Ready or not

"I  don't know," Dad sighs irritably. "What do you think Mike?"

Mom, David and I are in his Hospital room where he's been quiet until now.  

"About what Dad?" I ask, putting a hand on his knee.

His hands are in his lap and he's wringing them as though washing.  

"I think I'm ready," he says softly, sucking all the air out the room.

The room is dim, monitors are beeping, hallway noises intrude but it's as quiet as when the earth was without form and void in darkness. 

"OK Dad," I say, watching him watch the wringing of his hands, "if you're ready, that's okay."

David rushes over and tells Dad Jesus is ready for him if he's ready to pray, which David does as Mom moans and then quickly collects herself. 

Dad moves to Hospice and for the next 3 days all manner of family and friends visit to say goodbye. 

At the same time though, he's telling us about others who are long dead, calling some by name before sliding off into a seemingly private conversation with himself.  Three days after moving to Hospice, Dad dies. 

A few years later, now doing Hospice work, I visit for a patient whose wife asks to speak with me privately after I'd met with him. 

"I can't take this anymore," she softly cries. "I am ready.  I want to go before him.  I don't have a preacher. Will you be my preacher?"

A few short months later, I hold Liz's hand as she dies, leaving her lost Dementia husband behind.

Like Dad, Liz confesses she's ready to die. 

I find myself pondering what exactly it was they were ready for?

Certainly both indicated they were ready to stop living life as they'd always known it and, perhaps, that's all there is to it. 

They were sick and tired of being sick and tired and decided to stop.

I can wrap my brain around that. You can't see things getting any better so you surrender, accept it, stop participating in being sick and tired. Everybody reaches the point when they stop beating their head against the wall, opting for something, ANYTHING, else! 

Or maybe they chose nothing else over being sick and tired, just acceptance of death. 

I certainly can't blame them. 

They were fighting the good fight but abruptly reached out of the ring to ring the final bell themselves, which is certainly not what anyone expects. 

"Liz," I ask, sitting on her bed, holding her hand, "I understand you're ready but I'd like to ask you something."

Her eyes are closed and she squeezes my hand. 

"What exactly are you ready for?"

The only sound is her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath a pale blue nightgown. Her hand remains in mine. 

"I see them," she whispers, as though sharing a great secret. 

"Them?

"Them," she says with a half smile before falling asleep. 

It's natural for those near death to have visions of family and friends who've died. They seem to function as a sort of welcoming committee for someone fast approaching death.  

Come to think of it, my Grandfather told me of marvelous trips he was taking with long dead relatives as I stood beside his bed listening and asking, "Who," "What" and "Where"? 

Is this what they are so ready for? 

A family reunion?

No dead relatives are dropping in on me yet but I wonder about these things, old memories rising from their graves in my mind, usually in the middle of the night when all's quiet and still. 

"Today I set before you life and death ..." the Bible says, "so choose life that you may live" but the unsaid but implied opposite is also an option, so you could choose death.

"DA," Che's voice cracks in the predawn morning chasing these prayers away.  

In the darkness I rush to her room, kiss the top of her head and we cuddle on the sofa as the stars begin fading. 

Sarah floats in, beautifully dressed for the day, ready to dive into another impossible list of things that must be done now.

"I want Mom's favorite toast for breakfast Da," Che announces as light pours through the windows chasing away the darkness.

Recalibrating

 

"I bet Micheal's glad he didn't go," she says. 

"She" also has cancer and knows the unmitigated joy of missing a regularly scheduled appointment.  

In the car with 16 yr-old-living her-best-life Cassidy, they breeze by the house just after we'd returned. 

Leaving for the second visit in three days for the Mayo Clinic, Che's excited for a day with Mom and Dad doing fun things together in Jacksonville while Sarah and I are "focused and prepared."

Just across the Thunderbolt Bridge, Sarah zips in for gas and notices the tire pressure light's on and pulls up to the air pump.

My wife is both buff and bad ass which is always exciting. 

