Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Intensely Staying Alive

 

A dear friend hugs me and says, "I want to go first so you can do my funeral." 

"Wait a minute!" I'm the one with 3 active Cancers and, it's difficult to believe anybody's going before I do!

She's has her challenges too: infections led to Urgent Care, then to the ER, until hospitalized overnight in a hallway. 

Boy can we relate!

"I mean, we're all dying all of the time anyway," Sarah says, "it's just some of us are in the fast lane."

It's hard to argue with my wife. 

That night I wake to vertigo, chills, followed by sweats, nausea, bowel issues and lack of sleep. This takes place in the Living Room and hallway bathroom, so everyone else can sleep while I do.  Somehow while this is happening, I manage to smoke Weed, which calms it all down while making things move quicker. A few hours later I can eat and everything's better. 

Finally, just as I settle on the sofa with coffee, Che wakes and we fall into a routine of play, breakfast and getting ready for school. 

"Is it 7:30 yet, she begins asking, because she's ready to see her Mom.  The time hit, Che makes a wild dash to "see if Mom's awake" by diving on top of her."

I live for these moments. 

Later Sarah's working and Che's at school so I hop online and am immediately overwhelmed with requests. 

Family, friends and strangers asks if I'm available to talk, meet, speak, write, preach and even do funeral services. 

‪One the one hand, what an honor!‬

‪On the other hand, I'm working real hard to maintain my distance from death or disrupting a way of living that's KEEPING ME ALIVE.‬

Besides, the last time I tried, I passed out teaching a College Zoom class "On Death and Dying" and Sarah, who happened to be monitoring, pushed me out of the chair to continue the lecture without missing a beat. 

The students gave her rave reviews!

The last message is from a childhood friend, "Just wanted to let you know that you’re amazing.  It must be so difficult worrying about future things while struggling with current issues.  And yet, with Sarah and Che, you make it through each day ..."

It's true we take everything one day at a time.  It's hard to make plans living in the valley of the shadow of death but Sarah doesn't care, making them anyway. 

I tell her these things over dinner and we talk and, in no time, find ourselves laughing. 

"I'm going record a video of you conducting a specialized, limited edition number of funeral services," Sarah says grinning, "for anyone to download for a modest $400 fee."

I howl, bending over in laughter, laying my head on the table and pounding my fist on top. 

Sarah and I laugh as much as possible, which far more difficult than it sounds, but it really is the best medicine. 

Unless you have diabetes then insulin is the best medicine. 

That's funny. 

After dinner, Che dances into the room, resulting in even Lainey stopping to watch, as Che sings, "Staying Alive" to the top of her lungs.  

Sarah and I laugh at the irony. 

"Alexa," I gleefully call, "play Staying Alive" and Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play it if their lives depended on it, as Che dances, and we hold hands, watching. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

Dying to Dance

 


"The way you been writing man," he says leaning forward on the sofa, peering over his sunglasses, having unexpectedly dropped by, "makes everybody think it's bad.  I had to see for myself."

"What?" I reply from the other sofa, hugging myself, surfing on low energy.

"Dying," he says, rubbing one hand on top of the blue bandana covering his head. "You write like you're a goner, Dude," he challenges. "I had to see for myself so I'm here."

I sigh.

He has cancer too.

His was devastating, though he still manages a very active life, had horrific news that's immediately followed by good news and now he is on a high!

"You're talking about my writing?" I ask.

"Yeah," he explodes in a weakened yet still loud voice, "you write like you're dying.  Like now, man!"

"Really?" 

"Yeah," he exacerbates. "You go on about it, like you're getting ready to die now or something."

"Actually, I think I'm pretty funny," I say defensively.

He then goes on to relate his good news, hoping it rubs off on me.

After about 15 minutes I explain I'm beat, he takes his cue, we hug, and he threatens to return soon.

I'm pretty matter-of-fact writing about death. It is what it is, it's coming sooner than I want and that's simply part of life.

When Sarah and I talk about it, we review facts but spend most of our time cracking jokes.

