What Really Normal Anymore?

Opening my eyes in the darkness of predawn, a tiny nose touches mine and two moon size, deep blue eyes stare at me. 

“Dad,” she asks slurring so it comes out “Da.”

"Hey," I smile through sleepy eyes, grabbing her towards me.  

“I was afraid you would never come home from the hospital,” our four year old explains.

Snuggling beside me on the sofa I've spent the night on, we cuddle and I hold her tight.

"What day is it?" I ask myself.

"I dunno," she says, focusing her attention on a video.

A pandemic makes it difficult to know but adding my cancer diagnoses, "slime" drained from my body, a stint placed inside, a radical Whipple surgery, followed by repair of "incision Hernia" resulting in the sad conclusion I still have cancer so who cares what day it is?!

On the sofa I recover from surgery after never being actually admitted to the Hospital!

Everything started normally enough but what's really normal anymore?

Checking into Day Surgery, Sarah's now a seasoned professional navigating the treacherous waters of American Health Care, joking with Nurses before taking us to seats to wait.

Neither of us want this.

Just half way through recovery from a ten hour Whipple operation, here we go again.

After a few hour delay because I prefer a shot of cream in my coffee, I'm wheeled away for another three hours under the knife, waking to see my beautiful wife sitting staring lovingly at me.

"Still here!" I comprehend.

It wasn't as smooth a recovery as I remember because according to Sarah I wake screaming "I HAVE TO PEE!"

I don't because the catheter they've inserted is working fine.

"Hey Babes," I ask in my version of waking, my smoking hot concerned wife's seated beside my recovery bed, "Did they get it all?"

Sarah rolls her eyes like I'm an idiot, tell me she loves me, makes certain I'm alright, sits with me for an hour before leaving at 9:45 pm, and goes home to the girls.

At some point, my surgeon's residents breeze through, rip out the catheter and tell me I'll be admitted for my 2-4 day hospital stay soon.

The next morning at 9am  Sarah arrives and, along with Rose, the receptionist, is perplexed why I'm still in the same Post Anesthesia Care Unit. 

An hour later, Rose leads Sarah back to the same spot she's left 12 hours earlier.

We sit, holding hands and talk for an hour. 

Things get busy in the PACU area as lots of people are being wheeled in to wake up from their surgery. 

My nurse tells my wife she will have to leave. 

"When can I see him again?" 

She is not given a specific answer. 

"When will he be moved to his hospital room?" 

"We don't have any open rooms," my wife is told. 

"That's not true. As I was waiting to come back here someone else was moving from here to room 355."

The nurse immediately sits at her computer and looks up the room, giving Sarah no response. 

My wife continues ... "I will go, but you need to tell me what you are monitoring here. His BP is fine, his overnight blood work is all within normal range besides his glucose which was a little high, but that is typical after surgery, he is able to pee on his own, he wants to sit up, but you won't even let him hang his feet over the side of the bed, he has physical therapy scheduled for this morning which hasn't happened because you can't do that in the PACU area, his compression socks are not even on to help prevent blood clots ... you are delaying his recovery! When will he get a room?"

Every patient, in every recovery bed, regardless of the severity of their condition, raises his or her head to watch my smoking hot wife, who knows how to command a room.

Other than the beeps, gurgles and buzzing of machines, it gets very quiet.

"We're looking for a bed," the Nurse meekly replies, but hospital rooms flash "occupied" as soon as they're vacated on her screen.

"All Night?" Sarah continues. "I think it's time we call his surgeon. I have his personal cellphone number."

"You can't call  the surgeon, he might be in surgery. You have to leave," the Nurse says.

"He's not," my wife replies, who happens to have a quite endearing relationship with our surgeon, "He only operates on Tuesdays and Fridays."

My wife is escorted by three staff to the door. 

Hitting his name on my phone, I call the surgeon from my bed.

My horrified Nurse flees to a Supervisor's desk.

I explain the situation to my Receptionist who promises to convey the information to the Surgeon

"Surgeons don't make rounds down here," my Nurse later explains as my Surgeon leads two residents into the PACU area.

"You ready to go home?" he asks.

"Hey yeah before that," I ask, "can I get a prescription for medical marijuana?"

"Is it legal in Georgia? Find out!" he orders the horrified Residents. "Now let's get my favorite patients out of here."

He leaves signing papers and grinning.

"Nobody's ever done this before," my Nurse murmurs, returning to the Supervisor's Desk.

In no time at all, she's wheeling me back to Day Services where another Nurse, pats me on the shoulder orders to dress, call my wife and give her a minute.

I do so and she returns with papers for me to sign, then wheels me down a lonely hallway through a nondescript door to the getaway car my wife's driving.

"What just happened?" she asks speeding away from the Hospital.

"I dunno," I reply just happy to be with Sarah driving home, still high on morphine.

"We are going to keep you as high as kite the next few days," Sarah smiles squeezing my hand.

Unbeknownst to me, she has my PCP and a nurse friend on standby should a problem occur at home.

Laying on the sofa, snuggled with Che, watching cartoons, I'm firmly convinced recovery occurs best at home and I know for certain Sarah agrees.  

Home Remedies

Just as everything was getting better they're suddenly getting worse.

Soon I'll be rolled down a hospital hall, leaving Sarah alone in the pre-surgery room so I can be the absolute center of attention as they slice my belly open.

It shouldn't be that hard because the Doctor has a scar to go by, just follow the healed stitches while carving.

A few months ago I survived major surgery to remove a mess of cancer happily growing everywhere except my lungs and they almost got it all.

Under my organized wife's instructions I healed nicely for five months when it suddenly stopped.

An "incision hernia" means my intestines are poking outside of my newly constructed stomach, pancreas and liver.

Luckily, I'm still under warranty. 

The only thing I know for certain is it's going to "hurt like Hell."

Dr. Senkowski doesn't believe in sugar coating things.

Luckily for me, there's Morphine at the hospital! 

When I'm released, treatment consists of copious amounts of home remedies naturally grown and widely enjoyed by people flying under the radar.

I must admit the best thing about more surgery is the naturally grown leafy substance to enjoy during recovery which, of course, will last for the rest of my life, however long that is!

No one knows, especially the doctors, how much time I have but I'm feeling alright most days. I focus on the moments I have because worse times are coming. It's going to be bad but, in the scheme of things, we have a moment before another operation. Afterwards we'll survey the damage and work to heal.

Like most care-givers Sarah doesn't receive Morphine or engage in home remedies making hers a much heavier burden.

She doesn't want this.

Sure as Hell, she doesn't deserve it, but love makes you do things you'd never consider.