Putting air in the car tire, her amazing strength breaks the nozzle and air rushes out the tire. Using Super speed she puts the cap back on, drives us to Goodyear before the tire goes flat, makes arrangements for a replacement, cancels the appointments, walks us home and makes lunch.

A Wonder of a Woman, I tell you.

Che's totally bummed and sulks. 

I'm as giddy as I was skipping Mrs. Johnson's 12th grade English class at Groves High School because I was totally unprepared for her insistence of completing homework before attending so I opted to drink beer with Gene Prevatt instead. 

I now open a Budweiser in Mrs. Johnson (now Petricio)'s honor and my good fortune.

At the same time, Sarah's already recalibrating, redirecting her focus, preparing for other things that must be done. 

Che mopes before laying on the sofa lost somewhere on her IPad. 

I want to party! 

Naturally, a train wreck of collapsing emotions happen over the next few hours. We live life raw, close to the bone, grasping for normal things when nothing's as it was before. 

For the next two days, we hold up at home, retreating into ourselves for long bouts or squeezing tightly together to watch a movie. It's one or the other.  All or nothing. 

Gradually, over three days, each of us rally after fighting like hell to get back near the "normal" we were living before. 

It's hard. 

The appointments are now rescheduled, Che's a whirlwind of energy again, Sarah's doing wondrous multiple tasking and I'm back to concentrating on the two things I need to do.

Stay alive. 

Have as much fun as I can which means finding the daily joys of simply being here!

It's hard work no matter how well you are or how sick you might be!

When I went back to Mrs. Johnson (Patricio)'s class, I still had to turn in the homework. I'd merely deferred my obligations.  

We've recalibrated now, back in the trenches of living, fighting for joy everywhere we find it, squeezed together, giving it everything we got!

Mastering New Tricks

"Da, you're going to die if you don't hurry!" Che scolds as I trail behind her on our walk. 

When you're old and sick it's important to exercise and learn new things. 

Che helps by throwing out motivational and inspirational quotes to inspire me. 

Old dogs also have to learn new tricks so Sarah's always after me to master new things. 

So, in the words of the late, great, David Crosby, "I'm old. I'm stoned. I'll give it my best shot."

So I'm proud to share with you things I've mastered recently.   

1. Having the volume up on my ear buds and missing the delivery person ringing the doorbell, thereby missing the package that requires a signature. 

2. Instantly appear in front of Sarah and absentmindedly block whatever she's trying to do.

3. Writing her a love note and making it about me. 

4. Maintain an intense hunger for meals from people and places that no longer exist.  

~ Follow me for more tips on aging gracefully ~

The passing of words

"Never ever thought I'd be holding a freeze dried Duck head and yet here I am."

I wrote that on Twitter based on a real life experience. Those are my fingers in the photo holding one.

"Man! It's a bitch to have things to write but with no energy and little focus, it's not books, speeches, sermons or blogs anymore ... Only Tweets ... which no one likes."

That's another Tweet I wrote.

I've heard it said that "Twitter is for people who can't write paragraphs" and, I suppose, that's me these days.

"It's hard admitting that books as we've known them are becoming obsolete and will soon disappear entirely."

A depressing Tweet I wrote but it's true as the glories of cracking the binding on a newly purchased tome, the aroma of ink on paper, the touch of the cut edge of a single page on my fingers and the disappointment in closing a book and tenderly placing it on the shelf has been replaced by Kindle.

Libraries don't have as many books these days.

The Book stores still open are morphing into novelty shops for an increasingly diminishing group of collectors who are dying off.

I do not despair because I've been blessed to waste hundreds of hours of my life engrossed in books, majestic Libraries and marvelous booksellers all over the world.

I wouldn't be "ME" without these investments and wonder how Che's generation will read for pleasure? 

I'm sure whatever the methodology, it will be cool but, it pains me she'll likely never experience the orgasmic joy of finding a long desired book in a musty smelling bookstore, with worn real carpet to sit in as every facet of what's being held is joyfully "experienced" as I immediately open it up, sit on the floor and "get lost."

But "A one hitter is completely different in baseball than in Weed."

I didn't write that Tweet. Somebody named Jay Davis did.