"Hey Baby," my wife says entering the room, "with your treatment not working and the oncologist referring you to Nuclear medicine, do you think we can raise the prices on the books we haven't sold yet?"

It takes a moment and, BOOM, we are laughing our asses off.

Laughing is a key component of the way Sarah and I dance and right now we're waltzing into more dark unknowns, holding onto one another as ominous music plays somewhere. 

We know this next round of treatment is not a cure. We know that only a miracle, or death, will make me cancer free.

So we live.

Not fighting a battle with my cancer, but dancing. 

Most every afternoon we walk to the end of the street to wait on Che, getting out of school. 

She smiles when she sees us waiting on her to cross the street. Mrs D, the beloved crossing guard, gives the single and the kids make a mad dash, excited to be free, and Che runs straight into my arms singing, "You and me, always, forever," like a Disney Princess. 

Grabbing Sarah's hand, while continuing to hold mine, we dance laughing and loving what we have now because, it's the life we have and, we're going to dance.

Friday, February 2, 2024

Where I belong

 


"Take me home, county roads," Che sings, walking into the room. 

"YOU KNOW THAT SONG?" I yelp with enthusiasm. 

"I know it from TikTok," she answers. 

"Take me home," she starts singing again and I join her. 

Che seems to already know every song ever recorded because they're all used on TikTok. 

We get in the car to go somewhere, music comes on the radio and Che immediately starts singing, regardless of the song, artist, genre or language. 

"How do you know that song?" I ask her in disbelief. 

"TikTok," she shrugs, singing away. 

"Let's do it together," Sarah suggests from the sofa, so Che and I join her and we sing again. 

Stiffly, with a bit of a wobble, I stand to retrieve my guitar hanging on the wall. 

I haven't played in a long time. 

The Epiphone's magically still in tune, my voice doesn't crack and croak and love is literally all around as we sing together.

Aside from our joyful noise, it's a peaceful and quiet night, suddenly a silent and holy one, for a few moments anyway. 

"Do our song Daddy," she asks, breaking in the silence. 

The grin on my face betrays the joyful eruption of emotions inside. 

"Who's that I see walking in these woods?" I sing, hitting the chord on the guitar. 

Che delightfully squeals. 

"Why it's little Red Riding Hood."

"OHWOO!!!" 

"Hey there Little Red Riding Hood
you sure are looking good," we sing as she impishly dances. 

When we finish she collapses beside me with her head on my chest, Sarah's on the other side and we sing it once more, but quietly and with reverence, like a Hymn.

Take me home
Country Roads
To the place I belong

Home is where the heart is, they say, and we're very happy to here. 

At the place where I belong. 

Tuesday, January 30, 2024

My Sabbatical

 


This is my favorite Nurse, who loves Elvis, injecting a very large syringe directly into my butt. 

For the past 28 months, two-and-a half years, the chemical cocktail that stymied the cancer from growing, no small feat, isn't working anymore. 

My disease grows and it's been determined my best course of action is "nuclear medicine."

That just sounds creepy. 

A targeted radiation supposedly attaches itself to certain receptors on the cancer itself and either stops more growth or shrinks it. 

Eight months of an ugly, grueling treatment that results in, among other things, a thinning of my hair. 

"Don't worry," Sarah tells me after research, "it grows back even thicker is what the trials concluded."

That doesn't commence until April. 

Meaning, I have a Sabbatical. 

I've always wanted a Sabbatical so now I can cross something else off the bucket list. 

Now, like anyone else would be, I'm thrilled to death (I crack myself up!) and have already been planning things I want to achieve while on my glorious break from treatment. 

I want to dance with Sarah. Long, slow, sweaty, passion dancing on a sandy floor, under a full moon, like on the night we married. 

I'm desperate to teach Che how to snorkel in the Ocean and Sarah's running a race on the 7 Mile Bridge in the Florida Keys and there's a decent shot I won't be a Zombie if I get to go!

Mostly, I want to have energy, focus and stamina in the times I spent with Sarah and Che and I have a chance for that to happen. 

