Just Us

 

“I haven’t been with Dad for a few minutes so I’m gonna stay with Dad.”

Che’s explaining why she’s not going to ride with Mom to get Pizza because that’s what we do on Friday nights at our house. 

Pausing in the doorway, Sarah smiles.  

“She’s with her old man till the end,” I grin. 

Che burrows her head in my chest, snuggling on the sofa, watching television after a full day of playing with her friends at school and here. They’ve all just left and now it’s just us for the evening.  

Life is mostly just us now.  

There’s little energy for anything else.  

Living with cancer sucks the energy out of Sarah and Che every bit as it does me. 

Che and I set the table while Sarah’s gone. Lighting a candle we opt for a romantic evening.  

“AH-REX-AH,” Che yells in the soft glow of the Living Room,” “PRAY CHRISTMAS
MUSIC!”

“Here’s a station you might like,” suggests the feminine automated voice as Karen Carpenter rises from the grave. 

“Merry Christmas Darling” fills the room with lights dancing on the walls.  

Che grins, dancing in place, and we’re proud because supper together should always be the most joyful of the day.  

Sarah smiles and we dive in.  

“Mom! Aren’t you going to ask me what I did at school today?”

With a mouth full of her first bite, Sarah asks, “What did you do at school today?”

Fifteen minutes later, I watch the two of them making Christmas presents for Che’s teachers as leftovers are pushed to the side. 

Christmas carols softly play.  

Candlelight dances.  

The girls make gifts.  

Soon we learn if the Chemo is working. It’s tough making plans for every conceivable result. Since cancer’s hostile takeover of our lives 2 years ago, all the news has been bad. We’re conditioned to believe it’s not going to be any different this time.  

I solemnly sit watching, soaking it all in, trying to remember each sight, scent, feeling, taste, touch, caress and moment of joy.  

“Christmas time is coming” Emmylou Harris warns over Alexa, breaking the Holy moment into a thousand pieces.  

Sarah smiles, catches my eye and without words we share a thousand things.  

“What do you want for Christmas?” she asks.

“Everything!” Che gleefully exclaims.  

“Me too,” I agree, as we clean the dishes and get our daughter ready for her bath.

Laughing to Live

 

“Babes, look here,” I tell Sarah who’s sitting on the sofa, beautifully exhausted, doing a thousand things at once on her phone. 

All of her focus is on me as Her hands freeze in place and her eyes peer over the phone directly into mine. 

“Remember how I have these two lines on my face? I was trimming my beard and, LOOK!! Now I have two more!”

Staring intently at me, steal blue eyes let me know things she already she knows.  

“Yeah, I wasn’t going to say anything about that.”

“Hmmm,” I ponder, staring outside. 

“What?”  

“That explains why Johnny didn’t tell me how good I look this morning.”

John O’Neil stopped by earlier to give me something.  We’ve been friends a long time with a rich history of sharing lots of things and, knowing I hate it, he always greets me with, “Hey Mikey! You look great!” 

“John didn’t tell you? He always tells you,” Sarah gasps, sitting up in mock alarm, “he must see the new lines on your face too!”

We laugh because it’s where we find the humor. 

Laughing is living without caution or care and we crave it because there’s nothing like living!

“I don’t want you guys to die Daddy,” Che confides, crawling in my lap to watch television. 

“I know,” I sigh, hugging her.  

Every morning our 5 year old daughter gets up between 2 and 4 to be with me.  Like her mother, Che knows things I don’t know yet and she lavishes me with love cuddling until the sun comes up.  

She wears a locket with mine and Sarah’s picture in it, kisses our photos often so the clasp’s broken and her heart pendent‘s perpetually open.  

“Da,” she explains, “I lost you again today.“ 

This is the second time my picture’s fallen out.  Sarah quickly finds another image to replace me and I’m glad to still be part of the family.

“She hears everything we say,” Sarah sighs after Che’s gone to sleep.  

“Yeah,” I sadly agree.  “Who knows what all she feels inside?”

We fall silent unable to completely process our daughter’s fears because we’re both already consumed with our own. 

Masters of words, Sarah and I struggle mightily finding the right ones now, but every once in a while they come easily enough.  

