Adopt These Puppies Before I Die!

 

"Most people have about 6 months and for you it's been 4-and-a-half years," Sarah explains and her words linger in a pregnant silence.

Then we burst into delightful laughter.

We delight in what we have and what we have is now!

Well, and two foster puppies who were saved in one of Hurricane Helene's many disasters.

Why in God's name would I, with as much cancer and having stopped treatment, be part of such a crazy and marvelous adventure?

The short answer is Sarah, who decided we needed more life in our house these days because of an over abundance of difficult days. 

It is a magnificent emotional distraction for us from the day to day traumas of growing cancers, and everything that means. 

And boy, are Ham and Pam two delightful pups we are going to find a home for while I still have time. 

At just 6 weeks of age, these pups play hard, throwing their mere 2-3 pounds of body weight around, making us laugh.

Although their breed is unknown, you can’t help but fall in love with these pups who bring glimmers of pure sweet joy. 

So help us give them the best life by adopting one, or sharing this post with others.

Sarah already has two more foster pups picked out to bring home and well, damn, I am determined to be around despite my cancers, to enjoy as many pups as I can.

The Hard Truths

 

Written by Sarah Elliott after our last visit to Mayo Clinic.

-------

Shit!” Micheal said, halfway into our 4 am drive down to Mayo in Jacksonville, “I forgot my shoes”

After we laugh and laugh, he tells me he has his black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks on.

We quickly learn that truck stop gas stations do not sell flip flops. I thought they might since they have showers. And with our first appointment at 7am, most stores are still closed.

“Well, Mayo hospital is one place it will look normal for you to be in those socks,” I tell him.

I sit in the waiting room as my honey receives his MRI and then as he goes in for a different (PET) scan and then blood work.

Each time he emerges his black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks make me burst out in laughter.

Who knew that forgetting one's shoes could be the joyful twist throughout the dauntingness of our day of appointments.  

Pouring over the results online before we meet with our oncologist, we are better prepared for our visit.

“Well, you do have two completely separate dueling cancers,” our oncologist shares.

We listen as he confirms that in addition to stage 4 pancreatic cancer and skin cancer, Micheal also has stage 4 prostate cancer.

The three of us in the room all look at one another, quietly digesting what we already knew, but now can actually see which is where in Micheal’s body.

We talk about treatment options and their side effects again for each cancer. Any treatment will not cure these cancers, but may help slow their progression. We do know surgery is not an option.

We openly discuss the hard truths.

Asking about our plans, I share  

“Well we are going to Colorado to visit our daughter, our other daughter just got engaged and…”

Knowing this is not what he was asking, but he smiles and understands.

We are too busy living to think about dying.

We do know that the window of time for additional treatments to be helpful is closing. We understand that treatments come with their own cost.

As we have always done, Micheal and I will process over the next several days.

Standing to leave our oncologist hugs my Micheal.  He hugs me and then hugs Micheal again. He walks us to the waiting room reassuring us  that he respects and supports whatever we decide.

“Enjoy your fun trips!” he concludes as we exit.

Squeezing Micheal’s hand, I see those black-and-white buffalo plaid fluffy socks and laugh.

“Shit!” Micheal says.

Keep doing what you're doing!

Staring at the red and white lights remind me of a Christmas Tree, with only half the lights working. I plainly see where dark shapes should be lit, so it's a connected, shinning brightly, fully lit tree.

"Micheal are you okay?" Sarah whispers in my ear, rubbing my back. "You're zoning out. Is this too much for you?"

"I'm not zoning out," I softly say, continuing to stare at the little black holes.

Sarah squeezes my hand and I hear concern in her voice, assurance in her touch.

Dr. Starr stops reviewing the Pet Scan images, highlighting where the cancer is with red and white lights, and is now quietly staring at us.

I squeeze Sarah's leg and say, "You called this month's ago," continuing to stare at the lights inside of me.

"The dark spots is the prostate cancer but the scan highlights the mastication of the pancreatic," Sarah says.

Dr. Starr agrees, points out the contrast in the images on the screen and says, "They're growing but not at the rate I anticipated after stopping treatment. I think we ought to keep doing what we're doing."

We sit in silence for a moment.

"I'm your outliner?"

He nods, looking away, grinning.