Squeezing my hand, she walks beside me down the wicked, lonely road, out of love, or insanity. It's hard to tell the difference.

She's strong. I'm strong. But my best fights are behind me and Sarah's in her prime.

Sarah makes certain we're never hungry or thirsty.

Lord knows I'm not the snappiest dresser but Sarah buys me new tee shirts, running shorts and is introducing me to cold weather clothing which I seem to suddenly need every day this time of year.

I enjoy the home remedies, listen to good music, talk to the girls and play with Che as she struggles to find time for everything.

We both care for the entire world, helping the causes of peace, love and understanding, which are the roots of the Gospel, but Sarah's gifted at boiling things down to the basics whereas I, as my old friend Will D. Campbell once said, "design global sprinkler systems" offering water to whoever needs it while my wife combines tenderness with expertise passing out one cup at a time.

We compliment each other struggling to not compete. the greatest example of opposites attract!

We are "like prisoners' appointed for death, we have become a spectacle for the whole world. To Angels as well as people we are fools for Christ" (I Corinthians 4:10).

We don't care.

Against all odds we're in this together.

Sarah believes everything's going to be alright.

I believe that when I die one of two things is going to happen. Either everyone who doesn't believe in God's right and I'm dead. That's alright. I won't know. I won't care. It'll be like sleeping with morphine or something.

Or I'm going to wake up and immediately be confronted with choices.

The very first thing I'm going to do is look at my hand to see Sarah's hand in mine.

Afterwards I'll check out what's next.

Mom's Birthday

I'm a 64 year old man who still calls his Momma with regularity, several times a week, because, well, I don't know, I cannot imagine life without her.

Oh we both have impending issues with death but we don't let them get in the way.

We talk about health a lot these days, mostly mine, but we cover family, friends, on rare occasions politics and Mom tries her very best to keep up with our girls which is, of course, impossible but fun.

There's something about my Mom.

She's special.

I mean everybody's special, unique wonderful gifts to life, but Mom's a special concoction of love, patience, determination and  grace. People easily trust her. She quietly does little things with big consequences.

An uneducated southern woman, Mom blasted through glass ceilings at the disgust of her male bosses, ending her banking career on top, leading the way for women to occupy top floor corner offices.

After that she got into antiques with her friends and spent another decade enjoying success.

After Dad died, she remade life again, quieter this time, focused almost entirely on family, friends and the house.

If she's not working in the yard she's fixing or painting something to keep the last home they built together working in top notch order. She got our sister Nanci to move in with her amending family structure so that Angie's no longer the only sister.

Mom didn't make it when Sarah and I got married but hasn't skipped a beat since, relishing everything about our family now, which is far more significant to anything before.

Happy Birthday Mom!

What a life you're living!

 A couple of weeks ago, Mom, David, Age and I sat together with no one else for the first time in, well it's been so long none of us remember.

We were all different then.

Dad was still alive.

We couldn't fathom the end of things.

Now we can and it makes us appreciate everything we've lived though, the Holy and the profane, to get to now.

We laughed a lot, and whenever David stopped talking, the rest of us caught each other up on our lives now, so different from when we lived in that little house in Port Wentworth.

Mom has a gazillion kids and grandkids, too many really for someone her age to keep up with.

That's really going to irritate her.

According to my Mom, there's nothing she can't keep up with.

Laughing at Dying

 

"Mike, we got you really good presents because this is probably your last Christmas."

It's Laurel our sixteen year old, precocious, maybe-I-can-work-you-in-my-schedule but maybe not, dynamo of a social butterfly.

We're sitting on the sofa as the rest of the family spread out to enjoy their gifts and have some alone time after the craziness of family exchanging gifts.

"Well," I answer, already grinning, "then I'm just gonna have to live another year just so you have to buy me good presents again." 

"That's the plan," she deadpans.

I burst out laughing.

"You really killed it that time!"

"Slaughtered it," she grins.

Laurel's the only one who laughs with me  at Cancer while the rest of our family takes it very seriously, especially Sarah who takes dead aim at anything that may even remotely jeopardize my health.

Doctor's orders often takes life a little bit at a time so you can extend your stay even if it cost you joy.

That's not how we want to live!

Living's finding joy and love and immersing yourself in them regardless of where they take you, stopping often enough to appreciate what it takes to know what you've been given.

Sarah and I are finding joy again, inside the colliding worlds of care-giver and cancer-fighter where hopes constantly crumble and as we embrace the darkness down the lonely, wicked road, we laugh at what we can't control.

It's hard because embracing darkness scares the Hell out of us!

The vast hordes of unanswered questions easily overwhelm us, almost pulling us off the road into, God only knows.

So we laugh as best we can.

Because laughter is the best medicine!

Unless you're a diabetic.

Then insulin's the best medicine. 

Laughter sometimes comes in second.

Excited About Christmas Anyway

Every day I get up determined to live joyfully, get better physically and regain my usual zest for fun, food, and love.

Sarah points out my expressions of affection and helpfulness continue to slide into a series of clueless decisions on my part.

My wife tenderly and carefully prepares special wedge salads for dinner with our sixteen year old Laurel and her boyfriend Cooper. I tell her I do not want one. Just before the meal, I add blue cheese and bacon bits to Sarah's salad, which I proceed to enjoy immensely.

"Why in the Hell are you doing eating my salad?" my loving wife asks.

"This is your salad?" I ask. 

"You said you didn't want one," she wearily replies. 

Laurel and Cooper laugh but it's become too common an occurrence,  adding exhaustion to permeate our lives.

A bowl of Tater Tots Sarah prepares for Che rests on the counter so it's one less thing to take care of later. She tells me this. Entering the kitchen I absent mindedly begin to clean and throw them away, frustrating my wife because it seems I do this a lot, though I have no idea.

Sarah opens a soda, lays it on the counter, leaves to attend to something as I enter the room, spy the Coke, drink it, and leave the empty bottle. Returning to enjoy her refreshment, she discovers it gone. She tells me I drank it though I have no recognition.

Regardless of how far I walk, exercise, climb stairs, eat well, refrain from excess and follow doctor's instructions, I've stopped getting better, though I'm not getting worse.

Walking the wicked, lonely road of cancer beside me, by choice nonetheless, Sarah tirelessly works managing the mountains so I can fight.

We're so tired.

But it's Christmas and we're excited anyway choosing to focus energy in what's bound to be one of the last gatherings of all of us.

Maddie's in College so trips home grow infrequent as she spreads her wings flying to the world she's creating.

Cassidy's 14 and we rarely see her, though she often shows up for dinner, sometimes converses and on rare occasions eats but they'll be presents involved Christmas so she'll be with us for that part anyway.