It may-or-may-not-be James' photograph beside what may-or-may-not be his name because on Twitter nobody's who they say they are, yet people share the truth as they see it.  I find it great fun and that's where I spend the vast majority of my social media time now.

"Instead of cigarettes this week I bought a couple of albums and a small villa in the south of France."

I wish I'd written that Tweet but "WhatserName" did as it cleverly states the high cost of everything that everyone's, not just Sarah and I are, experiencing!

"Hictoryhaggis" tweets "The wheels on the bus fell off kids" and I can't agree more!

I miss the hours spent with a pen in my hands or, for the last two decades, fingers flying over a keyboard; prayerfully waiting on the words; the miracle of creation as words come from nowhere and I struggle to organize them because they come so fast; Sentences becoming paragraphs that turn into pages as stories are born and, "the word becomes flesh."

It's always been a big part of who I am and it's hard admitting I'm not that anymore.

"Thank God those days are over!"

That's something I say a lot so I'll probably tweet it now that I remember.

Sarah's forever challenging me to stay focused on the present, where I'm at and who I'm with, and not be perpetually distracted by things that suck away my energy or distract my attention with frivolous thoughts.

"Like with most everything else, my wife is right," I may Tweet but haven't yet.

I don't have it in me anymore to paint stories with words though I can still manage to assemble coherent sentences several times a day.

The way I see it, God made Twitter for me!

Though She evidently sold it to Elon Musk for a gazillion dollars and he's as crazy as everybody else who's in charge of something these days and, I find, it's lots of fun to watch and read.

"Well Hell! I'm high but there's no horse!"

That is one of my Tweets!

I think it's hilarious but no one else has.

It's okay.

I'm having a good time anyway.

"I've done a lot of things in my life and can talk about most of them," is another one of mine but the truth is I've already told all my stories and they're in some libraries, a few antique booksellers and scattered across cyberspace if anyone's interested in tracking them down.

My job was to tell my story and everything's done except the finale that Sarah and I are writing together.

"Siri, clear my calendar," Coach Rusty tweets, "I'm stoned and forgot all my passwords."

I can relate that this part of my journey is all about spending energy and maintaining focus on life's most important things and that doesn't leave much for anything else. 

"Not bragging but I slept 10 hours last night which is 7 more than my cumulative nightly average over the last two years. Now my cumulative average is 3.0002/hrs sleep/night!"

That's my Tweet this morning and I think it's hilarious, though no one else agrees yet, full of truth (though I admit the math is totally made up) and says lots about how Sarah and I live.

"I don't know how people can believe in miracles," Wilde Thingy tweets, "after all those times miracles didn't happen?"

I get what he's saying. We've certainly prayed for lots that never came to anything.

Yet, here I am!

We're one Hell of a Miracle and I don't want to miss it as it's happening.

I hope the same for you!

Road Trip

 "Mom? Dad? Can we like go somewhere for a couple of days and get away because my friends are really stressing me out and making me mad?" 

Che's been playing outside with neighborhood friends when she abruptly sends them home, storms inside and utters this in frustration.

Sarah and I wonder how much of our struggle she internalizes, forever looking to make sure she's growing up normally as possible, whatever that means. 

So the girls are skipping work and school for a "family trip" for my Chemo injection in Jacksonville. 

Che's pretty stoked about skipping Kindergarten which makes us laugh! 

Lord knows, if it's genetics, she gets it naturally. 

Sarah found a family farm with, I swear to God this is true, with "lions and tigers and bears."

Oh my!

"Unless you become as a child," tossing aside all practicality, societal expectations, religious norms and political dogma just to be together and maybe have some fun, "you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

So, we're doing this as a Heavenly road trip as we know how to orchestrate. 

The funny thing is Che's so excited, it's hard for Sarah and I not to be contaminated by her joy and Sarah and I find ourselves smiling though, it's a terrible intrusion of the daily demands of life. 

"I'm so excited," Che says.  

Sarah and I are so tired but, happily so, in no small part because, our little revolutionary keeps turning things wonderfully upside down. 

Valentines Day starts now!