"So I'm the patient you tell your other patients about?"

Our eyes lock, and dance for a few seconds. He grins, nods and the dance becomes delightful. 

I'm a little euphoric already when Sarah asks, "So Micheal's going to be the case in the book you're writing?"

She squeezes my hand and we lock eyes, share a grin and the richness of the moment.

He  nods again, shyly smiling, looking sheepishly at Sarah.

"How are you doing?" he asks, turning to me, pivoting nicely.

"I'm fucking great!"

"And what to you attribute this to?"

"My lifestyle!" I laugh. "And the Weed."

"And the Weed," he laughs.

Turning to the Intern watching our consult, Dr. Starr says, "We're advisors.  It's important to listen to what our patients are saying and we advise on the best course of action."

"Don't forget to tell him about the red wine," I happily add.

Dr. Starr sighs, laughs and says, "Ah yes, and then there's the obligatory conversation about alcohol. Micheal has one glass a few days a week."

"A big glass," Sarah laughs, "most every day of the week."

Dr. Starr laughs.

The Intern looks confused.

Sarah, still squeezing my hand, smiles and I'm excited at thoughts of keep doing what we're doing.

I haven't had chemo in 3 months and, damn the growing cancers, I don't want to it anymore. 

"I've done that once," as Bob Dylan said, "I think I'll do something else now."

We discuss additional treatments options, side effects and timelines of effectiveness.

"On average, patients who opt for nuclear treatment remain engaged for almost two years," Dr Starr concludes.

"What kind of time would we be buying though?" Sarah fires.

"Why don't we keep doing what we're doing?" he smiles.

Time stops and it's just Sarah and me, for a second anyway, that seems as though a thousand years.

"Let's keep doing what we're doing," Sarah and I both say, still holding hands. 

Dr. Starr hugs me and then he grabs Sarah and hugs her too. 

"Keep doing what you're doing," he calls over his shoulder, already explaining realities to the Intern, as we leave the Hospital, grinning. 

Spring Break (from Cancer)

 

After 3 months of feeling good, the trap door opens and I abruptly drop into torturous waves of vertigo, nausea, sweats and chills. 

"Da!," Che calls from her bed waking. 

"Che!" I yell, throwing up in a bowl on the sofa. 

"What?" Sarah asks, jolted from sleep with Che's calls and my wet responses. 

The day goes downhill from there.  

Much later, we're exhaustively holding hands, after I'm able to sit upright again, and Sarah's slowed down enough from handling everything, smiles and says, "A lot of it really is mind over matter."

I don't know how she wills things to happen, against all odds. 

So, the next day, inspired by her,  I rise from the dead like Jesus did on Easter, get as high as I can and Sarah drives us to Chuck E. Cheese's, of all places, and we play as hard as we can with each other.  

We laugh a lot. 

Daughter Laurel and boyfriend Rob join us for the fun. 

On the way home, Sarah stops for wine for me and later, with Smirnoff Ice Green Apple, over leftovers, we celebrate, before I fade into early slumber. 

These past few weeks, I've had a bit more self awareness, energy and focus. We've been taking advantage of it, going to the St. Patrick's Day Parade, bowling, to an Easter Egg hunt, occasional dining out, the Zoo, and Che and I even rode bikes on a Daddy/Daughter date to the Library!

I'd given up ever doing these things again and it's been a wonderful time, comparatively speaking.  Then out of nowhere, I'm sick again, a painful reminder my cancer's not going anywhere.  For all we know, it's taken over more of my body. 

We'll find out soon when I return to Mayo for scans and entertain new, nuclear, treatments, designed to buy me more time. 

"You know," Sarah says, sitting at the table after dinner, listening to the birds loudly sing through the open door, "we're just buying time. The question is what kind are we getting?"

Should I stock up on as much as I can horde or go for the quality stuff, which is a lot more enjoyable but you seem to get much less of it?

That's the question. 

The sudden sickness is a rotten reminder of my cancer's growth and we hear the clock loudly ticking. 

It's been 4 years since I was diagnosed with stage 4 Pancreatic cancer, and I was really sick for 3 1/2 of them. Now, I feel pretty good and I'd rather continue like this for as long as I can. 

It's too much fun. 

It's too much love. 