“SARAH LOOK!” I yell. 

Her hands freeze in place and her eyes peer over the box of Christmas decorations she’s trying to unpack.

I’m standing in the doorway with the jeans that fit me for the last few years crumpled over my feet because they literally slid down my waist. 

Che laughs when she sees this.

Sarah does too.  

Then I join them.  

Sarah finds the words.  

“We have to get you some new jeans.”   

My Thanksgiving caregivers

 “I get up with you Da.”

“No, it’s 4 in the morning and you got up with me yesterday.  You have to sleep. It’s a big day,” I explain, brushing hair out of her face, searching for her blanket in the dark. 

Grabbing my hand she slides out of bed and we stumble into the Living Room, light candles, snuggle on the sofa, and watch television.  

“Be right back,” I shoot, quickly returning to the bathroom where I’d spent the better part of the last hour. 

Back on the sofa, Che patiently waits. 

She’s become quite the caregiver.

“Can you make it Dad?” she asks, holding my hand, leading me to her room because she knows I’m struggling with queasiness. 

“I get it for you Dad,” she smiles, rushing from the sofa to grab my juice as I fight to get up. 

“I love you Dad,” she says, leaving her friends in the backyard to find me standing in the front yard talking to Sarah about impossible arrangements.  

We both stop and stare. I wonder what possesses our little girl to leave the friends she desperately begged to have over and find me to remind me I’m loved.  

“Maddie comes home today,” she says when I resume cuddling on the sofa.  “I am so excited.”

And I am too this Thanksgiving!

I have lots to be thankful for, not the least being my early morning caregiver. 

There’s lots more though.  

It’s hard knowing where to start. 

And I don’t want to waste time counting my blessings when I’m celebrating the one I’m holding. 

I hope that’s your Thanksgiving too.

Why waste time counting things when you can hold love in your hands?

“Want marshmallows Dad?” Che asks. 

She has a bag of the green shamrocks, pink hearts, orange clovers and yellow moons someone gave her for her birthday.  

“For breakfast?”

“Yeah,” she nods.  

“Sure,” I shrug.  

“Let’s get them together,” she smiles, pulling me off the sofa. 

Che’s Locket

Che twirls a locket with our pictures in it around her neck. 

She’d asked for one after seeing it on “A for Adley”which is sort of reality TV for kids. 

Once when we couldn’t take her to school because I had to be at the Mayo Clinic, Sarah used the locket so she feels close to us whenever she needs.  

“This way,” Sarah explained, “whenever you need Mom and Dad, we’re already hugging your neck when you open it up.”

She’s worn it to school ever since. 

This is her, wearing the locket, masked-up-for-school, sitting beside me on the sofa watching a movie called “Leap.”

Che is a dancer, takes ballet at Gretchen Green Dance Studios and loves to cut a rug, or a sofa in her case, as our daughter flies through the air showing off her moves.  

Sarah’s getting ready for the day still so Che and I hang out watching the movie. 

The locket is broken, either because she opens and closes it a thousand times a day or it flies off her neck when she dances, slamming on the floor. 

Which is often. 

My pictures already fallen and been replaced once. 

Like Sarah herself, her picture has remained a constant, unyielding source of beauty, comfort and assurance.  

My replacement photo is too big so all Che sees are my eyes, nose, and smile peering out like a clown trying to squeeze his face into a jar.  

“You look silly,” she explains when she sees me looking at it just now writing this.  

“I do,” and we cuddle more.  

I snap the picture and she resumes watching the movie. 

Staring out the window, I see colors dance in the sky just above the tress, as choirs of light sing in jubilation to the rising of the sun as the darkness retreats. 

My life is most surreal, watching it take place, sitting on a bench, wanting to keep up and play but unable and, increasingly, unsure of myself. 

Che shifts her head, laying it on my shoulder and sighs loudly. 

I’m not alone on the bench. 

“Morning,” Sarah sings floating into the kitchen defeating the choirs of dancing colors and the majestic rising sun for my attention.  

The past few weeks were especially tough as we wrestle with the darkness cancer brings to families and we needed a break. 

Just in time, God threw us a lifeline and we had the nicest weekend.  It was just the 3 of us enjoying life and each other.  And Laurel stopped by for a couple of seconds too!

