Tonight i write this.

If learning new skills keeps a person young, I better lay off for a while and let myself age again.

Crawled under my sister's very low back deck with propane torch, solder, flux, steel wool, sandpaper, gloves, kid's paintbrush, and a pair of garden gloves. For 24 hours I didn't dare turn on the water, afraid it would leak. The fix appears to be good: no drips. Applause welcome.

Spent much of today in the basement, continuing cleaning up the mess left by the insulation job: foam-board particles drifting across the floor, fiberglass dust filtered over every surface and into everything throughout a huge jumble of assorted debris including 3 boxes of rotten apples, boxes of dirt, cut-up milk bottles, plastic, books, magazines, framed pictures, frames without pictures, clothes, kitchen items, cloth, curtains, wire, cardboard boxes, chunks of Styrofoam, potting soil, plant-pots, plant hangers, jewelry, old newspapers, painting supplies, pens, pencils, pins, pots and pans all piled in a heap in the middle of the floor.

In another part of the basement, several suitcases stacked haphazardly with camping supplies and pet carrier, child's chair, a great mess of large upholstery fabric pieces, lengths of chain, and some nail-studded lumber which appears to have been shelving at some time in the past. A bare bulb hangs from the low ceiling, but the switch is not evident. Darkness prevails. The air is thick with toxic dust waiting to rise.

A small bright room sports a closed window and wooden brackets: some sheets of chip-board are found to fit and we have a room full of shelves ready for storage. Over the next few weeks, photo albums, incense-burners, candle holders, jewelry boxes, Christmas ornaments, wooden carvings, books and bangles - anything that might be construed as having sentimental value is carefully retrieved from the debris and sorted into boxes here.

Summer patio furniture is carried out to the back deck; a downspout is shoved back onto the rain-gutter, drains unplugged, bathroom scrubbed again and again. Garden hoses dug out of deep weeds, rhubarb picked and cooked. Guitar practiced. Dog walked. Cat cuddled.

It takes hours, days, and phone calls but eventually all utilities are arranged to be paid automatically (at this writing, waiting for banks to open to get final numbers for credit card to go on automatic)

It's Canada Day and the neighborhood is very quiet. Thick clouds overhead, occasional rain. Cassolet with turkey in the oven. Slow.

Today I regret not taking more pictures of the work here. I was embarrassed for Terry: couldn't imagine she would want the world (her friends) to see what a state her life/house was in. The black slimy mold, thick on the fridge inside and out; grime upon grime layered on bathroom fixtures with clogged drains. Now I look at the tidied cellar, boxes waiting to be recycled and tools hanging over the work-bench and I wish I had taken fewer photos of the wonderland out in the wooded hill behind the house and more photos of the job here: from the daily and ever-ongoing household maintenance (the kitchen after a successful teen sleepover including midnight crepe-making) to the unspeakable disorder and filth in the bedside drawer (numerous and assorted pill bottles, loose pills, dirty dishes, snack-food, canning jars of semi-potable liquid, scratch paper, pens, pencils, crumbs) - a journal of images to help me remember and recognize the extent of the job I've been doing. Because the memory will recede quickly as my tendency is to diminish my hardships, to downplay the difficulties, to underestimate long-term effects on my emotions, my family, my relationships, my sense of self-worth.

Terry called me superwoman, credited me with saving her life. She relied on me so completely and I did what was needed. And i did what i had to do. Now the initial crisis is history. The day to day coping with cancer is what's left. Walking the dog, washing the dishes, helping with the things that would wear her out so she has energy enough to do things she wants to do.

So I came this time with an agenda: Betty wants to be sure a memorial service is held in accordance with Terry's wishes. Terry was pleased and made some suggestions: music - Morning has Broken; The River; some others. I should ask her again and write them down. A traditional Quaker service - with an explanation for those who haven't experienced one before, and followed by a pot-luck and singing. But not yet: she is still alive and gardening and thinking about life, not death now. She thought about death a lot last time. Now she wants to enjoy the sunny days, Oprah Show, good food.

She has no pain. That alone is some kind of miracle: how can someone have cancer as serious as hers and yet be in no pain? A visual distortion hampers her ability to enjoy books or movies, but the only other symptom is weakness and fatigue. She naps during the day between eating and gardening, snoring gently. In the evening she watches TV while i write or read. And tonight i write this.