Johnny O and me

 

“I must be getting worse because Sarah’s starting to treat me like I’m sick,” I type into my phone. 

My perpetually cold, yet extremely tanned feet, rests on the table of the new and vastly improved beloved back deck, while I consider the future. 

My phone buzzes so I read his reply, "Don't fall for that shit!"

Laughter erupts from deep inside and, in a nanosecond, whatever depressing thing I'd been focusing on evaporates and I can't wait to tell Sarah.

It's so good to laugh!

"You look like shit!" he cheerfully proclaims the next morning at 7:30 after I open the door.

"You're just telling me that!" I answer.

"I am," he grins, "You look great!"

Knowing how quickly I tire of being told I look great having stage 4 pancreatic cancer, John always tells me the opposite to make me feel better!

And it works!

He's made me laugh for decades now through a friendship that laid it's seed on the westside of the county shortly before we actually met. 

Anyway Johnny O is on his way to his next movie audition.

Sarah and I have seen every one of John's movies and if you haven't, then do yourself a favor, watch them all and see the best 42 seconds of acting ever!

Johnny’s already famous so that’s not what drives his acting ambition. The truth is he’s already held jobs doing everything else. Acting is the only thing the man hasn’t done in life so he’s knocking it off the list.

Unbelievably though, he really is a good actor   

I believe his talent was carefully built upon every lie he ever told after being caught.

You may also not be aware that John O’Neil was the person who originally coin s the phrase, “It wasn’t me.”

He says it with the straightest face every time regardless of the situation.

The Tybee Island Police Chief watches John rearrange all the letters on the sign in front of City Hall announcing Elvis’ upcoming concert on the Pier.

“It wasn’t me,” John explains after the Chief confronts him. 

“Alright then,” the Chief says.

That’s some powerful acting there!

Regardless, Johnny and I have been friends forever. We’ve done lots of things together, like plastering 1,000 “Clothing Optional” bumper stickers all over … the place we were at then!

I can’t say where it was because of statue of limitation laws   

Johnny was also best man at our wedding.

He passed out right after the vows.

He says somebody slipped a “Mikey” in the drink he was holding during the service.

It’s okay.  

He called Sarah and I to apologize the next day on our honeymoon.

I’m thinking about lots of things these days, a few depressing as Hell.

But then Johnny shows up out of nowhere, packing like always, and makes Sarah and me laugh.

It is the best medicine.

And Johnny, thank you!

Breakfast Play

 

Che and I are having breakfast outside today just because she wants to, reminding me of how much I love to.

Flies are enjoying her cinnamon toast.

She’s busy enjoying something else.

It’s the thing about this gift of life … there’s just so much to enjoy it’s hard to fit it all in.

“But it’s still your birthday,” she protests while I take down the banner Sarah Elliott hung to celebrate my day.

“It sure is,” I smile.

There’s some bad in my life but it’s mostly good!

Thank you for taking the time out of your life to help celebrate mine!!

I’m awash in your friendship and love.

Plus, I got a hot wife and the cutest kid ever and you better believe we got things to do today.

I hope you enjoy yours as much as we’re going to celebrate ours!

Let’s go play!

SURPRISED

 

"Little surprised to hear from you ..." he writes in to a message I'd sent.

I'd been listening to music, which I do a lot these days, and really missing live music ... the old Monty Parks Acoustic Jam at Doc's Bar ... the Ducted Taped Band at Bar Church ... jamming and talking music with Mitch Wesley. 

This got me missing specific songs written and preformed by incredibly talented musicians and friends. I wrote one to say how much I appreciated his songs, that I miss them, implying they're still alive inside of me somehow long after they were last sang. 

And I surprise him!

"I wonder why he's surprised?"

AWE MAN! He must think I've already died so that's why he's surprised.  

It's a natural mistake. 

Pancreatic Cancer + Micheal = not going to hear from him anymore!

So I write him back asking, "Why are you surprised?"

He doesn't reply.

Suddenly I wonder if I've been blackballed or something?

I was blackballed by the Eastside Savannah Rotary Club years ago so completely understand how it works!

Now I can't stop wondering what I was blackballed from?

I tell Sarah about it and she shrugs her shoulders though later she asks if I've heard anything. When I tell her no, she shrugs her shoulders.