To top it off, some special friends gifted Thanksgiving dinner next week so Sarah wouldn’t have to worry about it! 

We have lots to be thankful for and I’m especially excited this year. 

But now it’s back to school, work and the Mayo Clinic for more Chemo. 

Che kisses her locket. 

I kiss Che. 

Standing over the sofa, Sarah kisses both of us as light floods the living room of our home. 

 Honestly Dad didn't join the Marines out of some great sense of patriotism but to get the Hell out of his parents house.

The Marines happened to be the branch of military that would accommodate 17 year old's with such a problem.

In the blink of an eye, Dad was marching with Dog Company and off to Korea where he was captured twice, escaping both times until he was shot but found by another group of GI's, taken to a Hospital, processed and shipped back home.

While he was there he was assigned, after volunteering for it, as the only white guy in a group tasked with gathering the wounded and dead after a battle.

It helped him later land a job at Fountain's Funeral Home back in Port Wentworth Georgia where he again lived with the folks he was desperate to get away from.

Throughout the rest of his life he had a Love/Hate relationship with the military.

He was proud of the Marines but loathed war. 

He'd watch war movies wiping tears from his eyes during the killing yet cheer when the good guys won.

A Marine tattoo adorned his right arm though he never showed it off or called attention to it.

He shied away from gatherings with his fellow Veterans but when I drug him kicking and screaming to the dedication of the Savannah Korean War monument he hugged his fellow Vets and they cried together touching the engraved names of their friends who didn't make it back.

That's my last memory of him as a Veteran.

He was ready to go on to the next assignment soon afterwards.

Watching the pomp and circumstance of Veterans Day, I remember how his service changed him and I'm exceedingly thankful he took the turns he did.

I lean much more to the pacifist, peacemaker side of foreign policy decisions but also have the grit to dig in and fight back when justice is greedily provoked.

So Happy Veterans Day Dad, if that's such a thing. You never cared much for it but I find myself grateful for what you gave, and the others too, how the experience changed you and the lessons you left, not so much through words but through the ways you lived with it all afterwards.

Bless you and the rest of them too.

Being Brave

“How are you doing?” she asks, platinum hair falling over the eyes peering over sunglasses to look directly at me. 

“I mean, how are you really?”

Sitting in a folding chair under a tree in Hull Park, I’m watching Che run around with 24 other kids in preparation for the “Rock-n-Roll Marathon.

“I mean, how are you really?”

Sitting in a folding chair under a tree in Hull Park, I’m watching Che run around with 24 other kids in preparation for the “Rock-n-Roll Marathon.”

Looking over my sunglasses so our eyes meet, I reply.

“I mean I’m really alright.  You know, sitting out here! Watching our kids run around! Living the Dream.”

“Are you still going to Jacksonville?” she whispers, leaning forward, as though it’s a secret. 

“Oh yeah,” I fire.  “Every 28 days. The Chemo menstrual cycle.”

“Well,” she sighs in exclamation as she stands and pokes a finger in the middle of her sunglasses to cover her eyes, “you hide it so well.”

“What?” I ask, watching Che ask a girl older than her to be her partner for the next exercise.  Our little girl’s moving with ease among kids who haven’t become her friend yet and I’m proud!

“I mean” she explains, crossing her arms again before yelling at her son ,”DO NOT CHEAT AND CUT ACROSS THE FIELD!”

She’s a nice lady. 

Sarah and I know her from volunteering at the school. 

Last week when I brought Che alone to “Running Practice” for the first time and she hovered around me, attending to me should I need, just in case.  

That was nice.  

Sarah’s picking up food for a picnic we’re having after practice. 

Hull Park is a quaint, “Old Savanah” square in the midst of an established neighborhood full of the right kinds of folks. It’s a gem to enjoy and Che’s been asking for a picnic anyway.  

“I mean,” she starts again, peering over her sunglasses at me, “I just always thought you were just an old, cool retired dude.”

“I am an old, cool, retired dude,” I smile back.  

A long, manicured finger pushes her sunglasses up her nose, arms cross and she sighs as she stands, “Y’all are just so brave.”

I don’t know what to say. 