With her arms wrapped around my waist, her beautiful aqua-green eyes peering deeply into mine, Sarah says, "Honey, you better rest up because when you start your nuclear treatments, you're going to light me up like I've never been lit before!"

And my Sabbitical commences with us laughing hysterically in each other's arms.

Wednesday, January 24, 2024

My Interview with Death


I'm here with Death, also known as the Grim Reaper, The Destroyer, The Hooded One, The Angel of Death, & The "God" of Death.

Death's always around and SHE's agreed to answer a few questions.

The first thing to know about the Grim Reaper is she's a woman. 

Honestly I'm a bit surprised and I don't know why I presumed Death is exclusively man work so I want to begin by apologizing.

"Oh that's all right. If I think people are too sexist I just take them ... you know what I'm saying?"

I nod and wait. 

"You're still here so I'm alright with you," she smirks. 

I exhale a sigh of relief. 

"Besides I don't know why everybody's so shocked to find out I'm female. Like all women I'm into fashion and set the trend to dress in black ages ago! That's why so many women dress in black today and I'm happy to see it crossing over sexual lines and men dressing in black too ... especially in large urban areas and across Europe."

"So is this where the phrase 'dress to kill' comes from?"

"Of course," she flashes a brilliant grin. 

"I've got several questions everybody's always wanted to ask you so do you mind if we get right to it?," I forge ahead. 

"Not at all."

"Good! Okay first question ... Beatles or Stones?

"Well ... obviously The Rolling Stones."

Because of "Sympathy for the Devil"?

"No! Because I'm so sick of the opening riff of 'Satisfaction' it inspires my work. That's why I haven't taken Keith Richards ... I think it hurts him more to listen to that damn opening riff every single day he's alive."

"I see."

"Next question ... you seem to work in 3's ... meaning people seem to die in 3's ... one ... two ... three ... why is that?"

"Honestly it's because I like Sudoku. I can't get enough of it. So three at a time is all I can manage before I take a break and play some more."

"Sudoku? Really?"

"It's better than wasting time on Facebook."

"Right. So ... why are you so white? I'm wearing sunglasses just to conduct this interview. Don't you ever get out in the sun? Have a little Beach time?"

"Well I do own a time share in Myrtle Beach which I'm always using to comp customers ..."

"Wait! Comp Customers? Who's your customer?"

"Funeral Homes, elected officials and televangelists."

"Of course ... um ... what can we expect from you in the future?"

"More of the same. It's a pretty boring job but ... it's a living."

"That's funny," I laugh. 

"Oh?" she asks in a not so pleasant way and the interview is abruptly over. 

Death disappears and I'm left alone holding my pipe in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. 

It's good I'd asked all the important questions already and I'm satisfied with the results.

Leaving the table to find Sarah and Che, I stop dead in my tracks as Alexa plays the opening riff to "I can't get no satisfaction."

Tuesday, January 16, 2024

A Tiny White Bible

Sailing down I-95, rushing to appointments at the Mayo Clinic, I

reach into Kristen's glove compartment for a napkin.

"Oh," she says, "I don't have any but there is something in there you should get," my daughter smiles. 

Reaching blindly into the dashboard my hand rests upon a tiny book, which I pick up. 

Touching the little white Bible, my fingers suddenly catch fire as I feel the old, soft, worn leather. 

Literally! 

It shocks my fingers.

"Dammit," I exclaim, jerking my hand back while still holding onto the tiny Gideon Bible my Grandmother gave my daughter years ago. 

Holding the tiny New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs, I literally feel my Grandmother's presence rushing up through my fingers, up my arms and into my heart, as I can literally feel her flash through my entire body. 

Gasping, joy full tears erupt from my eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Kristen's ask, suddenly concerned, reaching for my hand.

"Nothing," I softly answer. "What a gift.  I can feel her."

Grandma Carver gave it to me," Kristen explains. I keep it with me."

I nod but have nothing to say. The rush of emotion and surprise is a weird, wild spiritual rush.  For a second, my Grandmother fills me up and is just as alive as everyone else in the car. 