"Valentine's Day Da," Che asks, "spell it please."

I call letters and she kicks off the celebration at our house, making it official by writing it on our blackboard door, before going to school. 

It's an absolutely glorious and wonderful, sunny and warm, deep blue sky void of cloud winter's day. 

"Last year", Sarah Elliott says, "I made a list of the restaurants I wanted to visit and we didn't do any of them. Let's go!"

So we do. 

"Tacos + Tequila" is everything we want for our first date in months and months. 

We delight in the Tacos and the Margarita (check out that very hip glass), the excellent vibe of the place but mostly each other on a marvelous winter's day. 

We laugh, talk about the kids, the Chemo shot later this week, attending a Drum Circle tomorrow and baking King's cake. 

These are precious moments. 

"Enjoy every sandwich," the late Warren Zevon said. "Don't consume life unthinkingly. Savor every mouthful, every moment, no matter how ordinary or common."

That's our plan this Valentine's Day celebration which starts today and ends whenever Che gets around to letting us know. 

Striking the Pose

Che's sitting beside me on the sofa.

Her feet rest in my lap. My feet rest on the ottoman. She's playing Roblox on her IPad and I'm as high as the price of eggs, streaming "Adeem the Artist" through the new earbuds Sarah got me.

I blew out the bass on the old ones having used ever hack I could find on the Internet to give them more volume. 

Sarah's working, trying to stay on top of the forty Developmentally Delayed clients she manages who are scattered across the County.    

"Da," Che sweetly asks, "can you and me maybe go somewhere and get something?"

"Sure," I answer, throwing her feet out of my lap, though I really don't want to because I have no energy whatsoever.  

Deciding to push her stroller as our Dalmatian Lainey drags me, we head towards the playground down the street. 

Before we leave, Che has to change from what she's worn all day to special attire for our walk.  

"You look elegantly bad ass," I tell her. 

She strikes this pose. 

Interviewing 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."

Striving for Normal

 "Da, let's make special cards for each other," Che says dropping paper, makers, crayons, scissors, stickers, glue and a couple of hundred pipe filers. 

 "Hold on," I answer as I grab my pipe and head outside for a quick minute. 

When I return, everything's laid out and our daughter's gluing stickers on paper so I watch what she's doing, grab what I need and do my own version of what she's doing.

She intensely concentrates and doesn't say a word while I'm utterly mesmerized by the colors I'm putting on the card I'm making.

Sarah's in bed recovering from COVID and in a strange plot twist our roles are reversed and I'm the Caregiver!

For two-and-a-half days, Sarah sleeps and things could have spiraled out of control with Wonder Woman down but Cass, Che and I go on acting as normal as we know how.

It was no problem for 16 year old Cassidy as we barely saw her at all.

She may have been here but, she could just as easily be somewhere else.

It's possible she's been in her room the entire time, though whenever I open the door it's impossible to know for sure because it looks like two delivery trucks full of apparel collided and clothes exploded everywhere.

Besides I'm focused on Che who's obviously experienced living life with a sick parent though I'm witnessing it for the first time.

Our 6 year old Love-child stoically goes about business-as-usual, playing with neighborhood kids, singing along to Kidzbop, watching Tiktok, wanting Chick-fil-a for dinner and loving just hanging out with her old man.

But she also quietly slips into our bedroom when I'm preoccupied and crawls in bed with her Mom, kissing Sarah's forehead and whispering to her in the dark.

She's also taken to wearing my tee shirts and wants to sleep in the Living room with me instead of her room which adores.

I wonder if this is what it's like when I'm the one laying in bed for days on end?

Sarah arranged a pre-Christmas 4 night cruise which we enjoyed immensely except that I was in bed for one of them, shivering and sweating in our tiny cabin, while she worked feverishly to entertain the kids, get them out of the room so I could rest while worrying what happens if I don't recover?

I remember Che crawling into bed with me, kiss me on my cheek and whisper "I love you Da Da".

Che tested positive but is asymptomatic and I'm miraculously negative.