Che's as excited as she can be, wrapping most anything she can find to immediately unwrap presents, singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" without being able to pronounce all the words and even taping her own Christmas cards to the wall a foot from the rest.

In  no time at all everyone won't be able to make it home anymore for Christmas, even if we celebrate in exotic locations.

Meanwhile, I perpetually shut doors meant to be open.

Sarah opens them again focusing on her cell phone to shop while talking to a client, tossing seasoning into supper and effortlessly feeding the animals.

The other kids ... Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... are off creating their own worlds, raising a boy and three girls, our grandchildren, and doing quite well as they work to make things better than what our generation's leaving behind to fix.

Sometimes I wonder if it's like this for God, if you believe in such things. 

I've done my best to be a good Dad but, Lord knows children grow up and leave, which is what kids are supposed to do and parents, understanding we've relinquished control, kick back and watch what we've created.

I'm sure God kicks back with a cold one watching Her children do whatever it is we're doing, though even the Lord Almighty must find it hard not to meddle.

We give our kids life and it's theirs to live without us hampering their creativity or chaining them to the past because we can't bare to give away what we love most.

But that's what parents do.

Even when we don't want to.

Mary and Joseph lost control of Jesus by the time he was 12! 

He must have been a hellion during his pre-puberty years.  

So Sarah and I won't see the kids or grandchildren this year but we've got four girls, a gay dog and three cats, plus my Mom's coming over.

We're going to make it as easy as we can with three teenage girls and a 4 year old. 

It's been such a rough year and, I have more damn surgery scheduled right after New Year's so, our plan is to enjoy the Hell out of Christmas!

I don't think it's my last but you never know.

You should approach it that way too.

Happy Christmas Everybody!

A Lonely, Wicked Road

 

I'm mostly good.

Not as good as I was before but, I dunno, I'm not getting worse but I stopped getting better.

Still, I'm far more blessed than most who've taken this path before me, not of their own accord, but drafted nonetheless by the same mutated cells that invaded me.

Cancer is a lonely, wicked road.

Sarah walks it with me because, I don't know why, she loves me.

I can no longer even pretend to match her relentless struggle to manage it all but, she keeps me on the road.

Her love lights the darkness though it's fueled by everything she's giving everyone leaving next to nothing for herself but exhaustion, frustration and unanswerable questions.

That's the life of a caregiver.

All I have is cancer.

I have one assignment.

Fight cancer!

Sarah's fights are on multiple fronts with numerous attacks simultaneously being launched from every direction. 

Mine will come to an end.

Her's won't. 

She's got to get ready for that while living life to it's fullest with me, a broken body full of determination to enjoy every second of joy till death do us part.

"Why does Mike write about death so much?" Maddie, our daughter branching out her wings to full span for the first time in her life asks.

The honest answer is I don't think I do.

What do I know?

Sarah's consistently showing me concrete evidence that I don't know anything I just said.

It's frustrating.

There are moments of lucidity though, breaking through and if they last long enough or if I can string enough together, and IF THERE'S TIME, I'll write.

My best moments, the high energy ones, I reserve for Sarah and the girls.

Occasionally there are bouts when time and lucidity meet and I turn on a flashlight under a night time sky to shoot beams at the stars, sometimes striking a heart.

At least what these writings seem to me.

I have more to say but time seems elusive as lights begin to fade.

I dream of Che with Sarah and I walking her down a sandy path through the dunes to stand with her feet in the Ocean as she marries the love of her life.

Afterwards I kiss Sarah with our toes in the sand just like when we married before walking away together to finally be a couple wanting nothing more than one another in a sand floor Beach house where waves break outside of our window.

The music of friends playing live music floats across the bay as we lay in each other's arms playing the rest of our lives.

That's the star beam shooting around my heart and I'm doing my best to be here when these moments arrive.

Still Chasing Rainbows

I should be fine for the next several years.

Give or take a few.

I wake each morning resolved to live life to it's absolute fullest, enjoying the Hell out of everything, and keeping at it until I'm no  longer able.

It's tough though.

I often fail.

So many people have done so many nice things, made food and brought it the house, gave money, dropped off presents and even did a LIVE MUSIC concert in our front yard!

It's all quieted down now but, I swear, I feel like I hate to let them down and not go ahead and die so they can feel good about going out of their way for us and all but ... I ain't there yet!

With conviction and resolve I start each day living like cancer isn't part of my life.

Climbing out of bed, I rush to turn on the coffee and grab a shower before Che wakes.

I'm in such a hurry because I'm determined to let Sarah sleep until whenever she wants. 

Not that my wife sleeps late because it's impossible with a four year old who wakes up wanting to cuddle on the sofa watching television until the slumber's gone and then it's LET THE PARTY BEGIN!

I work to keep it quiet enough for Sarah to have some privacy in the bed, unless Che sneaks in to cuddle with her while they surf their cell phones in bed.

Boy's aren't allowed.

Sarah's has the weight of the world on her shoulders working with developmentally delayed people, raising four girls, caring full time for a husband with pancreatic cancer, managing everything about our home and making certain we have fun, even in the darkest times.

Most mornings I choose to believe I'm successful in keeping Che quiet enough for Sarah to start her day as she chooses.

It may not be as true as I believe but Lord knows I try.

I seem to be under lots of illusions these days.

Of course it's not the first time.

I made a career out of chasing rainbows.

In spite of mountains of evidence to the contrary, I believed we can end homelessness in our city, care for every person infected with HIV or COVID-19 now, everybody can see a doctor where it's not about money first, people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together can make church if they shut up and open up to one another and other unobtainable wishes.

I was crazily successful though not a single damn goal was reached.

A lot of people were helped because of the effort.

At least that's the way I choose to believe it.

It may not be true either.

Regardless of my best efforts, Sarah rises exhausted for yet another day pushing multiple boulders uphill.

I fool myself into believing I'm helpful until she asks if I can simply be still and sit in the other room.

Retreating to the sofa, Che lays her head in my lap and we watch television together.

I'll be helpful to Sarah by not moving.

Losing interest in our show, I spy something pink, yellow and blue in the carpet.

I wonder what it is but there's no way in Hell I'm moving to check it out.

Later, when we're summoned to the table for dinner, I find it's a rainbow.

Che dropped it from her bowl of Lucky Charms.

Slipping Away

 

Pieces of me are beginning to slip away.

Starting with "cancer fog" I've become absent minded and forgetful over simple things which Sarah took as me being intentionally rude which isn't the case at all!

"Why did you put the salad dressing bottle on the top shelf with the empty flower vases?" my exasperated wife, best friend and incredible lover asks.

"I have no idea," came the completely honest answer. 