We both watch our kids run around the field.  

Hull Park’s a hotbed of pre-dusk activities. Joggers, walkers, couples holding hands, parents chasing kids, and children running everywhere.  A birthday party’s taking place at the picnic tables, a Mom tosses rings to her 3 kids on top of slide, smaller kids push the merry-go-round jumping on and off, three long haired guys play guitar on the amphitheater like steps and the whole wide world seems content. 

Practice ends and Che rushes up for a hug just as Sarah returns with our special picnic dinner prepared exclusively for us by this week’s celebrity guest Chef at “The Restaurant Wendy’s on 65th.”

Finding a picnic table, we feast!

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone,” my wonder of a woman asks sipping a hand cut fry in specially packaged ketchup.  

Che’s mouth is completely filled with a dinosaur shaped chicken nugget so she’s quiet for the moment.  

“I had the damndest conversation,” I grin.

“Tell me,” she smiles inquisitively. 

So I do, and we laugh, wondering how she knows about my cancer, why she thinks I’m hiding anything and how it makes us brave. 

Che wants to hit the playground before we leave so we quickly clean up and make our way towards things that used to be normal. 

Nothing’s normal in our world anymore. 

I suppose not much is normal in anyone’s. 

If you’re going to have a picnic in this life, well, you just have to be brave enough to make it. 

Skipping to Live

“Da, I had the best dream! It was me and you and Saylor and Aiden and we were running and laughing! It was the best dream!”

Her broad smile flashes through pillow skewed hair blanketing her face before she breaks into a yawn. 

It’s a few minutes before 6 a.m. and I’m smiling from the side of her bed in the glow of the multicolored dancing nightlights. 

“Can I skip school today?” she asks, head collapsing back into her pillow. “Mom said I can.”

Our daughter has been a pre-school student for almost 3 months and is already skipping. 

“She gets it honestly,” I laugh to myself remembering all the wonderful times I had regularly ditching academic expectations. 

“No,” I firmly tell her.  “School today! Here’s your uniform.  What would you like for breakfast?”

School has restored some semblance of, I’m not certain of the right word, respite, from the constant interruptions and demands of raising a child in this pandemic saddled world.  

Sarah needs the time to sit without everyone needing something at the same time when she’s already behind on her carefully planned day.  

I need it because, well, I’m tired.  

Don’t get me wrong, Sarah’s tired too.  We’re exhausted.  There’s never a break and time alone’s simply cannibalized by unrelenting demands or dark thoughts.   

Cass, the self isolated 14 year old, gets herself up and off to Savannah Arts Academy independently only making lots of noise and a mess.  

Che and I go through the motions of a regular school morning.  

Sarah floats in for coffee. 

“Can I skip school Mom?”

As I’m explaining that it’s not an option, I hear Sarah spell that she’s “F-I-N-E” with it and I shut up. 

Che stops talking too, looking expectantly at me. 

Sarah’s eyes meet mine and we acknowledge knowing the same thing without using words.  

Our little girl just needs some time with Mom and Dad today. 

“Sure,” I concede, not disappointed at all. 

Sometimes, you just have to stop and give everything you have to what you love most and today Che just wants Mommy and Daddy!

So we’re skipping!

It’s working out okay for me.  

I’m high, laying on the sofa with Che watching “A Babysitter’s Guide to Monster Hunting,” drinking Yoo-hoo and eating the magic marshmallows in “Lucky Charms.”

It’s not a bad way to have stage 4, pancreatic cancer.  

Every night these days

I’m up every night dealing with the gross side effects of my fight to kill the cancer before it proceeds killing me. 

It’s not a big deal. 

Just the price for still being here, I suppose.

I’ve always been an early riser, morning kind of guy anyway. 

My day starts late at night just after falling into deep sleep, my stomach gurgles, queasiness hits hard and leaping out of bed, I rush to the bathroom. Directly after I shower, I quickly dress because I already have to go to again. 

I rush to the other bathroom, then into the living room where I sit as long as I can before returning to the bathroom.

That’s pretty much the rest of the night until about an hour after the sun rises. 

I try to be quiet so Sarah can sleep.  

She tells me I fail. 

I keep trying anyway. 