Sarah did put on Facebook that I rarely pick up the guitar anymore and Che chided me for it.

I wonder if that got me blackballed?

It couldn't have been anything I've done recently to provoke anybody because I don't do those things anymore.

Sarah may not agree.

Then I get to thinking about how I could really surprise him if I got in touch AFTER I've died.

Now that would be surprising!

The point is every day I happily wake up resolved to celebrate life to it's fullest! Mostly that means loving Sarah, raising Che, sharing confidences with the girls, listening to music I relish, getting high and having flashbacks.

Most of the time my flashbacks involve living people so, if I have the energy and time, which is very rare, I get in touch to share the moment. 

I want to say thank you for your gifts to me.

God we had some fun!

I'm having fun with Sarah and the girls now and hope you're having as much fun as we are!

I don't have time for being blackballed!

As I often say to Che, "C'mon! We got stuff to do!" but every once in a while, it's nice to stop and say thanks.

There and not really here!

It's hard making myself eat.

Every meal!

I have to psych myself up for even the most tasty plates.

Once I get started, I'm normally okay but the beginning is often traumatic!

I eat very little, very slowly and it gives the appearance I savor each bite, thoughtfully enjoying dinner conversations.

The truth is that I'm concentrating on chewing.

It's hard to chew when you don't really want to eat.

I sigh a lot during meals, throwing Sarah and the girls into "emergency mode" because I might get sick again and nobody wants that.

I've had two really good days in a row and I'm now confident with everything within me it's going to be 3, and just like Jesus kicking the stone away from the tomb, I'll be back just like I was before!

But neither happened.

Having cancer means spending most of your time psyching myself up for whatever's next.

Sarah is quick to point out that just because I said I've had two consecutive high energy days doesn't necessarily mean SHE'S enjoyed them.

As we all know,  just because we believe something is true doesn't mean that's actually the case.

According to her I'm forever meandering off into Winnie-the-Pooh's "Three Acre Wood", "Pepperland", "Hyatt Asbury" or inside "Joe's Garage" with Frank Zappa.

I love each of these places!

Sarah? 

Not so much.

I'm "there" and not really "here", miss entire conversations, say things that make no sense and have somehow mastered the art of "making a mess while cleaning up!"

Most of the time though I try to be helpful and useful to Sarah and the girls, which isn't to say that I am, though God knows I believe I'm useful.

"It's hard to believe you aren't doing things on purpose," she sighs as it's apparent I have no idea what she's talking about and feel attacked.

"I'm just trying to talk and understand," she wearily continues.

Sometimes it takes us days of talking to get to the place where we're finally communicating.

Painfully, I learn in a rush the numerous examples of trying to help most often disrupts, slows or erases whatever Sarah trying to accomplish.

Feeling like a kid caught and sent to the Principal's Office, I understand I'm making things harder for my already overwhelmed wonder of a woman.

Eventually, we find the humor and laugh a weary, sad acceptance of our newest reality in our ever changing landscape of what's real.

After School Teaching

When I occasionally attended Groves High School a 1/2 century ago, I actually made it to Mr. Seay's history class from time to time.

He didn't seem to notice winding movie film from one reel through the projector to the other reel. "What we're watching today," he explains, "some of you may find upsetting but, well, it's how it happens."

In horror we watch raw footage recently declassified by the military of the Allied liberation of the Auschwitz Concentration Camp. Bulldozers shoving mountains of naked bodies into mass graves!

Darlene Mixon almost throws up!

I'm mesmerized.

After class I asked if there were more films like this?

It takes him a few minutes to remember who I was but, after checking to see if my name was actually on the roll, he says, "Yes."

"I'd like to see them."

Heretofore I'd never exercised the slightest interest in educational instruction so he was taken aback.

"Okay," he smiles. "I can get them but you'll have to watch them after school. We've already covered this material in class."

A few weeks later, Mr. Seay meets me after school,  personally teaching what happens when discrimination becomes hate and goes unchecked.

A quarter century later on a cold February day, I stand on the frozen grounds of Auschwitz, hands stuffed in pockets trying to keep warm, holding a broken pair of children's scissors I'd found on the ground and think, for a second or two, of Mr. Seay.

