If you're going to have pancreatic cancer in your early 60's it's best to have a 3 year old child!I'm first to admit this isn't what most enduring chemotherapy, radiation treatment and radical Whipple surgery consider but, take it from me, a 3 year old is most helpful to recovery.
Whipple is an operation to remove the head of the pancreas, part of my stomach, the first part of the small intestine, the gall bladder and the bile duct. The remaining organs are reattached to allow you to digest food normally ... though there's nothing normal about it!
Sarah's a member of a Caregiver Support Group and when she shared she cares for me, maintains a full time job and we have a 3 year old, the overwhelming response was, "I'd hate to be you!"
I'm not sure how much help she receives from being a member.
Recovery is long and hard and sitting in the kitchen talking to my wife who's cooking supper, I feel bad for us. She's exhausted from the never ending responsibilities and I feel my body's entirely made up of small bags of wet cement but we discuss possible future treatment options because the radial surgery didn't get all the cancer.
We're close to tears when our 3 year old Che wanders in wearing a brown winter coat with a fur hood.
She's grown almost six feet since we last saw her a few minutes ago.
Her arms are longer and she's taken to wearing a watch, which she's never done before.
Her legs are also extremely long and tanned from the salon her sister uses because Maddie pays for a fake bronze body than lay in the sun on the beach for free.
"Hello," Che says in a voice an octave lower than usual ... her "boy" voice is what she calls it.
We burst into laughter which, we've been told, is the best medicine.
Later, I feel awful but endure taking the stairs to lay with Che for "rest time."
Laying her head on my shoulder she says, "You're best Daddy in the wide whole world!" and hugs me tightly.
Salt water wells in my eyes.
"Dada," she says, rubbing her tiny finger on the scar on my belly, "I lub you."
"Do you like my Pirate scar?" I ask.
"What?" she exclaims sitting up.
"Yeah, I got in a fight with a Pirate. Look what he did."
Pulling up my "The guitar is my retirement plan" tee shirt, she sees the long purple and light flesh tone line running from where my belly button used to be to just below my rib cage.
"Does it hurt Daddy?"
"It would if I hadn't beaten that mean Pirate and tossed him in the Ocean," I answer.
"Tell me," she insists so I share a long, strange story of Pirates, mermaids, a hidden treasure chest, crooked politicians, developers and a beauty island that needs saving from a pandemic of people.
It's an ugly ass scar but it brings happiness to Che now which makes it much more bearable to me.
After Sarah, Che's my biggest caregiver and it's fascinating watching her mind quickly process how bending over to pick up her doll might hurt me so she flies across the room to do it before I can.
"Daddy can't bend over yet," she announces to her sisters, warning them not dare ask me.
It brings me smiles.
At 3:30 in the morning I wake to he screaming my name and make my way up the stairs as fast as I can (which isn't very fast) and find her dreaming, crying and reaching for me.
"Please don't die Daddy! Please."
Contorting in ways I shouldn't, I repeatedly kiss her face until she quietly sleeps again. In the dark, my hair askew from the pillow, I watch her sleep, rubbing her back, resolved to live long enough to see her off to whatever she makes of her future.
Che has magical ways of breaking through the weary burden of cancer and each night Sarah and I recount whatever she's done that day.
It's more Divine intervention than prayer but it leaves us eternally thankful we have the nonstop madness of our baby.
She can't cure the cancer but she sure as Hell leads me to the right places to live with it.