"It's the Weed," Johnny O explains after checking in on me. "Keep yourself in the cloud and you're immune to pretty much everything."

I have no reason to doubt John anymore.

"You almost finished Da?"

"No, I need some stickers. You got any?"

She hands me a box full and we resume working in silence on the cards we're making for each other.

I wonder what made her think of doing this?

She well knows the heavy burden of constant caregiving and the physical and emotional toil it takes to keep going when there's no end in sight, so she has us making "special" cards to support each other.

Is this what it's like every day for Sarah and Che?

On my worse days, even Cassidy breaks her routine to ask, "Are you okay?" before walking into her room and shutting the door.

I'm experiencing what Sarah lives every day, except she works full time, carries a full load for a Nursing degree, picks up other small jobs when she can, manages our home and is my caregiver!

I don't do any of that other stuff as Sarah's build a fragile world of near normalcy while I fight cancer and the girls grow up care-free.

Things work remarkably well in our tiny bubble life and, increasingly defying the odds, I'm still an active participant, although certainly not in the ways I wish.

It's all gone to Hell with Sarah in bed with COVID so I'm trying to mimic what she does every day though Che seems to be doing as much "heavy lifting" as I am, which isn't much.

But I can color and make a special card for a girl who recognizes someone needing encouragement when she sees it, so she makes me a card.

She knows she needs it too so, at her insistence, I make her a card. 

"Here you are!" she delightfully squeals handing me a smiling bunny, baby chicken, and flower glued on paper.

"Dad to Clare," she writes beside her multicolored heart.

Happily grinning, I give "the most special girl ever" her card.

Afterwards she falls in my arms and, just as we hug, Sarah calls from the bedroom.

Knocking each other down trying to get up from the floor as fast as possible, she rushes to see Mom.

It takes me a little longer but when I get there, Sarah's sitting upright hugging Che and I lean against the door frame trying to appreciate everything.

By New Year's Eve, Sarah's recovering enough to sit on the sofa with me. 

Che falls asleep as soon as she got in her bed.

At midnight, as euphoric celebration explodes from the football game on television, Sarah says, "We made it! Take a picture" so I do.

The old year passes away.

The new one arrives to find us still standing, defying all odds, holding on to one another, committed and prepared to "choose life over death" when confronted by the two, as the Bible puts it.

So far, so good.

Christmas Dysfunction

 Jacob is fit to be tied when Joseph tells him Mary is pregnant.

"Whose?" he demands.

"I don't know," is the sad reply.

Incensed, Jacob paces around the room trying to imagine Mary sleeping with someone else during her engagement to his son.

"Why would she do something so foolish? She's marrying into our family, descendants of King David! How could she give up becoming part of the royal bloodline."

A carpenter by trade, Joseph doesn't feel so royal, staring at calloused hands, he struggles to get by though his father holds on his religion during these dark times.

Jacob believes with everything inside of him God is going to raise a new King, greater than David, and he will be born as his own family!

"It could have been your son," Jacob yells though Joseph doesn't respond.

At the moment he feels ... nothing.

Shocked beyond belief Mary's pregnant, Jacob knows the baby's not his grandson.

Engagements last exactly one year for precisely this reason! A pregnancy is hard to have without sex so if she's pregnant then she's slept with someone and it wasn't his son!

Joseph stares at his hands saying nothing.

"Put her away!" Jacob screams. "She is not going to dishonor this family! She is not going to jeopardize the chance the King may be your son! My grandson!"

Joseph sighs.

"And do it quietly! We will not be embarrassed!"

And that's the last time Jacob ever sees his son ... or Mary ... and he never saw his grandson.

Later Jacob goes looking for Joseph and he's nowhere to be found.

The talk is Mary's gone too.

Jacob is incensed!

And heartbroken.

His dream of seeing his own son be the great King had not materialized.

Joseph's a common tradesman, a quiet man, with nothing hinting of royalty about him but Jacob's grandson ... there was the chance the old man could still see it happen ... be part of it as it unfolds ... advising the new King ... HIS OWN BLOOD ... as they fulfill the promises of God!

Instead, Jacob grows old wondering what happened?

