A major portion of my job as mediator at our juvenile court is holding attendance mediations in the four school districts and career center in this county. The school year around here runs mid-August to late May. I am in the schools medi­ating by late September and go until mid-May as a rule. The busiest months are December through April.

My coworkers and I have come to call this period of time “the attendance season.” “I’m sorry, it’s attendance season and I can’t cover that hearing for you,” one of them will say. Or, “I’m sorry, it’s attendance season – I can’t do that.”

It is not us finagling our way out of work; we are all genuinely busy from early in the morning to well into the late afternoon or early evening. Because I cover all the districts in the county, I sometimes leave the house by 7:20 for an 8:00 a.m. medi­a­tion; depending on the day, I may not get home until well after 5:00 p.m. I have worked some weekends and holidays, trying to keep up in the heart of attendance season.

At a very recent attendance mediation, we met with a high school student who has to pass this year’s classes to have any shot at graduating on time next year. The assistant principal finally looked up and said, “You just need to keep treading. You know, treading water, keeping your head out so you can breathe. Do what you need to do, but just keep treading.”

The student nodded.

I nodded too.

I just need to keep treading.

This month the Central Ohio Symphony, our local symphony, finished its 38th season. It put on an all-Ohio concert, featuring Ohio composers, Ohio arrangers, Ohio soloists, and, of course, the entire orchestra and conductor, Ohioans all. Entitled “Hear Ohio,” it was quite a night.

Finishing the symphony season takes a little off my plate. I am not as deeply involved with the group as in years past, but the reality of being married to the symphony's executive director (as well as the principal timpanist) is that I am also married to the symphony. I live with it almost as closely as I live with my husband Warren.

It occurred to me as we struck the stage after the “Hear Ohio” performance that a lot has changed in me over the decade of being with Warren. In past years, I would be helping haul percussion equipment, bringing down signs, racking chairs and music stands, and doing everything possible to wrap up. (This on the heels of setting up for the concert days earlier.) And here’s the reality: I can’t do it anymore.

I am too tired. I am too worn down by treatment and cancer. I am too sick, even after sitting quietly through the concert (resting, as it were).

I. Can’t. Do. It.

Oh, I can help, and I did help afterwards. I helped collapse stands. I helped gather music. I picked up odds and ends. But mostly I treaded water.

“You just need to keep treading.”

My friends both here and by mail admonish me to slow down, pull back, don’t push so hard. I feel lousy whether or not I pull back, so why deprive myself of events and activities I enjoy and am committed to? I have heard I am working too hard, followed by the suggestion that I retire. Retire? My job is a source of deep personal passion and, on the practical side, also the source of my excellent health insurance. I am not vested in the retirement system, so all retirement would do is put insurance (and hence medical care) out of reach permanently.

“You just need to keep treading.”

I am at a frustrating point in my multiple myeloma trek. As an outlier, I don’t fit the norms, I don’t fit the research, and I don’t fit the expected reactions to medications. We still cannot get my INR stable despite a stable diet. I test low, but having a post-concert shake, I had two spontaneous hematomas in my lips from sucking on the straw. My oncologist talks of putting me on a meds holiday, even though he and my myeloma specialist feel a holiday may be unrealistic at this stage. And I feel lousy just about every single day, with or without rest, with or without being in my treatment infusion weeks, with or without anything.

“You just need to keep treading.”

Years and years ago, I took Red Cross summer swimming lessons at our county pool. As I got older, I was invariably in the 8 a.m. class. The outdoor pool was chilly at that hour (the summer swim team had it worse; they started at 7 a.m.). We would swim laps as directed and then our instructor would yell out “tread water.” He wanted us to rest, catch our breath, but keep our bodies warm for the next exercise. I haven’t thought of those days for a long time, but they come to mind now.

There are laps yet to swim. I just need to keep treading.