, games, and food.

The key to Jacqui’s brightness is, as a Buddhist teacher said, “a predisposition toward favorable outcomes.” In simple words, a positive attitude.

We can all carry this attitude from moment to moment, and even if we drop it accidentally for a bit, we can pick it up again. When we lose something — our health, money, someone dear to us — it’s our predisposition toward favorable outcomes that gives us the momentum to go forward.

I’ll be here with Jacqui for another week, and then I’ll fly back to North Carolina, where Barry and Flutterby await. I don’t know exactly how Jacqui’s transplant protocol will go. I don’t know if I’ll have the best seat on the plane again. All I know is, if I carry bunny ears with me, each moment will be more joyful. And if I carry a predisposition toward favorable outcomes with me, each moment will be exactly what it’s supposed to be.

Meps had just flown out for a couple weeks, and I am alone with Flutterby and her huge todo list.  I decided that I would pick up a quick and easy job so I could just get something accomplished and feel good about it, then move on to whatever I should be next.

Flutterby's blue binnacle

So I decided to re-assemble the binnacle–The painting was done, all the new parts from Edson have been here for ages, I had already re-built a LED compass light where the old incandescent one used to be.  It should be quick and easy, right?  Well, that was what I thought when I started the first day of working on it…

First I decided I needed to clean up the shaft that the wheel goes on before I re-assembled it.  Then I noticed there was a little bit of pitting in a couple places, so got out the dremel and some grinding and then polishing tips.  Nothing was very deep, it all cleaned up OK, and it took less than an hour.

Of course, I decided I needed to remove one split ring to inspect and clean under one bearing race, so I had to find somebody in the yard who had the pliers for that job.  I ended up having a nice chat with Ward and Audrey, but the quick part of my job was rapidly receding.

Then I tried to install the new parts of the wheel brake.  Only a minute to file the paint out of the hole it needs to go through.  Then I found that the brake knob spindle wouldn’t fit through the new bushing.  Oops.  Looks like it was once or twice tightened down enough to flare out the metal.  After dinner I probably spent another hour with a file and sandpaper fixing that.

OK, brake installed, shaft went in easily enough, and I didn’t make too big a mess when I got the grease gun out.  There were 4 threaded holes I had painted over; I was able to clean 4 of them out with a tap, and then had to borrow another tap to clean out the others.  That went well too.

Geez, those old 1/2” washers and lock washers look pretty corroded.  I should get new ones.  No problem, Bock has them in stock.  Now let me put the riser and the new idler plate on the base.  Odd, something must be a little warped; oh well, when I tighten the bolts down it should smunch together.  Oops.  The new plate (a massive bronze casting) is a lot thicker than the old (mild steel, rusted through) one was.  Now my bolts aren’t long enough anymore.   I wonder if Bock has any stainless steel (or bronze) 2 1/2″ long 1/2” Flat head machine bolts.  Nope, but they have more of the 2” long ones I can’t use!

OK, now off to the McMaster-Carr website to order the bolts I need.  Then I can put it together.  I go the order in early enough to be shipped out today; it might be here tomorrow, but Monday is more likely.

Uh-Oh.  That hole where the bolt for fastening the engine control cables is supposed to be on the back side of the pedestal, not the front, isn’t it.  Back when I patched the holes where the old autopilot used to be mounted, I left the wrong one.  Ah well, as Philip says, “another imperfection.”  And I suppose I’ll have to find the old hole and drill it out again.  Or maybe I can mount the cable bracket on the other side.  I guess I’ll try that…as soon as I get the new engine control cables.

Maybe I would have done better starting with a hard job?