Years later I put the whole scene in a book as my way of saying, "Thank you Mr. Seay."

I don't know if he ever read it.

It doesn't matter because my loving appreciation of that defining moment in my life remains.

Today is Mr. Seay's funeral and I'm of the age now when I'd go if I could but, alas, I have issues that prevent me from attending.

But if anyone understands if I skip, it's Mr. Seay.

What I do all day?

"What do you do now?" he asks, standing in the middle of the path through the island's immaculate trail in a forest that reminds me of "the three acre wood" of Winnie-the-Pooh.

"About what?" I deadpan, facing him under the canopy of trees.

He laughs, wiping sweat from his face while smiling in a most beguiling way.

"I mean, what do you do all day?"

"Oh," I smile, "I hang out with my 4 year old daughter."

Che's out of school for the summer, relishes our new house and is grooving on Mom and Dad and, while that works great with my schedule, Sarah's occupied with a full time job, our teenage daughters and managing our dreams and schemes. 

So I mostly hang out with Che with no structured activities, which is where I excel. 

We do everything together, meaning we sit around a lot, cuddling, coming up with things to do, ranging from watching endless hours of "A for Adley" to seeing the sun rise sitting on her swing set.

We play tons of imaginary games, Barbie, build forts, swim, play hide-n-seek, find new playgrounds and sing lots of songs. I like making up new words which drives Che crazy, changing Elsa's "Let it go" to "Let it blow" in Disney's movie "Frozen" which we've seen 287 times.

Sarah spends lots of time with Che too and, whenever they're away, I'm a little lost without them. Don't get me wrong, I find things to do, but most of my energy, which is limited these days, remains focused on my wife and daughters and there's just not much left for much else.

We're hunkered down together, equally amazed at what we've survived and the blessings we have, seeking joy in each moment, daring to make short term plans, and hopeful for time.

Che's taught me not to worry about long term plans. The only thing we should concern ourselves about is "what are we going to do now?" so we make up lots of things we're playing as we go. There's rarely planning, imagination's required as we make realities our of nothing. Magic unicorns appear behind Pine trees. Little girls really can transform into Wonder Woman! Of course we can fly! There's also tons of hugging!

Atop a Castle Tower in a playground, Che asks me to lift her for the fourth time and I sigh. 

Lifting her three times has worn me out and I have to sit for a minute.

"One more time Dad!"

Struggling to stand, I wobble, find my footing and sigh.

"I'm sorry Da," Che cries, her face is crushed.

Summoning my energy, I rush to her, asking with a smile, "What're you sorry for?"

"Making you hurt," she answers with moist eyes.

Swinging my arms around her, laughingly we hug as I throw her to the ground yelling, "Not hurt enough to do this!"

Happily, slowly and painfully, we hold hands, Che talking the entire way about us having a "Battle Royale" as we make our way home.

Sarah asks how things went but as I tell her I see her eyes narrow.

Whatever I just said was unintelligible.

She tells me so and I sigh.

Her phone rings so Sarah dashes away to field a work call while Che and I collapse on the sofa. She watches television while I stream music through ear buds and stare out the windows. 

"Truly I tell you," Jesus said, "unless you change and become as little children you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven" and I wonder why this verse pops inside my head.

Maybe it's because I spend so much time with our four year old daughter. 

Perhaps I'm in training for the Kingdom of Heaven and she's my coach.

I don't know.

But I do know that I want to do it again tomorrow.

Hitting Mom In the Face

"Mom, remember when Dad was hitting you in the face, Che asks, laying her head in Sarah's lap.

All of the parents watching 4 year old soccer on the sidelines beside us stop watching the game to stare at us.

"What?" we both exclaim.

"When we all got a gold medal before," she explains, holding the ribbon of her latest trophy.

The team received participation medals from the YMCA for completing first year soccer where the goal is to "RUN THE OTHER WAY!" like the coach repeatedly screams to the team.

We laugh, having no idea what she's talking about.

The other parents nervously laugh with us.

Later, at home, Sarah and Che disappear in the bedroom looking for something and, after a while, I hear laughter.

Sarah wanders out smiling and tosses a round decoration on the table where I sit.