She so needs the rest.  

Some nights though, magic happens. 

“Da!” a tiny voice calls out in the darkness. 

Rushing to her room, desperately trying not to drag my feet across hard wood floors because the girls say I wake them up, I find our little girl. 

Most nights, I give her something to drink, kiss her forehead and she immediately drifts back to sleep. 

On other nights she says she’s scared so I do my best to calm her down and, when all else fails, let her watch TV if she promises to stay in bed.

If she sees I’m already dressed she follows me into the living room where she snuggles beside me.  We talk softly, play games, watch videos, TikTok and enjoy the dawn of a new day, even with my constant disruptions to run to the bathroom. 

Lately, Che’s perfected knowing exactly when my stomach first gurgles her eyes are to open. 

By the time I’m in the shower, she’s at the foot of our bed saying, “Mom! I slept all night! Time to get up.”

Sarah sleepily tries to get Che to crawl in bed but when I open the bathroom door, our daughter delightfully screams, “SURPRISE DAD!”

I can’t help but giggle.  

Shoving her ahead of me, we rush into the kitchen while Sarah fights to reclaim sleep.  

In the middle of often incredibly difficult and undignified living, there are surprising delights, kicking cracks in the darkness we live in so the light gets inside. 

And some nights, like this one, Sarah gets to sleep after I get up and Che slumbers through the night.  

I get scared sometimes. 

Who wouldn’t?

Then, in spite of how difficult and undignified I am, I sneak into the darkness to make certain Sarah’s sleeping.  

Then I creep into Che’s room.  

Sometimes you just have to make sure.  

Especially, when it’s what gets you through the night.

Every night these days. 

. 

Fighting to keep up

Sarah has an incredible knack for choosing family excursions that are pure “Americana” slices of life.  

A laser light show at an off road, country Drive-in Theater!

A Harvest Moon celebration on a working farm that includes a cannon that shoots rotten tomatoes!

An enchanted “Trick-or-Treat” with creatures inhabiting the marshes of Outland Island!

My wife constantly blows me away!

I’m going to keep sharing my undying devotion of UGA football with her until she loves it as much as I love her family exclusions.

As wonderful as these times are, the great simple joys that make living most delightful, full of laughter and wonder with those you love most, the fight to live never stops.

The “Trick or Treating” through the Marshes of Oatland Island leaves me lagging far behind Che dressed as Sally from “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” who’s pulling her Mom along towards the next enchanted creature.

Sarah constantly throws concerned glances over her shoulder to see how I’m doing.

It’s tough not being able to keep up.

It seems I was able to keep pace last year but now lose ground though I was sick most of last year so who knows if I’ve lost anything?

As much as I fight to keep up, and live in the moment with my family, I seem to fall further out of step.

Sarah’s concerned glances grow more frequently each day.

Che excitedly rushes towards the magical mysteries waiting to be discovered in the very next moment of living!

Sarah tries to celebrate the moment with her while looking worriedly at how far I’ve fallen behind.

I catch up just in time to see Che hugging a giant bunny goodby and dragging her Mom down the orange and black lights on the path, yelling “C’mon Da!”

I have to stop to catch my breath and a couple of tears of frustration.

I haven’t lost sight of life but there is this dreadful sense that, in spite of heroic effort on my part, I’m falling out of step with it.

“You okay?” Sarah asks, her head thrown back in my direction as Che excitedly pulls her further down the path.

I nod, try to smile, and watch them disappear around the bend.

When they do, I stop walking, bend over, place my hands on my knees, catch my breath and a few tears.

Another family passes me so I summon my energy and lumber forward.  

I catch up when it’s over though I’m proud to have snapped a lot of photos of Che and enchanted creatures in the Marsh. 

“What were you doing on your phone?” Sarah asks. “Who were you texting?”

“Nobody,” I answer. “You, I guess,” as I’d sent her the pictures that prove I was there.  

When we get home, we’re exhausted while Che’s on a sugar high and it takes another hour to get her in bed.

Sarah and I collapse on the sofa. 

The television’s on though both of us surf our phones for a while.  She’s working on something.  I’m just surfing. 

I rub her feet. 

The dog takes her place between us in the sofa.  