The rumor is Joseph took Mary and left.

The old man has no idea where they may have gone ... or why?

Jacob lives a lot longer sadly hearing nothing of a new King born to save them all.

He dies bitter and angry at what could have been.

But this is what he missed.

Joseph and Mary are together when the child is born ... a son.

Strangers come from the East giving expensive gifts of gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, things fit for a King though they never used that word, but they do treat the baby like royalty.

Joseph goes on to have four more boys ... Joseph, James, Jude and Simon ... and Jacob missed five grandsons he would have enjoyed.

Joseph and Mary expatriate, leaving the religion of his homeland for the pagan ways of Egypt where they built their first home.

What Jacob does see is a Government crack down on population growth and every male baby two years or younger is euthanized in the most horrific display of public policy for the common good ever.

Joseph eventually brings Mary and the boys back though he doesn't return home but settles in Nazareth, three hours away from where Jacob lives.

Obviously Joseph never much cares about seeing his old man again ... or introducing him to Jesus.

It's a pretty dysfunctional family dynamic.

But if you look at Jesus' bloodline, it's pretty dysfunctional too.

Beginning with Abraham, the father of  the Jews winding all the way to Jacob himself are five fascinating women.

Women aren't normally included in genealogy lists of the time but Matthew includes them in Jesus'.

Tamar, one of Jesus' great Grandmothers disguises herself as a prostitute to seduce her father-in-law, Judah, so she gets pregnant. Honestly, Judah deserves it because of the way he treated her. It's an ugly affair all around.

Rehab's another, selling out her own people, as a spy and watches her entire city destroyed as a result and then "passes" as one of the chosen people for the rest of her life.

Ruth is a Moabite, which is far worse than being Muslim in America, because her lineage starts in incest!

Bathsheba suffered sexual harassment, abuse and the murder of her husband so that the head of the Government ... the great King David no less ... can screw her.

And Mary his own mother ... Lord only knows how she got pregnant?

That's just the women in Jesus genealogy.

Read about the men leading up to Jacob and, well, it's one gigantic completely dysfunctional mess.

And yet ...

Out of it comes the birth of the Messiah.

"For unto us a child is born ..." is how it's said elsewhere, and if that child can come from such a deviant family tree, then we have it in us too and become everything God intends us to be.

Jesus certainly did or there would be no Christmas celebration.

Perhaps, we can too. 

Maybe that's what Christmas is all about anyway

Defying Cancer

Lainey's dragging me on my morning walk when I spy this singular bloom on a cold, rainy, mid-December day and it stops us dead in our tracks. 

I smile, feeling the biting wind and the damp air as Lainey aggressively sniffs whatever it is dogs sniff.  

"FUCK YOU WINTER!" I scream to the top of my lungs from the bottom of my freezing toes.    

"AND FUCK YOU CANCER TOO!" I add. 

"ME AND THIS LITTLE GUY ... WE DEFY YOU!" 

The words disappear with the wind. 

Lainey drags me home.

The Occupational Hazard of picking up trash

Do you know the problem I have dealing with stage 4 pancreatic cancer being the 66 yrs old, perpetually high, father of a 6 yr old Love-child and husband of Wonder Woman?

Picking up trash when you walk. 

That's what!

Over the past year I've almost cleaned a patch of road from discarded water bottles, Sonic wrappers, tampons and baby diapers. 

Bending over is exercise right?

Sarah and I believe that and have avoided getting me a "Grabber" or "Gopher" or whatever you call those sticks with pinchers at the end used by professional sanitation workers and old people. 

I'm neither so don't need one but a water bottle tossed months ago rests a mere 4 feet in the woods, partially covered in brush, which I have to step into to reach. 

I do okay reaching in and grab the filthy piece of plastic. 

Coming out my right foot's tangled in the underbrush and I twist as I fall, splattering on the sidewalk, scrapping both hands and landing on my back. 

I can still cuss with the best of them, not only taking the Lord's name in vain but anybody else's I can think of too. 

Lainey jumps in my lap, repeatedly licks my face before jerking me upright and drags me home.  