A few years ago, at the Tybee Critz Run, Mother and Daughter were presented medals to the participants and if you study it, you can plainly see Dad hitting Mom in the face,

Savoring Life's Desserts

 

"Can we order dessert first?" the girls ask Sarah.

"Of course," their Mom answers turning the menu over to inspect the offerings on the back.

It's my first introduction to the "culture" I'll eventually marry into, this crazy collection of girls making up our home.

Desserts are ordered and enjoyed before everyone turns their attention to the main entrees.

The girls are grown and the dessert first dinners are mostly a thing of the past though I increasingly love the image it holds for me now.

I'm savoring life's desserts.

The times for major feasts and festivals have drawn to a close.

"I just got the cheapest thing on the menu," I explain to Sarah. "I'm not going to eat it all."

"Get whatever you want," she instructs more than suggests.

I stick with what I now know about my half size stomach.

No desserts are ordered but Sarah's talking to Cassidy who's talking to me while the faces of both are illuminated from the tiny phone screens in their hands.

My phone's on Sarah's other side and I'm happily content being part of being here with them.

Dessert enough!

I've progressed from the "You look great" and the "you sound good" stages of pancreatic cancer to the "you have the greatest outlook and attitude!"

This is what I've learned so far about having cancer.

You can be the funniest person in the entire Universe but if you have stage 4 pancreatic cancer, no body laughs at anything you have to say.

It's probably that there's nothing funny about having cancer so when I laugh, it makes a horrifying situation worse.

I try to be respectful but I'm a "laugh at the funeral" sort of guy anyway!

If I'm going to have cancer then it's going to be on my terms dammit!

At least for as long as I'm going to laugh!

It's all absurd anyway!

Forgotten promises made long ago suddenly reappear as our only hope and Sarah picks up the phone, makes the call into her past and, amid incredible romance, tragedy, hurt and sandy kisses, we find our love.

In the furious crashing of worlds colliding our family is born and, though we're far from finishing blending, we have a love child because she wouldn't be denied, bringing us to just the right amount of flavors for our lives stew in together.

What's not to laugh at?

Other than the fact this parties coming to an end, at least my participation in it, and though we have no clue as to when, everybody's getting ready in their own ways.

I try to have fun with it, amusing myself in things I find humorous and maybe it's the best I can do anymore.

What's mostly been lost for us during the past year of "the curse of cancer" is the time to enjoy being with each other. 

There's always an emergency, one surgery turns into three, recuperations take longer, internal organs sacrificed, eating's a struggle, focus is "iffy" and my energies always depleted. 

Thank God for my wife nursing me through it all juggling ceaseless job demands, growing girls, one of who left for College changing the ingredients of our family stew which takes lots of energy on it's own. This makes it the perfect time to move so, for lots of reasons, Sarah single handedly moves us inside of a week!

We're determined to make better use of the time we have left, however much it is, to laugh more together, explore new things and travel while we can.

We can't do exhaustion anymore.

It's time to savor life's desserts!

There isn't time for anything else.

I read once we easily remember our beginnings, recalling the details joyfully whenever we so desire.  It’s the endings where we fail so miserably, unable to understand things starting to fall apartt and, before we know it, it’s over.

Sarah and I are determined to enjoy everything we possible can, making it the best of a desserts, the grandest of finales, the greatest of love stories.  

Obituary for Winston the Little Gay Dog (TLGD)

Wintson Elliott, affectionally known as Winston the Little Gay Dog (TLGD) died dramatically in his sleep earlier this week leaving behind legions of enthusiastic, grief-stricken, fans all wondering what's going to happen to his astounding tee-shirt collection. 

An early and fierce proponent of LGBT world domination believing the world's a better place if everyone truly has fun with their sexuality. 

"If everybody slept with one another," he was fond of saying, "then we could all be doing to politicians what they've been doing to us!"

Winston TLGD chose Sarah Elliott as his "person" and loved her adoringly. He tolerated the rest of the family often peeing on Micheal's flip-flops before going outside in the mornings.

The little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) was a fierce tail-blazer among animal sexually identity classification conducting research on each species.

His world renown tee-shirt collection, including his latest colored wife-beaters with the slogans "TSA is my DREAM Job" ... "I would bottom you so hard" ... "Bisexuality doubles your chance of getting a date!" and "I got your balls right here" is being donated to the Center for the Historic Preservation of Gay Animals.

