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.

Cancer in baby steps

If you're going to have pancreatic cancer in your early 60's it's best to have a 3 year old child!

I'm first to admit this isn't what most enduring chemotherapy, radiation treatment and radical Whipple surgery consider but, take it from me, a 3 year old is most helpful to recovery.

Whipple is an operation to remove the head of the pancreas, part of my stomach, the first part of the small intestine, the gall bladder and the bile duct. The remaining organs are reattached to allow you to digest food normally ... though there's nothing normal about it!

Sarah's a member of a Caregiver Support Group and when she shared she cares for me, maintains a full time job and we have a 3 year old, the overwhelming response was, "I'd hate to be you!"

I'm not sure how much help she receives from being a member.

Recovery is long and hard and sitting in the kitchen talking to my wife who's cooking supper, I feel bad for us. She's exhausted from the never ending responsibilities and I feel my body's entirely made up of small bags of wet cement but we discuss possible future treatment options because the radial surgery didn't get all the cancer.

We're close to tears when our 3 year old Che wanders in wearing a brown winter coat with a fur hood.

She's grown almost six feet since we last saw her a few minutes ago.

Her arms are longer and she's taken to wearing a watch, which she's never done before.

Her legs are also extremely long and tanned from the salon her sister uses because Maddie pays for a fake bronze body than lay in the sun on the beach for free.

"Hello," Che says in a voice an octave lower than usual ... her "boy" voice is what she calls it.

We burst into laughter which, we've been told, is the best medicine.

Later, I feel awful but endure taking the stairs to lay with Che for "rest time."

Laying her head on my shoulder she says, "You're best Daddy in the wide whole world!" and hugs me tightly.

Salt water wells in my eyes.

"Dada," she says, rubbing her tiny finger on the scar on my belly, "I lub you."

"Do you like my Pirate scar?" I ask.

"What?" she exclaims sitting up.

"Yeah, I got in a fight with a Pirate. Look what he did."

Pulling up my "The guitar is my retirement plan" tee shirt, she sees the long purple and light flesh tone line running from where my belly button used to be to just below my rib cage.

"Does it hurt Daddy?"

"It would if I hadn't beaten that mean Pirate and tossed him in the Ocean," I answer.

"Tell me," she insists so I share a long, strange story of Pirates, mermaids, a hidden treasure chest, crooked politicians, developers and a beauty island that needs saving from a pandemic of people.

It's an ugly ass scar but it brings happiness to Che now which makes it much more bearable to me.

After Sarah, Che's my biggest caregiver and it's fascinating watching her mind quickly process how bending over to pick up her doll might hurt me so she flies across the room to do it before I can.

"Daddy can't bend over yet," she announces to her sisters, warning them not dare ask me.

It brings me smiles.

At 3:30 in the morning I wake to he screaming my name and make my way up the stairs as fast as I can (which isn't very fast) and find her dreaming, crying and reaching for me.

"Please don't die Daddy! Please."

Contorting in ways I shouldn't, I repeatedly kiss her face until she quietly sleeps again. In the dark, my hair askew from the pillow, I watch her sleep, rubbing her back, resolved to live long enough to see her off to whatever she makes of her future.

Che has magical ways of breaking through the weary burden of cancer and each night Sarah and I recount whatever she's done that day.

It's more Divine intervention than prayer but it leaves us eternally thankful we have the nonstop madness of our baby.

She can't cure the cancer but she sure as Hell leads me to the right places to live with it.

Home

"A cup of ice please."

There's a pause at the other end of the Television Remote Control and call button to the Nurse's station before the static goes suddenly quiet.

Heather meanders inside looking every bit of tired as 4:30 in the morning can be with two-and-a-half hours left on the shift.

"You've had enough ice," she sighs.

"Alright," I say. "What are my other options?"

Rolling her eyes, she explains for the hundredth time, "your orders call for ice chips only."

"Great! I'll have a cup."

"You're far exceeding what your body can tolerate given your surgery."

"I'm okay with something else. What are my choices?"

Without answering her weary feet shuffle towards the ice maker.

I hit play on my phone and Band of Horses runs through the wireless speaker explaining how they found it in a drawer.

The door opens and another Nurse strolls in pushing a machine.

"You taking or leaving?" I ask from my Hospital bed.