I don't want to tell Sarah but when I do, she takes it in stride, makes sure I'm okay and doesn't mention it again.  

I sure do love her all over again for it. 

My back hurts and my hands are scraped. 

I say a prayer thanking Jesus for Pot. 

After a rough night where I don't make it through dinner out with Sarah's parents who are visiting and crash in bed with chills. 

Completely out of the ordinary, Che wakes me up at 5 am, standing in front of her Sarah saying, "Mom? Mom?"

Jolting out of bed, I grab our daughter, rush into the Living Room as she asks, "Are you feeling better Da?" while hugging me tightly. 

In no time at all, it's time for Lainey to take me for our walk, so I grab a bag and we, ever so slowly, walk and pick up trash. 

"Let's do a reenactment picture," I tell our dog. 

Lainey jerks as I snap the photo as though to say, "Will you stop screwing up my walks!"

Glitter Patrol

 

Sarah came up with the idea of "Rainbow cards" to get Che to stop spending so much time on her I-pad as our Love-child regularly gets lost in alternative Universes like her old man but hers is more manageable.

Colored cards convey daily activities, chores and kindness that must be accomplished before Che's allowed to launch TOCA WORLD.

The "Kindness" card has suggestions of walking the dog, setting the table, writing letters and picking up trash.

Combining two, Che leads a family walk with our dog Lainey to pick up litter along the road, except she says it's GLITTER we're collecting as she dances along beside Sarah and me.

The Rainbow cards aren't necessary anymore and the family still walk occasionally but the "glitter" is still collected every day.

Well, most every day. 

Lainey drags me for what Sarah calls "exercise" to get me out of the house so she can focus on a billion other things at once without me interfering, which is cool because I love outside! 

Open windows and doors, sunshine, fresh air, cotton Candy clouds, a thousand shades of green, skies of every imaginable color and being part of the beauty of the earth are things I need to live! 

Even when I'm feeling my worst and walking is difficult, most days I can be seen following Lainey dragging me around. 

I get high, crank up the volume to my earbuds and feel the blessings of the land of salt air hovering above marshes, lagoons, rivers pouring themselves into the Sea blanketed in lush sub-tropical foliage.

Over the months though, Lainey drags me down this sidewalk and I see Styrofoam cups, wet Sonic bags, plastic water bottles and candy wrappers rotting on fresh beds of pine straw, under majestic Oaks and tangled up in ferns. 

It starts to piss me off!

It also reminds me that  there was an Indian wearing a full feathered headdress crying on the side of the road when I grew up. 

It was the advent of 7-11 Stores, McDonalds and plastic so Americans were learning to throw trash out of car windows. 

The Indian cries watching the trashing of the earth.

Now every day I take a bag to collect trash and have grown quite zealot about it,  dragging Lainey deeper into brush to dig out plastic water bottles, tampons, food containers and condoms.

There's a holiness to putting the earth back the way it was intended, as best we can anyway and in spite of how futile it seems, I feel holy, glimpsing the Promised Land like Moses just before he dies.

Oh it's beautiful!

A forest of evergreens shade blankets of pine straw and ferns on a clear, cool day, smelling of fresh rain.

Lainey stops as I snap a picture of a very tiny corner of a world as God intended it to be and I can get neither the Biblical image or the Indian out of my head.

Turtles in trees

 

I am thankful for Turtles in trees and other things that shouldn't be but are somehow, though I don't know how. 

I'm grateful to simply be here, defying the odds or living a miracle I struggle to understand because I'm often too distracted. 

"Love is all around me," as the old song goes, "and so the feeling grows," as evident by the growing pains we struggle through as we fight to hold on to hope for so many things. 

It is Sarah who magically bends realities to keep our little protective bubble of a world working in a world and economy still ravished by a pandemic. Every day she does something that amazes me and I am most blessed to be her husband.  

Every single day is revolutionary at our house because our "Love Child" challenges our exhaustion with curiously, joyfully, celebrating everything about living. 

"What does that mean?" Che's constantly asking these days so Sarah and I explain lots of words and concepts, discovering new understandings together.  