Winston TLGD leaves behind his person, Sarah and whoever happened to be with her at the moment. 

He really didn't care for anybody else except his Uncle Johnny, Sandy Durden, Robin Wheeler and Derrick Hodge who he loved to sleep with.

How does one thank someone who brought so much joy, delight, laughter and "queerness" to our lives? Along with Goddess, Winston TLGD affectionally demonstrated gay and straight dogs completely embrace one another for who they are as butt lovers.

Thank you Winston TLGD.

Prance all over those rainbows and show the Angels they don't know shit about how to dress.

Another Anniversary

Easter is also the anniversary of the day Mom sent my brother David to get me from the woods passed Kerry Scott's house at the end of the street.

Aside from Church, school and eating supper, we spent all of our time in those woods.

Still caught up in the Holy Spirit from Pastor Johnson's fiery Easter sermon, David wore his 3-piece J. C. Penny suit.

I'd already changed for the ride to Sunday Easter lunch at Grandma and Granddaddy Carver's house far away in Pooler.

Wearing shorts and tee shirts, I played with

Rob Mixon

and his brothers.

"MIKE, MOM SAYS TO COME HOME NOW," David yells in his suit.

"OVER HERE!" we scream in reply.

David makes his way to the log straddling the canal to where we hid behind trees.

Just as my brother made his way across the canal on the log, we began throwing rocks at him while screaming "WALK THE PLANK! WALK THE PLANK!"

David fell in the canal but literally walked on the water , running towards home, crying and yelling, "I'M TELLING MOM!"

Robert, his brother Ray and me laughed our asses off.

That's all I remember about that glorious Easter day.

Margaret Elliott

probably encouraged Dad to beat me until an inch of my life.

It doesn't matter because I don't remember.

Happy Easter Bubba!

Love you!!

(The picture shows us pretty much at the time this event occurred on that glorious Easter all those years ago.)

Daybreak

Yesterday Che, our 4 year old daughter, woke before light, climbed down from her raised bed in the dimly lit room, and almost made it down the stairs before calling out in the darkness, "DA! DADDY!"

Jerking awake, I'm on the stairs hugging her before my eyes fully open.

"That's another step in her not needing us anymore," I tell Sarah. "Before long she'll take care of herself."

My wife rolls her eyes and walks away.

Today Che makes it the way down the stairs and creeps to my side of the bed.

I'm dead asleep.

Sarah felt Che enter the room, pause and stare for us through the darkness.

"Come to bed," Sarah calls and our daughter scampers across her mother's belly, collapses between us and wakes me up.

For a moment, it is pure bliss.

"Do you want to get up?" Sarah asks.

Che rolls across my belly, grabs my hand, saying, "C'mon Da," and the day's begun.

The time I've got

"You have too much time on your hands," our 16 year old Laurel says staring at her phone sitting on the sofa next to me.

"Au contraire," I answer, scrolling Twitter, snuggled with Che who's watching YouTube videos, "I don't have enough."  

Laurel grins before making a pouty face. 

"You mean you don't have enough to do TikTok," she fires.

TikTok is an App showcasing personal videos recorded on phones, uploaded for your enjoyment of people sharing life as they see it in one minute or less. Laurel lobbies for me to share my life as a weed smoking, 64 year old father with pancreatic cancer of a 4 year old and a smokin' hot wife who's a wonder of a woman.

"It'll be hilarious," she announces.

I checked TikTok out but told her, "It's too much work. I don't have enough time."

Ever since Laurel tells me I have too much on my hands.

The fact is the matter is I'm quite content with the time I've got.

For the most part I play whatever Che wants so my days are filled with Fairies, Pirates, Ballerinas, coloring books, building forts, musical performances, snuggles, endless games of Hide-n-Seek and trying to decipher new words she speaks with conviction.

Che's a lot like her mother.

Everything she does is with the utmost conviction.

Sarah and I walk the dogs and make plans for our immediate (is there any other kind?) future. We snuggle together every night watching television, have lunch dates, and go to the Doctor's office.

My wife works a lot, mothers four daughters and oversees my recovery while I'm building my ultimate play list so I never have to listen to a song I don't really like again. So far it's over 54 hours of songs but Spodify's repetitive rotation drives me crazy so I keep adding more tunes so the number of repeats goes down.