"Taking," she laughs. "Blood work."

She wraps the plastic tourniquet around my arm sticking the needle in a vein.

"Let me get this straight! Every morning and every night, y'all come in an take three tubes of my blood. That's six tubes a day. There's no way it takes that much blood to run tests, especially at night. Are you selling the extra blood on the black market?"

Howling with laughter, she replies "Yep, it all goes to the Nurse's retirement fund."

"I figured as much," I say as she pulls the needle from my arm.

Meandering out, she leaves me alone.

I try to sleep but there's no real way to rest in a Hospital as Doctors, Nurses, Nutritionists, technicians and strangers wander in and out of my room whenever they wish.

It makes sense.

They're working and I happen to be what they're working on so I'm existing for them and not as much them for me, though there is a strange duality.

After all the purpose of a Hospital is not to make people well but, regardless of non-profit status, to manage illness in ways producing a positive financial yield.

After a ten hour surgery to eradicate pancreatic cancer from my body, I spend six days impacting the institution's bottom line.

Aside from when Sarah walking into the room, or she and Che Face timing me, these are the memorable moments from my stay.  Most of the time there I was pretty ... restless.

When Sarah enters though, I light up and we visit, huddled in chairs by the window overlooking ugly roof tops littered with massive air conditioning units. We're grateful for lots of things. I'm alive. We're together. The kids are okay. We're ready to get back to living our lives.

After a while I climb back into bed, immediately fall asleep and rest while Sarah sits in the chair.

There's no rest in the Hospital when she's not with me but I'm home when we're together and slumber peacefully.

Sarah is my home.

I had the incredible misfortune of remaining in the Hospital over the weekend when absolutely nothing happens as Doctor's enjoy their weekends, Nurses and Techs call in sick and only the Emergency Room heats up.

It was excruciating.

First thing Monday morning they say I can go home.

Sometime that afternoon, they let me go.

Che runs circles of delight as she sees me, hugs me tightly as I collapse on the sofa and kisses me a thousand times. The girls hug me, repeatedly asking if I need anything. Sarah shoos them away and I fall asleep because ... I'm home where it's possible to collect yourself after days of others taking pieces of you without giving back.

It's been a month now and aside from daily walks to regain lost strength and stamina, I remain home entirely focused on healing under my wife's watchful eyes.

Che's very protective of her old man and never lets me go too far without her by my side.

The girls crazy teenage zaniness gives us plenty to laugh at and discuss.

"For every hour of surgery, it takes a month to recover," the Doctor explains, meaning it'll be close to a year before I'm close to being what I was before.

Plus a little bit of cancer remains they couldn't get so we have to figure out what to do about it.

But I'm in no hurry.

I'm home, surrounded by very tangible expressions of love, understanding it's time to be still and know these gifts of God.

There's no rush.

There's just now.

Still rising from the Dead

After more than an hour, Nurses swoop in to whisk me out of the prep room where Sarah and I have been talking about our future life without cancer.

They're in a hurry so there's no time for the goodbye we want, only a quick peck on the lips and saying, "I love you."

My bed rolls down white and grey, antiseptic, cluttered halls turning and twisting into the belly of the Hospital.

When we stop, my bed's laying beside another which I'm told to slide on which is difficult with the IV's, tubes and the damn Hospital gown. When I finish, I stare at a ceiling of white lights in blue casings giving me the impression I'm on a set for Star Wars.

Nurses and Anesthesiologists hover above my head obstructing my view.

It ends here.

I'm dead to the world.

For ten hours they cut me open, take out pieces of my original plumbing, reconstruct everything so it's efficient, tie it all together with a vein from my leg and staple me shut.

They also take out virtually all of the cancer.

I have no idea.

I'm still dead to the world.

When my eyes open I'm in a large open room with patients in other beds nearby. Sarah stands beside me.

"Let's not fight anymore," I say in a hoarse sleepy voice.

The day before surgery, we'd grown short with each other, because of the tension of the roller coaster ride of cancer we've been riding. In a waiting room preparing for yet another scan, I'm texting rather than listening and miss a great deal of what Sarah was saying. It wasn't my finest moment, trying to care for others, when it was just she and I who needed the caring.

"Don't be such an ass," she replies, though I'm dead to the world again and don't hear a word.