They watch a show as I fall asleep. 

Waking, Sarah and I talk while preparing for bed and, sliding under the covers, I’m so grateful for having been gifted another day. 

I tried my best to capture it all and though I didn’t get it all, I got more than enough to be thankful as Hell and just as hopeful Heaven comes on earth again tomorrow.  

Mercifully, she had a nightmare!

Mercifully, Che had a nightmare.

"Can you do it?" Sarah mumbles through the darkness from her side of the bed, but I'm already heaving myself up to tend to our little girl.

"Da!," she says, hugging her baby and blanket, "some man tried to take me and you kept saying, "Give me my kid back! Give me my kid back!" but you weren't able to but Mom did so it's okay. It wasn't really a bad dream."

Shaking my head, I sigh.

I'm no longer the superhero in my little girl's world.

It's always Mom who saves the day!

It's true too because the wonder of a woman who married me makes the world safe and working for each of us.

The regular nighttime queasiness hits and I rush to the bathroom, contend with emptying syndrome, retching and nausea. Timing my shower between the first and second episode, I dress as quickly as possible to be available to Che in case she wakes and let Sarah sleep.

Before opening the bathroom door, I hear them talking in bed. Che's explaining her not-so-bad dream to Wonder Woman.

Che follows me to the living room, carrying her baby and dragging her blanket, and lays her head in my lap.

It's 3:47 in the morning.

Che has school when the morning comes but she refuses to leave. "If you're on the sofa then why can't I be on the sofa with you?"

For three hours we cuddle, interrupted by numerous bouts of emptying syndrome, nausea and retching. 

"DA!" she sighs in frustration but she waits for me each time and we resume our positions.

"Che," I say, tickling her, "c'mon, I need you to help me smoke!"

She follows me as through a Nurse and as I hit the pipe, she giggles before proclaiming, "Make more clouds Daddy!"

Inside we resume our cuddling and for the first time in 3 hours the nausea evaporates and I feel in command of my body for the first time today.

The sun comes up. Sarah gracefully floats into the kitchen for breakfast, immaculately dressed and focused on a day full of work from home. Che rushes off so her Mom helps with her hair.

I smoke more weed and count my blessings.

Most nights, I fight through the impacts of chemo alone and in the dark but tonight, in the soft blue light of our flat screen, our little girl kept me company.

Her Mommy saved her yet again from the evils of the world and, because she did, I got 4 hours of pure, unfiltered, constant and tangible love to hold, touch, smell, and repeatedly kiss.

It's tough not being the superhero but it's pretty obvious those days are over for me.

Sarah already had way more super powers than I ever did anyway!

I ain't gonna lie, this part of "managing" my cancer is hard!

Che leaps on the sofa, bright red lipstick on her perfectly, angelic face with blue eyes glistening full of life and excitement.

"Let's wait outside Daddy," she excitedly says, sliding into her oversized backpack and grabbing my hand.

On the way out, Wonder Woman flies by, kisses me on the lips while making her way to the coffee, and says, "I'll join y'all in a few minutes."

Sitting on a table, my skinny legs dangle in space under the canopy of blank, blue, canvas of unpainted sky, watching Che rush to her friends walking to school past our house.

End of the Bucket List

Sarah took me to NYC for a few days. Her parents live across the Hudson in Cliffside Park so it's great just being part of a neighborhood when we're there. 

Plus, lot was riding on the trip due to concern over my reconstructed internal system handling changes in gravity! 

No problem, thank God and hope remains for me to travel out of the country once more (and never come back this time).

One of the great perks of having Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer is people who love you do nice things on a whim to show it.

I'd mentioned when Gary and Sandy visited our house that if I ever get the chance, I'd like to visit Asbury Park, NJ so, once we land and arrive at their marvelous apartment, they tell me we're hitting the Beach the next day.

Prepared with a playlist of Steven Van Zant, Southside Johnny and Bruce Springsteen, I am beyond excited!

AND, I haven't been to the Beach all year, a sad testimony to my state of affairs, given it's only a 15 minute drive from home and we have a parking pass.

Sarah and I stroll the Boardwalk, tour the Convention Center, see The Stoned Pony, Madam Marie's and hit the Beach!