It's simply me living with cancer.

I've never done it before so I'm learning as I go.

Perhaps it's the diminishing of my mental capacities, which I always considered my strong suit, because somehow, though I have no idea how, I have become old.

Sarah has her own issues as she wrestles with life's biggest questions too.

Will she still need me? 

Will she still feed me when I'm sixty-four?

Maybe it's not the cancer after all and I've simply become an old fart.

I'm finding other things slipping away too though as things I used to intensely care about lose their importance.

Things I used to find interesting or fun are shrinking as my mind moves from "Where I've been" to "what's next?"

I'd only make a couple of changes to the things I've already done, mostly how unprepared I was for Sarah in my life. 

She didn't deserve how badly I was as we came together, deserves far better than I gave but I have the rest of my life to make it up to her, even if that means squeezing lots of things in before my time runs out.

Other than how poorly I treated my wife as we blended our family together, I have no real regrets.

It's been a great life so far!

The way it's going, I'm the guy who'll be late late God's Judgment because I'm too busy celebrating my living the best I can, forgiving myself for those times I fall short of completely fulfilling all of my senses at once as often as I can.

I'll slide across Heaven's home plate, partially clothed, sand in my hair, dried salt water on my body, penniless but with numerous maxed out credit cards, high as a kite and laughing with police sirens blaring as they grow closer in their pursuit!

 At least that's the way I envision it.

I don't really think about it.

Sarah and I are plotting and planning and, while nothing's come together yet, we both know it's getting ready to take us by storm.

We can be scared or excited at whatever's coming next.

Life's too short to be scared.

I should know.

Silently Talking to Myself

I find myself increasingly with nothing to say.

I used to have lots to say.

About lots of things.

I find it easy juggling a multitude of friends, all it takes is being the initiator, but now only occasionally fire off a missive to someone conjured up in my heart.

For the most part though, I silently talk to myself.

Not that there's lots of time for it.

Sarah's never ending schedule also keeps me busy as I try to be helpful, though I usually end up in her way, so I try to not be too much of a hinderance.

Che and I take walks, play in the yard, watch Kids TV cuddled on the sofa. pick every colorful flower she sees, or belt songs from the top of her lungs now that she's mastered ordering Alexia around.

Our 4 year old's also taken to talking to God.

"Make my Daddy better," I heard her say, staring at the Holy Spirit blowing through trees on a marvelous, pristine, warm November's day.

The wind stops for a moment as though the Holy Spirit's absolutely appreciates a little girl's pure love.

I can't talk any way because salt water rolls down my cheeks because, for a moment anyway, I'm vividly aware of all of the time I'm going to miss with our miracle of a daughter.

Energy I used to pour into writing is now reserved for healing.

It's been almost 5 months ago I underwent major surgery and I'm told for every hour of the operation represents one month of recovery meaning, I'm half-way through getting my body back.

It won't be like it was before because there's lot less body parts required to keep me going now because of the Doctor's slicing away every thing that looked bad.

He.almost got it all.

Only a little cancer remains.

Vegas has placed odds on how fast before it grows again.

In the meantime, I'm told to enjoy everything because it could be my last chance.

It takes all my energy to adjust to my new abnormal.

Sarah and I maintain our dream of expatriating to a small, Caribbean island with white sand roads, long leaf Palm Trees with coconuts and aqua, teal blue water but everything about our lives is ... abnormal.

Sarah tries to manage it. Che has no frame of reference because her Daddy's been sick most of her life. Maddie sends a text from College to say she loves me. Laurel makes me laugh with her creative trail blazing use of the "cancer card" to get what she wants. Cassidy jumps up to grab me when I wobble which is part of my new life.

Throw in a pandemic and, well, it's a Hell of a way to live.

I can't imagine going through cancer without them.

At 64, I should be enjoying my later years, traveling, eating fine food, experiencing everything the world has to offer with my best friend and lover. Instead, we've all developed coping mechanisms to minimize all of the bad in our lives while exploiting the Hell out of the good moments.

It's not as bad as it sounds.

It is exhausting though.

Anyway, today we begin celebrating Thanksgiving and the goal is to celebrate everything we've got because, in spite of it all, we have a lot of life's most important things.

We're celebrating the fact we're still here, together against every possible odd, finding life to love instead of waiting on things to get better.

I live every day trying to appreciate every moment as though it were a party.

After all, I'm surrounded by the people I'd love to party with most of all!

So that's the plan!

We're not just going to enjoy Thanksgiving.

We're going to live it like there's no tomorrow.

The Last Chance

One candle is lit as the trees outside are black and white silhouettes because the sun sleeps still as I cradle coffee waiting.

At 4 I'm wide awake, laying in bed listening to Sarah sleep, thanking my lucky stars she chooses me to love after everything I've put her through as I continue doing things that make her question her sanity.

Rising in the dark, I'd risen, showered, dressed, fed the animals and made coffee.

Pirate Radio out of Key West softly plays under the guitars hanging on the wall.

I think about calling Tommy Holland.

He's always up this early.

Sorry Tommy!

Just got the best invitation ever!

"DA!" our four year old Che calls from upstairs.

Grabbing her "Red Juice" and two Reese's' white chocolates, I make my way to her room like an old man in slow motion.

At his end my Dad lost the ability to successfully walk up or down stairs without falling and I hope like Hell he didn't pass it on.

"Da," Che says with a smile, "is there school today?"

I love this time.

Sitting up, blond hair askew from the pillow, sleepy eyes not fully awake cover a smile broadcasting love, I can't wait to discover what's the first thing on her mind every day.

"Not today," I answer, covering her with the blanket, turning on "A for Adley" while kissing my little girl.

"I lub you Da," she says before sticking the cup in her mouth and losing herself in waking up.

Slowly I make my way downstairs, grab more coffee and watch the light change in the trees.

I'm always the first one up at our house, being an early riser my whole life.

I love the beginning of the day.

Whatever happened yesterday, regardless of how bad it was, is eclipsed by the dawning of new possibilities and God's greatest gift ... the chance to start over every time the sun comes up.

These days I rise early so Sarah can sleep.

My wife carries the weight of the world on her shoulders raising four girls, overseeing the care of 40 Developmentally disabled people, is primary care giver to a man with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, has her own aches and pains from growing older and manages our family through the pandemic.

She is an amazing woman!

The least I can do, knowing full well I'm going to screw up a few things she's got planned, is let her sleep as long as she wants.

It's my own little way of telling her "I love you" ... before anything else happens in this day, I'm thinking of you and I hope this shows you a little.

Che's taken to relaxing in her bed, watching "Adley", munching white chocolate, sipping red juice and ... finally ... rushing to the Potty by herself as if all Hell's just broken loose.