Earlier Doctor Sinkowski brought my wife to me and explaining things, he reaches out and tenderly plays with my foot, endearing himself to Sarah.

When I rise from the dead again, Sarah's gone and I stare at the staples, tubes, monitors and wires that are part of who I am now.

I'm alive.

Going into the surgery I wondered if I'd survive.

I wonder what Lazarus thought when Jesus raised him from the dead.

Was he as tired and thirsty as I am?

Sarah returns sometimes during the night or day, I have no idea which, and she tells me everything that happened while I was gone.

"They got virtually all the cancer", she reports. "There's some spots still on your liver."

I take it as information and file it away somewhere, focusing on Sarah's hand I'm holding on to.

I'd worried I'd never be able to do it again and now, in spite of the staples, tubes, monitors and wires, it's all I care about.

The Bible's pretty mum on Lazarus after Jesus calls him out of the tomb.

A little while later they attend a dinner together but the powers that be are angry because Lazarus is now a celebrity who's endorsing Jesus politically.

The only other thing we know is he eventually dies again ... this time without any divine intervention.

The thing about being raised from the dead, either physically or metaphorically, is it's a process.

Waking up is only the beginning.

What I do now is what matters most.

I'm no longer what I was but have a new life to master.

What's funny about the business of healing is I really do have to go into a tomb of sorts to do it..

It's hard work and I only have so much energy these days so I give it to sucking all the life I can out of the enjoyable moments with Sarah, Maddie, Laurel, Cassidy and Che! Friends let us know they're thinking of us and it adds fuel to the healing, which is not to say it happens any quicker.

My days now are walking as much as I can, eating what I'm able, managing exhaustion and wondering what to do about the cancer that's left.

I'm in no hurry to figure it out.

Che lays beside me on the sofa, repeatedly kissing my hand, arm and face.

The girls immediately try to address my every discomfort.

And Sarah and I hold hands every chance we get.

Foot Tattoos & the travesties of coping

"What's wrong with your foot?"

The Nurse pulls the sheet back as I lay on the cold metal table waiting for the MRI.

"What?"

I'm inside a tubular machine to determine how much the cancer's spread and can't see the foot he's examining.

"Oh," I finally recall, "my daughter put a tattoo of a Birthday cake on there."

After serious inspection it, he huffs, "It is a birthday cake."

Placing headphones over my ears, he leaves the machine to beep, hum and whirl as an electronic female instructs, "Breath in ... breath out ... relax" interrupting Bob Dylan's "Murder Most Foul" that I chose to listen to for the hour of laying still on a cold plate of metal.

Inside the tube I giggle, thinking "I've got pancreatic cancer and he's worried about a temporary tattoo."

Yesterday, as I sat on another metal table for an Octeotride, our 3 year old Che confesses to her 16 year old sister Laurel, "It makes me sad Daddy's sick ... It makes us all tired ... I miss my Daddy ... I wish he wasn't sick."

Cancer doesn't just conduct terrorist attacks on my body, it  blankets our home.

Che's right!

Sarah's exhausted from managing her work, teenage girls, a 3 year old, a sick husband while navigating the American Health Care system and trying to care for herself.

Three girls are weary of growing into adulthood with diminishing options while forced to incorporate a sick Stepdad's schedule as their mother carts him off to yet another Doctor's appointment.

Che's tired of having no one to play with and her old man's isn't always capable of doing everything they used to do together.

And I'm sick of it too ... of living in a pandemic, gross unemployment, race riots, police brutality, an absence of moral leadership ... Hell, the vacancy of any leadership ... with a loving yet exhausted wife and kids makes living with cancer all the more depressing.

Most days I manage well, doing everything I can to make things easier for Sarah, fun with Che and tolerable for the girls.

The demons are kept at bay by the constant search for moments of joy or slipping into the fantasy future my wife and I share of life on the little island surrounded by aqua-teal water where it's never winter.

When these fail we take it out on each other of course, because there's no one else to take it out on.

Love somehow gets us through these travesties of coping with lives that aren't always fair.

Maybe that's why when Che's sick and tired of all of us being sick and tired, as she misses the Daddy she's used to, and wishes things were like they were ... she plants happy tattoos on my foot.

She puts them on her sisters faces.

On her Mother's arms.

She plaster them on the walls of the house.