The rest of the day is filled with unresolved emotions, mostly life and death issues predicated upon Sarah living and me dying.

It's not morose. 

It's liberating somehow, though I don't know how.

"When the two of you laugh," my Mom says, "it's the richest, most heartfelt, sound."

That's what happens when the love of your life doesn't let go during the freefall of cancer and we crash into Hell still holding hands but find ourselves still here so there's nothing else to do except laugh.

It's not just the laughter but the talks we have. The silence we share. The knowing glances when someone else is talking. The warmth of her hand in mine. The love emerging from every cell in our bodies when we hug. Everything about the way we're living now is more abundant than before! 

There's an urgency to our marriage that heightens everything we experience living each moment.

It takes all my time.

Now I can't imagine how I've lived life like I did for so long and not like I am now.

Stormy Seas return

"Da, show me the picture from the Doctors," Che asks, sticking her head between the console as I sit behind the steering wheel.

I'd missed taking her to pre-school because of a MRI that morning so I'm picking her up instead.

"It's not that kind of picture," I laugh. "They look inside my belly. It'll take a while before we can see them."

"Oh," she smiles, sitting backwards.

Buckling my seatbelt, her head reappears between the console.

"Show me," she demands.

"What?" My belly?"

She nods, melting my heart.

Pulling up the tee-shirt, she examines the deep scar, kisses it, says, "That'll make it better," sits back in the seat and begins to sing.

The picture comes back soon enough and Sarah studies them intensely.

As suspected, I still have cancer.

Sizes, shapes and locations have changed.

It's not what we hoped though we're undeterred. 

"I hear there's a diet this guy with a cancer like yours and his spots have all diminished," Sarah says at lunch.

We're discussing options, each from our unique perspective, so we talk without listening, holding emotions in check so we feel in control.

My wife wants to immediately step up the fight, willing to sacrifice anything to keep us together until I walk our little girl down the aisle. 

“Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some solider undaunted," feeling the time I have rush downriver as I frantically seek joy in every single moment I'm living now!  

We leave to retrieve Che who's excited to have actually seen a Leprechaun in class today and drive home together under towering billows of dark and stormy clouds.  

Making cancer work for you

"HEY! Go lay in the surf like your body just washed up on shore and I'll take your picture"" 

"OKAY!" our 14 year old Cassidy squeals, running towards the Ocean.

When I get there she's already laying on the wet sand. 

Waves finish their march to shore by softly kissing her cheek and fanning her hair.

She closes her eyes, opens her mouth and tries to look dead.

I snap pictures until we both burst out laughing together.

Sure it's politically incorrect but God it was fun!

Cancer jokes rule at our house and we're constantly working to make it work to our advantage.

Cancer takes everything but, at our house anyway, we taking as much as we can back from the bitch!

"No I can't do that today," I hear Laurel say into her phone, "Mike's got cancer and has a doctor's appointment so I have to watch my sister while they're gone."

She hangs up, looks at me and we cackle with laughter.

We're doing our best to make the cancer work for us!

It's all about how you frame it.

What else you gonna do? 

Accept it?!

I've been fighting for my life, though it was my wife who wrestled the Grim Reaper's grip off my throat breaking three of his fingers while hissing through gritted teeth, "Not yet Motherfucker!" 

That's my version.

Sarah wouldn't have said "Motherfucker" though she certainly feels it too.

After a year  of rogue, treacherous waves, we find ourselves sailing smooth waters for now. 

The skies are blue and, today anyway, it's warm, calm and simply beautiful.

It's not over.

Stormy Seas will return but, for now anyway, we moor in the safe harbor of each other's arms.

Through it all, we've been surprised, often shocked, at people's tangible and real gifts of food, money, live music, hugs, kisses, laughs and love.

And weed!

I feel okay, excited for the future, and anxious about not doing things too quickly, which is my nature, but to enjoy every single moment of this time right now with Sarah and the girls, while we have these few minutes to laugh.

Love in Cancer

 

"You look good!" she says with far too much enthusiasm, as though it makes me feel instantaneously better.

"Shut the Hell up," I snap.