She makes me laugh as I clutch my steaming cup downstairs, listening to acoustic Led Zep, watching the trees turn into muted shades of green.

My mind turns to oysters.

Laurel, our newly crowned Islands High School "Princess", is after me to take her out for oysters, which is hard to do when there's a pandemic and I'm at-risk for everything!

But I love Laurel and I love oysters too so we've got to make it happen.

It could be my last chance.

You never know.

"Don't do that!" Laurel scolds whenever I say things like this.

I believe laughter is the best medicine ... until it's not ... and it's easier if Sarah and the girl's shared my sense of humor (firmly rooted in Stephen Wright and Monty Python) ... but they don't ... so I crack jokes nobody in my family likes ... but I think they're funnier than Hell!

I'll talk to Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) or John O'Neil, two friends who've been with me for 40 years now, in no small part, because we share the same sense of humor.

Maybe I'll get around to that today.

First we have to figure our what Maddie, our 19 year old University of Georgia student, is doing for Thanksgiving, and if Cassidy, our 14 year old, will come out of her room at all until school resumes in December?

This week, Erica Cook my primary care coordinator, gave me "Five Wishes", an "easy-to-complete form that lets you say exactly what you what" when you die.

I haven't started it yet.

There's no hurry.

Five wishes have already been granted to me.

Sarah ... Maddie ... Laurel ... Cass ... and Che.

It's an abundance of fulfilled wishes.

PLUS ... there's Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... the grandkids ... and a little gay dog.

I've got enough wishes come true.

I'll get around to five more in time.

Now is not the time. 

Sunday Brunch at our House

 

When I was the "Professional Christian" --- a minister getting paid asks others to sacrifice for free --- in charge of a "Steeple" and a Southern Baptist congregation to boot ... I hated Sunday evening service.

Sane churches don't have evening services because members want to enjoy time with their families before returning to work.

Southern Baptist don't care!

There are buildings to build dammit!

Baptists love buildings more than anything!

Sunday evening service provides a second passing of the offering plate.

HELL YEAH WE'RE HAVING SUNDAY EVENING SERVICE!

WE GOT A BUILDING TO BUILD!

Mine was a poor congregation and we already had a building we couldn't fill and I hated Sunday evening service because, in those days, I loved Sixty Minutes ... the same time I'm passing the plate.

So I killed Sunday evening service at our Church, never missing another episode of Sixty Minutes.

Another thing I came to love about Sunday's that often occur during Church is ... Brunch.

I love Sunday Brunch!

Last month Sarah and I decided to bring Sunday Brunch back to our house!

Weekly one of us chooses the fare. Today it's biscuits with sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, coffee and mimosas.

Che, our 4 year old, will likely ask for chocolate and cheese.

Laurel, our 16 year old, will fit Brunch into her very busy social calendar. Cassidy, our  14 year old, sleepwalks through our family meal unless we're discussing politics then she breaks down the doors to Hell and gridlock in Washington!

Maddie's away at College, actually working at one of her part time jobs while taking care of her boyfriend Henry who's not saying as much these days but we'll all Face Time later.

But we gather and, while it never last very long, it fills me with joyful celebration.

Today though I have things to say when the moments right.

Recently I struggle with absentmindedness, a "Cancer fog" many experiencing the surgery I had struggle with daily. While I'm blissfully unaware, it drives Sarah crazy because I'm suddenly doing strange things, not behaving like she's accustomed. The other night, Laurel also mentioned how "crazy" I've recently gotten.

It's my biggest fear.

I don't want to live as a burden to Sarah and the girls, and sliding towards dementia or Alzheimer's or physically incapable of too many functions.

That'd kill me!

(I crack myself up!)

But I take the time at Brunch to confess it to Sarah and the girls and to thank them, individually, for specific times and things they do making it clear how much I'm loved.

This leads to understated, almost covert, expressions of affections from each at the table.

Sarah, who has it far harder than me with everything she juggles, rubs my leg under the table saying, "That's the worst case but we've reason to believe it can be treated," and the conversation drifts to its end.

While we weren't looking, Che puts on a dress from Frozen and bellows, "LET IT GO! LET IT GO!"

She wants us all to watch it together.

I'm the only one who likes the mimosas so I freshen mine.

Laurel and Cass immediately lock on their phones catching up in the other Universes they're building, 

Sarah does a couple of dozen things at once and I toast my blessings.

I love Sunday Brunch at our house though I don't watch Sixty Minutes any more.

Staying in the Living Room

 

Sarah takes her position on the yoga mat behind two "older" ladies.

I'm no longer qualified to determine how old is old as I continue to think I'm 20 something when I'm actually dancing through my sixth decade.

"What did your husband die of?" one asks the other.

"Pancreatic cancer," she replies.

"My husband has stage 4 pancreatic cancer," my wife adds.

"Oh! How old is he?" they ask and proceed with a nice conversation until yoga begins.

Telling me the story, Sarah adds, "I almost told them that you have the 'good kind' of pancreatic cancer but I didn't have it in me."

I understand the moments of heaviness that our life now is sometimes we simply don't have it in us to say anything any more.

"You look good," people tell me if I go out, which isn't often because I'm at-risk for everything and Covid would likely kill me quickly, so I try to minimize my exposure, which is hard.

Of course I believe I look great and wonder why it took a cancer diagnoses for everyone else to see it.

I still check myself out in most any mirror I pass and, let me tell you, I don't know if there are cancer beauty pageants or not, but I can compete!

I think what people mean when they tell me how good I look is "you don't look like you're dying."

I appreciate that because I certainly don't feel like I'm dying.

If anything, life is something of a hoot for me right now.

It was one Hell of a good time last night as we celebrated Cassidy's 14th birthday.

It helped that I was high as a kite because of weed I'd smoked about half-an-hour before dinner.

Sarah learned as we prepared for Whipple surgery to remove the cancer, I could choose either hospital prescribed narcotics for pain or marijuana.

The Whipple support group Sarah belongs to was split equally but the oxycodone users weren't particularly enthusiastic while the others happily encouraged "DO THE POT MAN!" conjuring images of Cheech and Chong.

Anyway I laughed last night as I hadn't in a long, long time ... that deep eruption of convulsions leaving me hunched over, tears of joy streaming down my face and sucking in air to continue.

Laurel and Cass enjoy me enjoying everything about us being together.

Sarah eyes me suspiciously to make certain I'm really okay and nothing bad is happening.

She's the reality checker, a thankless, empty, tough love function to make certain I keep myself in the best position to continue living ... with her! 