I hold the Bible, snap a pic and send a text to Sarah sharing what's just happened. 

"You okay Dad?" Kris repeats, grabbing my hand and not letting go. 

"Yeah," I say, wiping my eyes, "I'm good. What a gift!"

I stare out of the window at the marshes of Glynn silently and wondrously, as we sail down I-95, feeling much loved. 

Sunday, January 14, 2024

The Happiness of the Bell

 


Waiting on my name to be called, I feel a commotion happening at the Mayo Clinic and look up to see a family gather to watch her ring the bell. 


A slender, dark skinned woman with the brightest of smiles, and one forceful tug, yanks the rope. 

TING! it loudly clangs and echoes. 

Surrounding her in hugs, whooping and yelling, they dance. 

I can't help but smile, happy for her, and her family still dancing in hugs and smiling for pictures. I send Sarah a quick text to share what I'm watching. 

"I may ding it on the way out," I type. "Close as I'll ever get."

"Yep," my wife replies. 

"Micheal!" I hear suddenly, breaking my smile. 

Standing, I take a last look at the happiness of the bell, then force myself to follow the Nurse into the room for my injection. 

When I walk out, the happy family and friends are gone but my daughter Kristen sits, waiting. 

She rushes over, grabs my arm to lead me out and says, "I got you beer in the car."

When Sarah's not with me, I make it a point to find something I enjoy after an injection and that's normally beer for the ride home. 

Turning up the music as she drives, Kris gives me lots of space to see how the shot affects me. 

Sometimes, I get violently sick and pass out. Other times, it's days before I feel any effects. I never know. 

Tom Petty's wandering through the wildflowers, Kristen's singing along, I stare out the window, sip beer and text Sarah. 

"My entire life I have ridden down and up I-95 listening to great music and drinking beer ... I love and relish each and every time ... some way more than others."

A heart emoji appears. 

"Eternity is a long time, especially towards the end," Stephen Hawking said and it always gives me pause whenever it comes to mind, as I sip beer, listening to Kristen and Tom Petty sing about somewhere you'll feel free, ready to be home. 

Thursday, January 11, 2024

I don't know how she knows



I don't know how she knows but she knows. 


"You look so sad Da," Che says last night, roller skating through the living room. 

I'm hunched over in a chair at the dinning room table, head in my hands, as Sarah prepares dinner after being away at work all day. 

She's bone dead tired too. 

Skating over, Che slams headfirst in my lap, crawls on me, sitting on me. 

Sarah watches us as she cooks. 

Later as I tuck her in for the night, Che hugs me tightly and says, "Sleep with me Da."

Smiling, loving it, I tell her I'll hold her tight in the morning, kiss her once more and turn out the light. 

The morning starts a little after midnight and I settle into dark hours of contemplation, prayer and Twitter. 

I'm off to the Mayo Clinic for a day of tests and a chemical cocktail today. Che has a field trip at school and Sarah has work deadlines that must be met and our lives to manage. 

I'm preoccupied, lost in music and my own thoughts, standing in the kitchen when I hear, "Da."

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, staring at me from the sofa, clutching her blanket and "Baby", Che says, "I just want to be with you."

So we cuddle together in the dark, her head in my lap as she watches her IPad as I resume contemplation, prayers and scrolling.

Saturday, December 9, 2023

Wishing for Granddad


At dinner, Che's talking about her grandparents and how she only has one grandpa now. 


"I told Da," she tells Sarah, "that if I could I would bring him back to you."


Sarah smiles and nods. 


"Where's he buried?" Che prods. 


We explain that he was cremated and what means. 


"Aunt Angie has him in an urn. When Georgia plays football, she sits him in a chair with a beer to watch the game," I add. 


"I wish I could meet him."


"Awe, he would have eaten you and your Mom up," I wistfully sigh. 


"If Aunt Angie has him then she can she bring him so I can meet him."


Sarah and I erupt in laughter!


"Why not?" I giggle, sending Angi a text that, if she has room when she visits Mom next week, to bring Dad too. 