I'm astonishingly shocked at the lengths people who love me go to demonstrating in small ways and large that I'm worthy somehow which is nothing short of miraculous!

I'm shocked at everything I've gotten to do in life! You wouldn't believe it if I told you and, Lord knows I love a story but the best ones are being lived now as a Sarah, Che and I explore life's deepest places together. 

I'm beyond grateful for the beauty of the earth. A sliver of white moon hanging in a deep blue sky takes my breath away every time I'm witness. The intoxicating aroma of the Marshes, salt water on dry skin, the warmth of the Sun and the majesty of island living excite me now more than ever!

The plan is to keep doing what we're doing now until we can't anymore.  

So far, so good. 

Like turtles in trees and other things not meant to be, I still have something to say. It comes from one of the stories of my life. A fragment of a song, written on a soggy cocktail napkin and thrown in the offering bucket of a Church in a Bar.  

"Thank you Lord for thinking about me.  I'm alive and doing fine."

I can't think of a better Thanksgiving prayer. 

O Lord! 

One more thing. 

Fuck Cancer!

And thank you for turtles in trees. 

The Gospel of Note Making.

 



Sarah started writing a note for Che's lunchbox the day she started Mothers-Day-Out just as she'd done for the girls.  

Somewhere along the way, I've kidnapped the task, to my wife's chagrin I think, and I absolutely delight in it!

It's pretty much the extent of my writing anymore.  

It's mostly a matter of energy and I don't have much.  

What I do have, I economize, carefully choosing how it's spent. 

Anyway, every morning I write a note to Sarah followed by one for Che. 

Sarah's are straight to the point, just the way she likes it, though it takes me forever saying what I mean using so few words.  

Che's notes however know no boundaries. 

I go a little nuts on them but they bring me, and sometimes her, so much joy.  

"Everyone wanted to eat your doughnut Da," she laughs after school referring to one I'd drawn and colored on her note. 

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Che laughs pretending to eat the image, "everybody passed it around and took a bite."

I am beside myself with joy, retrieve the spit soaked paper and keep it for prosperity. 

I've taken to saving the notes to arrange, photograph and send them to Che who enjoys getting texts from anyone. 

Sometimes, most often in the middle of the night after I've already been awake for hours, the energy and focus will be enough to write something else. 

It used to be oh-so-easy but now it's exhausting unless the Weed and the Chemo are dancing harmoniously inside and I feel good enough to try. 

I spend forever writing Sarah a 10 word love note. 

Then I spend another half-of-forever creating Che's note. 

{I used to delight making Cassidy's lunch bag during her freshman year of High School and would colorfully draw "BAG Of DOOM" or "I'm as good a time as anyone else. CALL ME!" on her lunch bag but now as a sophomore she has no need for me anymore.}

So, the point of all of that is this!

Independently of my note making, Che made notes on her own this morning.  

The first was to Sarah. 

The second to me.  

Last is to our Dalmatian Lainey.  

There's no school this week, no lunch boxes for me to put notes inside, no reason for a 6 year old girl to consider, much less care, but she does.  

Note making, letter writing, creating something out of nothing for someone else is Holy stuff, rooted in love, shared in partnership with God somehow, though I don't know how. 

I arrange the notes and snap this picture.  

The Gospel of Post-it note love letters merit either being hidden in the heart as Sarah does, or when I have it in me, sharing them on social media as my way of making disciples in every nation, baptizing them in love (Matthew 28:19). 

Because that's what love does. 

We're up!

 

Che and I struggled through yesterday but when she calls my name at 3:10, she's wide awake, feeling great, very excited her sister Maddie's coming home and ready to play while we wait!

"Can I wake Mom up?" she asks for the first of countless times until Sarah joins us. 

I was already up because, well a monthly chemo cocktail shot in my ass every 28 days means I'm managing side effects and, on morning's like this one, I don't mind at all. 

We're snuggled on the couch under a blanket, drinking chocolate milk, watching a special on the Easter Bunny and laughing. 

Hope you day's as good as ours is shaping up to be!