Later, we're exhausted, collapsed on the sofa, watching television, wondering how suddenly every single show on Netflix or Disney has a character with stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

They're not on the show for very long.

Sarah and I laugh.

What else can you do?

I cling to the conviction that laughter is the best medicine.

In the meantime, I stay in, or near, the Living Room most of the time.

It's too dangerous to go anywhere else.  

First and last Birthday

It's impossible for me to conceive of life without you.

Four years ago today you took your sweet time being born, keeping everyone waiting and letting the Doctor know things will happen when you're ready, and you aren't available "on demand."

It's your birthday, number four, and your Mom and I are still in a state of shock that we lost our minds and had you ... a 43 year old incredibly sexy woman and a 64 year old man nearing sunset over the Ocean.

Every day we spend lots of time together.

You are a spinning ball of loving, crazy, spontaneity discovering everything in the world for the first time while I'm seeing them for perhaps the last.

Your enthusiasm overwhelms my melancholy as you invite me, demandingly so, to take the swing beside yours ... hold you in waste deep water so waves hit us in the face and we laugh emerging from each baptism holding tightly on to each other, or you're endlessly crawling in my lap to introduce conversations I'd never, ever, imagine.

It's your birthday and you'll get lots of presents from your friends who'll gather for your celebration and they'll be games, cake, pizza and prizes.

But Che-bay, you are the most precious gift!

Every single day you make Sarah Elliott, your sisters and me laugh as you force us to look at the world from your perspective, where the world is new, sometimes terrifying yet full of beauty to enjoy.

There are good people and bad people and you're quick to give everyone the same chance to share your world but you're fast to run away from those who don't bring joy.

"I lub you Da," you tell me a hundred times a day and, sometimes, it fills me with such appreciation I can't speak but hold you close, burying my nose into the crown of your head and I kiss your hair while breathing in your aroma.

It's your birthday.

But you're the gift!

I love you so Che!

Happy Birthday!

And thank you for giving me so much life at a time when I can desperately use it.

 

My Brave Fight

My brave fight with cancer has begun.

You normally don't hear about it until the end when it's announced or spoken softly to someone or another, "After a brave fight with cancer ..."

Not much is ever said about the actual fight and I don't have a clue how to go about it.

Every day I wake up either right before Che or because of her.

Wanting Sarah to sleep or leisurely wake, I typically get up, shower, fix coffee and wait for our almost 4 year old to call, "Daddy!"

Sitting up in bed, sleepy eyed with sun streaked blond hair perfect in the front but a crazy mess of entanglement in back, she sighs, "Oh Daddy," laying her head on my shoulder before the sun rises I stop whatever thoughts I'm having and focus everything within me on ... this moment.

The taste of her hair as I kiss the top of her head ... the tininess of her breathing ... the coolness of her arms around my neck ... and the unwanted knowledge of cancer robbing me of the time I have left with Che.

"Lucky Charms for breakfast Da-da?"

"Any damn thing you want honey," and she holds my hand as we retrieve the magical bag of marshmallows with no cereal I'd always heard about but never actually seen until Sarah tracks down multiple bags because my wife never allows those she loves to go without anything they want.

Che won't eat the green ones anymore because the sugary unicorns, rainbows and four leaf clovers makes her poop that color.

Che reasons if she doesn't eat the green ones everything will return to normal.

I wish.

"This is our new normal," Sarah says and there is a sense of it to most days.

Fear of the future can drive you crazy but Sarah's got crazy, extremely unpleasant planning to do so she's prepared for whatever contingency while I simply wait to see what's going to happen next.

We do our best to talk about it but it's too raw to make it very far.

We nibble at deep conversations.

Everyone tells me how good I look but I find myself suspicious of compliments usually reserved for corpses in caskets.

"He looks good."

"You do look good," my wife tells me. "Don't let anyone cause you any grief! You don't owe anybody anything! It's time to focus on healing."

She's right of course but I'm finding it's like perpetually wishing for Christmas which takes forever to arrive and never reaches the idyllic fantasies we have of family, presents and peace on earth.

Tap ... tap ... tap.

My eyes open because Che's hitting the tip of my nose with her index finger.

"Da-da," she says grinning, grabbing my hand and pulling me from bed where Sarah still sleeps.

Grabbing Lucky Charms, red Hawaiian Tropic Fruit Punch, potato chips, a Rice Krispy treat and coffee, we turn on the television and cuddle beside each other on the sofa.

It's a grand way to start a day and we remain this way until Sarah wakes and calls, "Che!" and our daughter leaves everything on the couch to crawl in bed with her Mom.

I want lots more moments like these.

My fight, which I'm ultimately going to lose, means holding onto everything important to me now.

In spite of evidence to the contrary, I plan on living a long, long time, because there's too much to enjoy in my life.

So far, so good.  

How much Time?

 

The truth is I don't know how to feel.

I'm here.

My body's significantly altered with the scars, far more internal than external, to prove it.

There's over 40 pounds less of me and, in spite of the scars, I like it.

My muscles atrophied and my stamina evaporated so I work to regain these things.

Cancer remains in my body though the Doctor's claim this a major victory in round one.

Round two is yet to be determined.

Every three months I receive an MRI to see if the fight's begun again.

Sitting at the table, Sarah sighs, then laughs, at the mountain of bills reflecting the costs to get me this far.

Our three year old Che lays on top of me as she does most every day and while she's an endless, boundless, energy ball of joy, there's a sadness she carries.

Laurel, our 16 year old, carried Che to Walmart where she runs into people she knows mourning the loss of a friend, so they hug and shed tears.

"I don't want my Daddy to die," Che cries, making Laurel pick her up.

The shopping trips ruined, Che fights to get out of Laurel's car when it stops in the drive, she runs to me crying, "I want my Daddy! I I want my Daddy!"

Against Doctor's orders to not lift anything weighing more than 10 pounds, I pick her up and cry with her.

Sarah and I nibble at the ongoing conversation of living life with cancer and it's unknown timelines. 

Like with everything Sarah takes on, she's an expert on pancreatic cancer, treatment options, prognoses, odds of beating this thing and, in an effort to help me, keeps her fears to herself. 

I'm trying to feel my way through this.

We can only really talk about hard realities in small doses. 

Thankfully Che's returned to preschool every morning for four hours so Sarah works and I have mornings on the Beach. 

We struggle mightily with living with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer because, in spite of the Doctor's claiming surgical victory, I still have it.

On the outside, everyone tells me how good I look.

On the inside, we hear my organs gurgle and slurp as they settle into new positions and I can literally feel the dull pain of moving into new quarters.

Time is no longer our friend.

We're endlessly rushed, overwhelmed and unsettled ourselves in this new normal that doesn't feel secure or safe.