Like every kid her age, Che's ready to visit Disney World and, damn cancer and treatment side effects, I want to be part of it. I want to scream beside her and Sarah on Splash Mountain. I want to let the good times keep on rolling. 

Time is of the essence and I've got to make certain I'm buying the right kind.

The Scar Club for men

 

It started as a joke when a friend I've never met, called me out on social media, by beating me to respond, and then challenging me in front of everybody on the whole world wide web!

On Twitter, he and I are bantering over scars.  The scar down the middle of Jim's chest screams "Open Heart" while my "Whipple" slices right down my belly. 

"Hey!" I write, "let's start the 'Scar Club for Men' and do a calendar."

"I'll be Mr. September," Jim instantly responds. "That's my birthday month."

"Potential Spam, another Twitter pal I've never met, chimes in and Direct Messages his photos, claiming October as his month. 

And that was it!

We had a laugh and quickly moved on to the next thing. 

Months pass. 

Then, out of the blue, Jim calls my bluff, post the "Mr. September" calendar photo, with the challenge, "Hey Micheal Elliott! How are we coming along with the “Men of Twitter with Scars” calendar?"

And there's Jim's sexy pose of his heart surgery scar. 

"Well damn!" I laugh. 

The reason I like Twitter is there are some great people who make me laugh. Sometimes, there's a serious conversation, and I use the term loosely, but it's mostly playful banter.  

A few of the folks I find joy with everyday somehow, though I don't know how, these "friends" I've never met, gift me with laughter. 

It's a marvelous diversion from the terrorist attacks that cancer and treatment wage on my mental health. Laughter is the best medicine they say and I'm relentless about finding more.

Jim makes me laugh out loud and so I must answer his challenge 

I need help, asking Sarah to take a photo of me but she's getting ready to go on a run for her own mental health. It's best she focus on that.

Che's more than excited to stage my photo shoot.

And she handles everything!

When Sarah finishes running and is cooling down, we show her the shot.

"Oh good Lord," Sarah snorts. "Really? Holding a glass of wine?" before looking at Che to say, "Great job Honey! It's beautiful!" before resuming with me, "what in God's name are you doing?"

So I tell her it was Jim's idea.

Shaking her head, Sarah knows what I'm doing. If anything's happened over the course of my cancer, is that Sarah and I spend much more time laughing together than we ever have. You can't really have enough if you're really going to "live" with cancer. 

"Have fun," my wife laughs, shaking her head as though I've lost my mind or something.

"It's better than Jim's," Che says, affirming herself.

So that's how the Scar Club for Men was founded.

As far as the calendar goes, 9 volunteer models are still needed to complete the project.

In a Glade

 

"If you continue to feel better, I don't know if I want you getting any more treatment," Sarah says.

Her feet are propped in the chair under the table cluttered with our dirty dishes, as are mine, as we sit, talking long after dinner is over. Che's on the sofa, headphones on and playing a game on her I-Pad so Sarah and I linger.

"That's the sweetest thing you've said to me in forever," I beam, sitting upright, feet on the floor.

We stare at one another in a pregnant silence.

No more treatment sounds good right now.

The chemo shots I've taken for the last 2 1/2 years stopped working and I may be a candidate for Nuclear Medicine but, for the moment, I'm taking nothing other than daily vitamins and supplements.

And I feel good.

Physically I'm no better but mentally, the cancer fog's dissipating, focus is better and there's a bit more energy.

We've gone and done a few things recently that have been tremendous fun but, mainly, Sarah and I sit, talking. 

We linger.

The conversations are mostly the every day stuff of life. The demands of Sarah's work, the girl's school, trips we want to take, how crazy the economy is and what's wrong with the world?

But we're also taking an inventory of ourselves. Surviving the past 4 years, no small feat in an of itself, has changed us.

I simply can't do the things I once could, both physically AND mentally. The extent of my social network is Sarah, the girls, whoever I see when Lainey drags me for a walk, an occasional phone call and whatever I manage on social media.

There are no breaks.

But we do find ourselves in a glade right now, an open space in the sinister forests of cancer. It's suddenly better than it's been for a while.

We clear the dishes, clean the kitchen, and join Che, still on the sofa. We cuddle, as everyone does their own thing, relaxing, talking or watching something on television.

It'll be hard to move from this sweet spot when the time comes.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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."

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.