Shrugging her shoulder, the dirty white robe slides down skinny, pasty-white skin, as she takes a long draw from a cigarette, blows smoky hallows in the air, quickly slugs a shot of bourbon followed by a slow, loud guzzle from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon. 

"I think it's pretty funny that Sarah says you've just had a tummy tuck," she grins flashing yellow teeth.

"What do you want?" I snap before preoccupying myself with a Bic lighter and a brightly colored Rastafarian pipe.

"Never mind," I order, "watch this!" and I blow a puff of smoky grey clouds over her head.

"That smells righteous," she grins.

"Yeah," I grin, suddenly feeling, heavenly.

After endless days of rain, the sun hangs brightly in a pristine, deep blue sky devoid of clouds except for those blown by my Guardian Angel and me.

"Ok, let's get to business," she says, spitting a loogy over the porch rail, "you look like shit."

I hit the pipe again and listen to the quiet of a glorious, fresh, new day, before answering.

"So you're telling me that it's alright for Angel's to lie? You told me I look great which is a lie and now you're telling me the truth that I look awful?"

Grinning, oily black hair parted in the middle frames her skinny white face with large brown eyes and a mouth almost too big for her face. If she smiles, which she never does, even with the dirt around her nose, it hints at the beauty she had once been before being assigned the merciless task of watching over me.

My Angel haven't been seen since Che was born 4 years ago. I've assumed she's been busy watching over Jimmy Cochran, her other plumb assignment, who seems to have lost his mind and taken a job in Government at this late stage of life.

I have no idea how my Guardian Angel feels about Jimmy. He ran a white Church out of business then gave the building away to a black congregation which surely got him on a Southern Baptist hit list. 

My Angel loves my wife but doesn't seem care too much for me.

She begged God to assign her to John O'Neill but was told he's got his own special team of tactical interventionists with special training to combat multiple sins simultaneously and wasn't needed.

She exclusively oversaw me for years until Sarah and I married.

"She's as close to an Angel as one can be without dying first," she says of Sarah, "so I can have some time for other things because she takes care of you so well."

"You mean time for Jimmy Cochran?" I grin.

"Shut up!" she snaps.

"Well what-do-ya-want then?"

She shoots the bourbon, clears her throat, spits another loogy, and grins.

"You are so loved," she says.

The deep blue sky suddenly seems bluer.

Che and Sarah are giggling inside the house.

Across the street, our neighbor Ron waves at me with a grin, and it feels like peace on earth for a moment.

"Yeah," I reply, suddenly transcending my scarred stomach, leg and chest to float just outside of my body for a few seconds.

Maybe it was a thousand years.

After putting her through Hell keeping me alive and kicking, my Angel looks terrible, regularly breaks Commandments, drinks constantly and flashes her left breast often because she's lost so much weight that her robe won't stay on her shoulders. 

"Yeah," she slowly sighs, "it's been a terrible year."

Snapping her fingers, another tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon magically appears followed by an unfiltered Camel cigarette.

"Well, where have you been through all of it?" I demand. "I've had two major surgeries, radical reconstruction of multiple internal organs, in the best effort to get rid of the cancer and they almost succeeded, but didn't, and you're nowhere to be found."

"You know Jimmy Cochran took a job with the Government," she meekly replies.

"Oh shut up!" 

The world's quiet.

"You don't need me anymore," she smiles and her teeth suddenly seem whiter, "you got this."

Our neighbor Ron waves again from across the street. Kids laugh in the distance. A couple strolls hand in hand. The trees, naked and brown, dance with yellow sunshine bursting through the branches. The aroma of the casserole Sarah's cooking delights my nostrils. For the first time in days, I feel warm.

"Yeah," I say, leaving her alone on the porch. 

"Goodbye Micheal," she smiles, fading away with beer dripping down her chin, "see you on the flip side."

Laughing Last

Having watched every single episode of everything Netflix offers, Sarah and I are again resuming movies. 

My wife's got a gift for choosing great films knowing nothing about them. She does a little research on her phone and, Wha-Lah, another winner's chosen, mostly foreign films but today's is "The Last Laugh" staring Richard Dreyfuss and Chevy Chase.

It's great!

Of course like with everything Sarah and I watch these days, one of the characters has stage 4, pancreatic cancer and is expected to die soon.