How much time do we have left?

That's the question.

Then Sarah has a harder question to answer. 

What then?

For inexplicable reasons Laurel is an  Islands Highschool cheerleader who talks her Mom into making posters for this week's game to cheer for the Sharks. She and Sarah sit in the floor as we toss around fin-tastic slogans. Her friend Muhammad is called in to help. Che's asleep for the night.

As tired as she is, Sarah's giving it her best.

For me though, there's an epiphany of appreciating how special it is to live in this hot mess craziness of a blended family with teenage girls with social schemes during a pandemic, Sarah's ever changing and demanding work schedule, the relentless demands of a 3 year old and my new case of cancer fog which means I can't remember shit.

I'm part of this but somehow rising above it to see it for the blessing it is and that's what I'm living.

But I still have cancer.

It's very hard to fully live every moment knowing that, at any given moment, cancer flexes it's muscle and I'm actively dying.

Still there are these moments of clarity when I completely understand what a gift it is to be here now.

The rest is too much to think about.

I'm going to do my best to simply enjoy it all as much as I can.

No Hurry to leave

I am in no hurry to leave.

Sarah and Che are the joys of my life!

It took Sarah and I so long to come together and we're learning to enjoy each precious moment together.

Che came out of our love and daily gives me wonder.

It was so crazy and unpredictable resolute to overcome every possible obstacle to live this life and I don't want to stop being part.

At the same time, I have gnawing questions born of the cancer residing inside while amazingly continuing (so far anyway) to heal.

Because of the cancer and surgery, death is forever lurking in front of me, and I wonder how much longer I have to deeply love my joys?

I constantly remember my days are numbered.

Dying doesn't bother me.

It's just part of living.

But I don't want to hang around longer than I'd want, becoming a burden to anyone and I fear it'll be me hospitalized for weeks, making Sarah and those who love me endure the agony of caring for me until the end. Worse yet, I'm the one not quite ready for Hospice because it's not evident I'm dying so I remain home for others to care for me.

I'd like to sit down after a good laugh with family and die ... so is that an option?

But Shit!

That'll be horrible for Sarah and the girls.

Is there a way around this?

I don't like thinking these things but now they hit unexpectedly even as I celebrate with Sarah and the girls.

The Doctor's have calculated a life expectancy for us with stage 4 pancreatic cancer and it's not a long time.

It's my dilemma

I'm in no hurry to leave what I've got but when the time comes I'd like to set these conditions but ... I have no control of that.

"Have you cried?" I was asked by a dear old friend.

"It's funny," I answer, "I really haven't but Sarah, who never cries, has. I think I'm taking that energy and using it up for those I love."

"That has to be difficult," he sighs.

"Sarah has it much harder than me. I'll be dead. She'll be left to deal with my aftermath. Who knows when that'll be but the question hangs low in our days."

"I kissed all the girls at school today," Che explains living up to revolutionary heritage, "but not the boys."

Sarah and I laugh, catching the other's eyes, locking and sharing a smile over the love we hold.

The rest of the world stops and it is just Sarah and me.

Everything heaped on top of every living ... online education for the girls, what's for dinner?, Sarah's demanding job, Che playing with her dolls ... evaporate for a second and in all the world ... it's just us.

It's a moment fully living and completely loving each other.

Cassidy exclaims "No" towards her computer screen ... Sarah's phone rings ... Che drops the doll ... love goes on.

I'm in no hurry to leave.

Cancer Prayer

Talking to God is pretty lopsided.

God doesn't speak at all so ... I don't either.

Discussion with God doesn't require words.

"You can't find God in the fire," the Bible explains, "but in the whispers (I Kings 19:13)".

Okay "whispers" are words but ancient Hebrew was more about painting images than any final word.

Whispers are intimate, important and necessary to share. It's not about the fires of religion, nationalism, politics or income distribution. It's quieting down to listen to God speak in hushed tones.

I don't care.

There's something I need to talk to God about now!

I have stage 4 pancreatic cancer and survived a major 10 hour surgery to still have it.

"We got almost all of it," the Doctor explains.

"Well, that sucks," I answer.

Conversations with physicians require lots more words than a dialogue with God. 

He tells me about this one patient who's still alive with the same thing I've got 20 years later.

"God," I finally say out loud, "it's not right to go through all of this and still have cancer?"

I've never known God to interrupt anyone speaking, something the rest of us really have to work at, so I take my time ... it was much longer and passionate than the words I just typed.

God's not quick to answer when I finish, opting to consider things before speaking.

There's a lot of consideration.

Crickets chirp.

That's not right either and I don't really care what God says about it!

"Why would we go through everything we've been through only to still face the inevitable? Make sense out of this God because it makes no sense!"

A warm, slight breeze makes green leafs dance in trees.

Winston, the Little Gay Dog (LGD), loudly slurps water from his bowl.

On the sofa, Sarah's engrossed in something on her phone.

"DADDIE!" our three year old calls from upstairs.

It all hits me at once, the individual components of life suddenly conducted as though a symphony. There are no words as each individual snapshot of NOW continuously wash over me ... through me really ... cleansing away acknowledgement of ANYTHING that's not as important as green leafs dancing, a dog drinking water, my wife or our daughter.

Seconds seem lots longer before I snap back to the reality of passing time, as the breeze dies, the Dog lies down, Sarah tosses her phone on the sofa sighing, "Well!"

 Che calls again louder this time.

Leaving the chair, I rush to attend those I love, and yet ... still the symphony moment lingers, as though a prayer, as the beauty of my life dances inside of me.

I suppose there's nothing to say when so much is happening right now inside and outside of me.

Yet ...

There's no direct answers to the questions.

No Divine response at all.

While the world crazily spins around me with all of the things happening in it, I wonder, "Does silence means not-participating and has nothing to do with my cancer."

There's just the cancer.

I don't want to think about it.

Love is all around me.

I can still enjoy it all.

Sarah explains an exacerbation at work while I climb the stairs to react to Che.

"I have to remember this," I tell myself. "Whatever comes next, this is what I want to remember.

Walking with Cancer

"Hold my gun," she commands, handing me the pistol.

"We're going on a one mile walk," I explain, "and not a hunting safari!"

"Hold my tiara," she continues without missing a beat.

Taking it from her, I sigh.

Six months into a national pandemic and quarantine, a great deal's happened. I was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, had a stent inserted so the bile escapes from my body, a biopsy, aborted major surgery, major surgery, two months of recovery but they didn't get all the cancer so the Grim Reaper keeps reminding us that, regardless of how much better I get, time's running out.

"Che, we need to walk so Daddy will be around for a long time."