His youngest granddaughter is dying to meet him. 

Monday, November 27, 2023

My Budtender

"How can I help you?"

"I have three different cancers and want whatever will make me feel the best," I answer. "You know, euphoric and psychedelic."

This is my first experience with a "Budtender", a professional dispenser of fine cannabis products. Much like a bartender, though seemingly more "medical" in diagnosing what will best meet my needs.

"He could use something to help him sleep," Sarah adds.

"Well, that's true," I laugh shaking my head, "but that's secondary in relation to my other needs."

"Something that helps sleep," Sarah repeats, and our Budtender, obviously an astute detector of who's in charge, immediately whips out a nicely packaged assortment of gummies.

"This will do it," he recommends with smiling conviction.

"I'd rather have the ...," I begin but Sarah takes his recommendation, as he types the order into his hand held computer.

Henry, our son-in-law, points out something he's used for sleep but our Budtender laughs while shaking his head, points at the black box of black gummies, and says, "Trust me! This will be fine."

"Now," he resumes, looking directly at me, finally addressing my particular needs, "for you I recommend ..."

"Perfect," I say, "we'll take two."

Checking out is no different from any other doctor's office except there's a long line of happy, smiling customers. Except here's affordable, unlike any America's Doctor's office.

Later, after a full afternoon enjoying family fun, we're crowded together on daughter Laurel's sofas and air mattresses, talking and laughing when everyone decides bed time's getting close.

"I think I'll try one of the sleep gummies," I announce.

No one in my family pays attention as they talk, laugh and continue to enjoy being together again.

After a few minutes of talking and laughing with them, I'm not really sure what happens.

Rob, Laurel's dashing most significant other, is suddenly grabbing me as, apparently, I'm topping over.

"Shouldn't we take his coat off?" Rob asks, holding me upright while Maddie and Henry grab my legs to swing them onto the bed.

Sarah says, "just leave his coat on. He'll be fine."

Che meanders over, kisses my forehead, and says "Poor Daddy".

"He's shaking," Maddie says.

"Give him blankets," Sarah instructs, so Henry throws a blanket on me.

Sometime the next morning, when I wake up, I stare at everyone who's already up staring at me.

"You slept all night," Sarah says.

"I'll be damn," I croak, grinning.

We learned a lot on this amazing, unlikely, slightly miraculous road trip, Sarah, Maddie, Henry, Laurel and Rob concocted.

Listen to your Budtender, is one a big one. 


Thursday, October 26, 2023

Birthday Magic

 


Sarah asks Che what she wants for her birthday dinner. 

"Calzone and French Fries," is the answer so we head across islands to Basils, a local favorite. 

Everyone's delighted to learn the "The Salt Flat Pickers" are playing live bluegrass music. 

At some point, Che grabs my arm and says, "It's your Dad's birthday."

Dad died years ago so her only frame of reference is hearing me occasionally talk about him, so I'm flabbergasted. 

A few months ago, sitting on the sofa together, Che puts her arm around my neck, and whispers in my ear. 

"Da, if I could bring anyone back, I would bring back your Dad."

"What?" I exclaim, stunned, still feeling her warm, wet breath in my ear. 

"You miss him," she explained cuddling. "That makes you sad. I don't want you to be sad."

Now, months later, with no prompting or reminding, our now 7 year old, remembers the Grandfather she never met and reminds me to celebrate him. 

Che points at the beer poured in my newly gifted University of Georgia "2001 National Championship" glass. 

Back in the day, Dad and I would sneak off and share a pitcher of beer together, and visit, talk and joke. 

You couldn't talk to my Dad without hearing jokes. 

Since his death, I've toasted his birthday with a beer but have been so busy celebrating Che, I'd really not given him much thought.  

My brother David had posted some old photographs earlier of Dad which gave me pause to  celebrate the gift he remains to us. 

Che points at my glass, which I hoist to my lips and softly say, "Hey Dad."

Sarah pats my leg under the table. 