Buddy Green, Richard Dreyfuss' character, attempts a comeback as a comedian 50 years after quitting the business the night before he's to appear on the Ed Sullivan show.

He's the one with cancer so time's of the essence to make the return to the big time.

I won't spoil the ending in case you too have exhausted every episode of everything on Netflix and need an alternative.

Watching the movie, Sarah and I find ourselves sanctimoniously smirking or laughing at societal expectations of living with what you're dealt, especially repeated bad hands, to play.

"Did you like it?" she asks from underneath the blanket on the other end of the sofa.

"I did. You?"

"Yeah" her voice trails because she's texting Laurel, our 16 year old, who's volunteered to oversee the birth of kittens for friends and will Facetime each delivery.

Cassidy, the 14 year old, is packing to help Laurel by spending the night birthing cats together.

Che's asleep.

Sarah's in no hurry to leave the sofa.

We're in the time between tests.

The calendar of cancer is measured in tests, ever present dark clouds, and we live from one Doctor's appointment to the next.

I'm healing nicely from the last surgery though continue to struggle with a myriad of after effects.

Sarah's refocused the part of her brain that focuses on the possibility of me dying to concentrate on other things like the future.

Planning for the future's a bitch when cancer's involved!

You have to factor in every possible contingency beginning with me dying and move on from there.

It's a good thing we're both forward thinkers.

But Sarah and I  are increasingly finding ourselves laughing more.

It's not this great hearty, belting sort of laughing but rather the grim, resolved kind, but laughing we increasingly are indeed!

Half the time it's a secret we share hearing or seeing something and immediately catching one other's eye to privately share the glee we've discovered.

The rest of our laughter is subdued audible expressions of joy, with Laurel and I being the most robust while Sarah, Cass and Maddie keep theirs on the sly.

There's no question we delight in each other at least once almost every single day.

For now anyway, it's more than our noses above the water as we're all taking inventory of how far we've come, what condition we're in now and dreaming about the rest of our lives.

It's just a great time!

There's another week before the next round of tests are scheduled and I want us all to have a good time until then, whatever that means! 

I do believe our laughter's representing seeds of our future and, if we keep growing the one then the horizon brightens in the other.

"Is Mike watching?" Laurel yells through the phone.

"I am now," I answer having no interest in Tim and Jess's cats, leaning my forehead against the crown of Sarah's head, we watch Laurel excitedly narrate the birth of kittens.

Collapsing in bed later, we tiredly laugh at the absurdity before falling asleep dreaming again of tomorrow.

I wish there was more

Throughout my life things pretty much went the way I willed them to with few disruptions, going the way I wanted them too, even if they weren't always right.

I've been gifted with Sarah twice in my life, once a thousand years ago when we were both different people, heading in different directions, wanting different things.

Then the miracle happened.

We'd both spent our lives to that point making the world a better place for people who struggled. It's hard work but we attacked it ruthlessly because we believe it was somehow rooted in being part of Christ's love. If we, along with everyone else loved just enough then everyone's nose would stay above the water.

But the day comes, as it always does, "when the wild waves would wet us too, and the winds would lash us, and the great beast browsing it's way up from below, would raise it's head and notice us at last. I concluded that even in Paradise, maybe especially in Paradise, the dark times come" (Frederick Buechner).

Sarah blew up her world by jumping on the breezes of longing for better things grown in love.

Already a wreck, my life was the scattered debris of weak or misplaced dreams.

Then, by the grace of God and fairy tales, it was just us.

It's been hard work and just as everything was coming together just as we imagined, I'm diagnosed with cancer as wild waves hit us repeatedly knocking our feet out from underneath and we gasp for air.

In spite of it all, my wife holds my hand tightly as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

I don't know how but Sarah squeeze's my hand harder, long elegant fingers wrapping around mine, and she smiles.

It's a tired smile but expressions of love and faith always come with a price to pay.

I wish I had more to give her on this Valentine's Day.

Sarah deserves so much more.

But all I have to give anymore is, well, simply me, all tattered and broken.

She doesn't seem to care, quickening her step and pulling me along as we make our way headfirst into the raging wet winds.

The only thing I know for sure anymore is, I'm never letting go of her hand.

Happy Valentine's Day Babes!

I wish there was more.

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