They're to remind us of how it's going to be again ... edging us closer to the fantasy future we know is ours.

What Che knows

I don't know how a three year old knows but I know that she knows.

"Daddy, are you going to the Doctors today?" she asks climbing out of bed.

"Not today honey," I answer and she smiled pulling me inside the black hole of playing with her Barbies.

It's good I poured a cup of coffee before making my way to her bedroom.

It’s certainly because of the pandemic forcing preschool cancellations, playgrounds closing, McDonald's not allowing indoor seating and Chuck E Cheese going dark that all of her emotions are extreme.

Affection is over the top but frustrations are intense causing us to worry she may explode.

Naps or putting her to bed is agony because she fights sleep, though she’s exhausted, but is desperate to not be separated from her mother, me or her sisters.

To a three year old going to sleep may as well be dying.

Lord knows there's been concern about that in our house.

"Da-da how old will you be when I am 17?" she playfully asks because her sister Maddie's prompted her after exclaiming when she's 40 Clare will be 25.

"Tell Mad you're still get her into all the cool places when she's old," I say, deflecting the question.

"Dear Jesus please let me be alive when she's 17," I pray without words, staring at the joy she shares with her sisters.

"You'll be 77," Cassidy blurts out.

"Damn," I say without words, bringing my prayer to an end.

"I lub you for-e-net Dada," Che laughs running across the room to kiss me repeatedly on my bare leg.

My heart jumps, throat fills and moisture covers my eyes.

Cancer occupies my body but permeates our home, impacting each member of our family, influencing every decision, clouding plans and filling us with dreadful possibilities.

There is hope of course.

The good news is only 14% of the people who have the surgery die during the operation.

The bad news is the percentage goes up each year after every successful operation.

Many live long yet very different lives after the cancer's gone, though each passing year though many don’t. Internet research is maddening.

It's a good thing I'm in utter disbelief I have cancer.

Though I did come close to dying just a few short months ago and had it not been discovered terrorist cells were invading my body, I likely wouldn't be writing this now.

But my wife Sarah is one Hell of a warrior woman with Gypsy blood so she forces me to do things I don’t want and, much to her dismay, it’s cancer.

Health care is an amazing thing!

A few operations bring the symptoms under control and I feel, and look, better than I have in a year.

At the moment, you'd never know I have cancer.

But Che knows.

Sarah and the children know too.

And of course, I know but I don't think about it much.

I think about Sarah, Che, our children, friends who've surprised me and wonder why in Heaven's name God believes it's good we go through this.

“It is what it is,” my Mom’s fond of saying.

It reminds me of what God said to Moses ... “I am who I am.”

Sarah knows who I am.

Che does too.

I don’t know how but they do.

I Believe God does too.

Now it’s up to the cancer to learn what Che knows.

Jesus and Health Insurance

As I prepare for surgery and the horrific preparations the week prior when hair loss and inhibited sex drive are real possibilities, I reflect back to my faith.

When you have pancreatic cancer that spreads to your liver, all you have is your faith ... or in my case that of my wife Sarah Elliott which is intense and something like having a personal trainer 24/7.

I also have 3 Bibles and 50+ Jesus magnets.

Pancreatic cancer forces you to realize how much you’ve accumulated in life is meaningless.

Therefore, as I reported yesterday, I’ve downsized and got rid of numerous Jesus magnets which I now consider trite.

That leaves me with about 20 which I still find powerful!

Like this one!!

It’s my first given to me by none other than Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one).

It has helped fortify my faith all these decades and I can’t bear the thought of parting with it.

Except having pancreatic cancer is expensive as Hell!!!

Even if you have insurance there’s thousands of dollars in deductibles.

I don’t have health insurance so it doesn’t bother me.

But ... I want to live and enjoy every fantasy and plan Sarah and I share!

Plus we have Che, our 3 year old who I adore and want to be around to see what she becomes.

Then there’s these wonderful kids, girls and grandchildren I have to ... advise with my life
experiences as they make their way.

So the Lord has told me to sell this precious and Holy relic to the highest bidder ... to defray the cost of having pancreatic cancer in the United States.

Now it is time for you to ask God how much you’re willing to pay for perfect and blessed Pizza every time you order it regardless of from where.

Please private message your bid ... we, I mean offering ... and know what a blessing you are in this life.

Thank you.

Peace out.