What a birthday it turns out to be, complete with a magic you don't see much anymore, and a Granddaughter reaching across time and space to touch a ghost, bringing him to the party one more time. 



Sunday, October 15, 2023

Having Each Other



"You should go home and play with your little girl."

That was my oncologist's parting counsel when we last saw him. 

Walking us out, we discuss "talking about death" with our kids, his son's 7 and Che's 6, in front of a desk full of stone-faced, eavesdropping Nurses. 

"You shouldn't do anything until it hurts and you're forced," my urologist concludes, minutes after meeting  us.  

He means we don't have to actually treat my newly diagnosed prostate cancer until it's too painful to ignore.

We take this as good news.

"We got it all. No need to call us back," the plastic surgeon says to the answering machine, referencing the basal cell cancer removed from my chest two days after learning about prostate cancer.

Once home, I'm sick with chills, night sweats, nausea and exhaustion, meaning the demands on Sarah triples, focusing on Che who's worried about me. We work hard to keep life "normal" for our daughter and, though she's used to such episodes, a deep level of exhaustion binds us.   

I improve and our  conversations drift to things we want to do but it's hard to think about anything beyond today.

Living life in 24 hour increments, Sarah plows through her work somehow, I don't know how, as we've cultivated  a cloistered life, with established routines and expectations, that works well for us. 

Even minor disruptions cause major havoc to what "quality time" we have, as energy spent on others robs us of what's needed to take care of ourselves.  We're perpetually running on empty. 

I go to Live Strong, the YMCA's fitness program for cancer survivors, though I can't participate while recovering from the skin cancer removal.

"Anybody want to compare scars?" I ask but my classmates are concentrating on working out and getting better.

Staring into the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the workout room I watch them but see myself, a ghastly skinny tan under long hair, dressed in an old baggy tee shirt and black running shorts held in place only by the tightest of drawstrings.

I'm fragile, sick and sad. 

I want to be home with Sarah, so I leave in the middle of class.

After a sad attempt at lunch, Sarah and I sit at the table talking. She tells me one of her new patients died suddenly, just days after meeting him. Her parents are both undergoing treatment, her Mom's leukemia, her Dad had stents placed in his heart and they are planning to visit soon. Maddie's coming home at the same time, which happens to be Che's birthday week.

Flashing a tired smile, Sarah pauses, sips her Pepsi and says, "There's more."

I can't take any more! 

"The car has a flat and the appointment to have it fixed isn't until next week."

The next day, I'm home alone, struggling to focus when I receive a text from Sarah: "I put the damn shopping cart back all the damn time. I am a good person. Just W ... T ... F?!"

WTF indeed. 

"Don't forget you're volunteering at the school tomorrow," Sarah says later that night, as I rub her feet, watching television. 

She thought i'd be good for me to join a group of Dads to welcome kids as they arrive for school. 

"Che will be so excited," she finishes. 

So in the morning, after Sarah reminds me again, I meet 3 other Dads who volunteered. Yellow Mariner Tee shirts were made for us and mine was the sole "medium" which easily slides over the tee shirt I'm already wearing. 

The other Dads wear fluffy white Micky Mouse gloves.  

I wish I'd thought of that. 

Well, honestly I wish Sarah would have thought of that like she does everything else. 

Taking position beside one of the entry points, we cheer, greet and high 5 elementary school kids sleepily or enthusiastically arriving for school. 

They go nuts, jumping, slapping and laughing. 

Rushing teachers giggle when they pass. 

Che sees me in the distance, breaks into a smiling run straight into my arms and, damning Doctors orders, I pick her up and we hug.  

"Mom says I can stay with you for a while," she says.  

"Absolutely!"

After a few minutes, she kisses me goodbye to join friends who joyfully embrace her and they walk in mass down the hall. 

The event ends, the Dads resolve to do it again next month and I make my way home. 

"How was it?" Sarah asks.  

"Awe, it was so good," I tell her grinning. 

"I knew it would be," she smiles.  "Tell me all about it."

And we laugh and celebrate what we have, which is each other.