"Here Da," our three year old says handing me a magic wand.

I finally laugh, juggling her things while trying to keep her pace.

It's been a tough time.

Not just for me. Sarah's had it worse.

After being my care giver, she navigates us through the treacherous American Health Care system, juggles the unrelenting demands of three teenage daughters, has a 3 year old who relies on us for EVERYTHING, cares for 40 patients with Developmental Disabilities and can't seem to find any time to do things just for herself.

The girls are all nuts! Maddie's boyfriend at the University of Georgia has COVID-19 and she can't see him because he's quarantined. Laurel gleefully plays the cancer card every day to make certain her plans work out as she likes. Thirteen year old Cassidy's finally emerging from the horrific experience of being 12, leaves her room with more regularity and suddenly seems human again.

Che hands me a rock to carry with the gun, tiara and magic wand.

This is followed with a flower.

Che skips and sings around me.

I think to myself ... She's much closer to God and every day takes me another step away while I take steps closer to God every day. Is this our passing of ships in the night or is there enough time to even leave some lasting thoughts of what I look like ... how we play together ... my voice ... how much I love your mother and you can take it as an example of what to strive toward?

The sun is beating down on this part of the walk and my body feels as it's carrying tiny bags of wet cement.

Startling me, Che's tiny hand grabs mine.

"Let's go home Da."

Playing the Cancer Card

The greatest thing about having cancer is, of course, playing the card.

"Hey Laurel," I say laying on the sofa, "will you hand the remote to the guy with cancer?"

Our precious 16 year old stops dead in her tracks looking at me.

"It's the least you can do before I die because you tested positive for Covid-19 exposing me to all sorts of life threatening dangers."

She hands me the remote.

Through 14 days being quarantined together, Laurel hands me the remote a lot until she finally gets sick of it, choosing to permanently remain in her room as Che and Sarah run her everything she may need.

You can overplay the cancer card.

I apologize to her.

"No need for that," she smiles. "I play the card all the time!"

"Oh yeah?

"I told my friend you can't clean fish 'cause you've got cancer so she cleans the ones I brought home."

It's true.

There's clean fish in the freezer Laurel recently brought me.

"What else?" I ask her.

"My entire school schedule's built around you," she explains. "Any class I didn't want, or class time that sucked, I told the teacher I can't do it because you have stage 4 pancreatic cancer and I have to help take care of you."

"Stop them dead in their tracks?" I ask.

"Every time," she beams. "They give me whatever I want."

"What about you?" I ask Cassidy, our 13 year old.

"Yeah, I tell my Dad I can't do something because Mom needs me to take care of you."

"I wondered why you're here all the time," we laugh.

It is pretty funny.

We've all learned if you say I have "stage 4 pancreatic cancer" people don't know what to say but'll pretty much give you whatever you want.

"Good for you," I tell the girls.

The thing about the cancer card is it's great so long as you're playing but the moment you stop ... you're dead.

I'm the first to admit I don't care for the hand I've been dealt but it is fun figuring out how to play the trash cards while holding on to the valuable ones.

Sarah's my most precious card.

Che, the girls, the kids and grand kids are all keepers.

So are good friends, every single shared meal, talks with Mom, unexpected surprises, kind gifts from people I care about and every single trip to the Beach!

These are the cards I hold onto, trying to play correctly.

The rest of them ... cancer, scars, fatigue, uncertainty, fear and circumstances ... I try to figure out fun ways to play in the course of every single day ... for however many days still gifted to me.

The gravity of living with death looms as an unscheduled possibility in front of us. The fact that I still have cancer after such a radical surgery means even the sunniest days seem gloomy. I can live a long time or could be out of here in no-time-at-all. The doctors have no idea. So we live every day in search of love, fun and escape from exhaustion and fear.

What are you gonna do?

May as well play is what I say.

After all what are the options?

"Do it or die," sings the Atlanta Rhythm Section.

 I couldn't agree more.

My Healing

"There's a woman with the same cancer and she gets a shot in her butt once each month and is doing great for 15 years now!"

My oncologist tells me about her every time he sees me.

Apparently, she's his one, shinning success.

He never mentions his other patients so I figure they've all died.

The poor doctor only has one patient as an example of why I should get a shot in my butt once each month ... and possibly an oral medication too.

"Think about it," he concludes. "You don't have to make a decision now. Let's wait and see what happens."

What could happen is my cancer continues to spread after the surgery that was to have gotten it all.

It would have been a spectacular success because they cut out almost all the cancer leaving only a few tiny growths on the outside of my liver.

"Why didn't you get those too, since you were already inside of me?"

"I had to wait and see what the Oncologist said," explains the surgeon, "but if he can't treat it I can go back in and cut it out."

Shaking my head, I struggle to understand modern medicine in America.

"It could be we start treatment in a few months," my Oncologist continues, "or a few years or ... maybe you'll be like this woman and you'll still be getting a shot in the butt 15 years from now."

In the meantime, I get an MRI every three months to see what the tiny spots on my liver are doing.

"How much time I got Doc?" I ask.

My Oncologist is horrified by the question, stumbles over words and again recounts the story of the woman who's gotten 180 shots in her butt ... and counting!

That's all he's got in terms of assurance.

We know the survival rate of Stage 4 pancreatic cancer isn't great, regardless you get shots in the butt!

The last photograph of Steve Jobs runs through my mind, a frail, white body held up by another, looking intensely away from the camera towards ... who knows? ... the faded memory of a used up and worn out past ... or death coming closer.

I've lost lots of weight but not like Steve Jobs.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I see more than what I am.

I'm a man in love with a wonder of a woman ready to unleash our life of Tropical adventure ... father of a three year old girl who's revolutionized our lives ... Stepfather to teenage girls who drop surprises into every single day ... Dad to adult children each making the world a better place ...Granddad to Ava, Nina, Ethan and Lily ... a writer, musician, Bar-room preacher, Beach Bum ... a catalog of true life stories, admirer of nature and fathomless optimist!

I don't look like Steve Jobs.

I think about sex ... A LOT! ... with my wife!

I'm ready for my healing to be over.

I got too much to do.

"Slow down," Sarah admonishes, "and don't pick up anything that weights more than a gallon of milk."

It's a tricky balance between anticipation and reality.

I've got far more living to do than I have dying.

When I die, I'm gone so I'm not putting energy into that right now.

I don't spend a lot of time thinking about Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

I'm far more interesting in this wonder of a woman ... a 3 year old little girl ... my house full of teens ... kids and grand kids ... writing to do, music to make, stories to tell and a host of other things.

When I'm not focused on the important parts of living, it's a real pain in the butt.