Che plays blissfully in the Ocean with Sarah's folks.

I'm unprepared for the beauty of Asbury Park's thousand restored Oceanfront Victorian Homes but see it for myself standing in the middle of E Street where the band took it's name from.

We find a Deli for lunch before making our way back into Gotham.

I'm exhausted though extremely grateful for the adventure, spending the next several days wondering why we never went there before? The Jersey shore has so much more than New York City could ever compete with!

We get immersed in Van Gough the next day on a real date, something Sarah's waiting to do for what seems like ever.

Sarah and I are never really alone.

There's always a kid around, each with an incredible knack of showing up whenever Sarah and I are alone together, so it's a big deal to be on a date!

We take our time strolling through neighborhoods near the docks, eat lunch on a Manhattan roof top garden off Times Square and hold hands on the subway.

"It is good to love many things," Vincent once said, "for therein lies strength, and whoever loves much, performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done with love is well done."

Sarah does most everything well.

She accomplishes most everything she puts her mind to.

She out performs her peers.

She's a strong ass woman in lots of different ways.

And she very much loves me, among lots of other things.

And I very much love her.

And it's good to date this late in life!

Maybe you should consider it?

Regardless, the biggest thing I look forward to these days are dates with my wife.

So I spend lots of times imagining our dates as I recover from whatever-it-is-now, training for them every day I walk outsides, eat often to regain the 20 pounds I lost, think lustful thoughts and ponder my endurance.

It's a lot to live for and I sure as Hell ain't ready to miss these times out with my wife.

That's really the only thing left of my bucket list so I'm spending more time focused on it than much anything else.

She's busy holding our world together and I'm always busy healing, or not, but Sarah and I are two determined people and we've got more dates to enjoy together!

Bad Dreams

 

Che's woken with 2 nightmares so far.

"Dad!" she sleepily calls from underneath the turning colored lights on her ceiling.

Stumbling in the darkness, I clumsily grab her juice from the kitchen, rush to her room, kiss her forehead and tuck her back in.

"I had a bad dream Da-da," she explains turning under her blanket but grabbing my hand and squeezing.

Kissing her again, I shut her door and ponder in the pre-dawn day.

Peeking in our bedroom, Sarah sleeps and I don't want to bother her, she works so hard and does so much, so I close the door, head to the kitchen, turn on the coffee and hit the shower.

In a few hours, after walking Che to school, Sarah and I take off for the Mayo Clinic.

I don't know if this is why Che's having nightmares but can't help but wonder.

Our baby girl struggles when Daddy has to go to the Doctor.

Sarah had excitedly explained, "After school you can go to Vera's house and play until Mom and Dad get back."

"I don't want to go to Vera's house! Why can't she come to my house?"

Sarah hugs her, explains why and Che lost interest for a game of Roblox on the phone.

Sipping coffee now, I wonder if she's processing it all while she sleeps?

Neither Sarah nor I are excited about these next steps in our journey. Anxiety's grown daily. It's nothing we can name but both feel it gnawing at our joy.

"Da!" 

Awake now, sun steaked blond hair askew in every direction, sleepy Angel eyes the size of moons peer from under the bright colors of her nightlight, she says, "I don't want to go to school today."

Smiling, I hug her tight, feeling hot tears stream down my face, and tell her, "I know." 

Our day begins.

These sad times

Kenny talks loudly in the Produce section at Publix. "How you doing Mike?"

"Well, I'm dying Kenny?"

"WELL JESUS CHRIST MIKE!! THANKS FOR RUINING IT FOR THE REST OF US!"

The look on everyone’s face.  

The produce section is deathly quiet.  

Then Kenny tells me he’s coming off COVID and rushes away.

No one moves as he strolls away happily singing out loud.  

It's our 4 year old daughter, Che, who breaks the pregnant silence.

"Who's dat ol' Granddad, Dad?" she asks sitting behind the wheel of the green, race stripped kid's cart.

When I say, "Kenny, Kenny, Kenny" it's drowned out by a cacophony of fruits and vegetables wrapped in plastic hitting the bottom of baskets. 

Rushing home, I can't wait to tell Sarah!

She laughs.

I laugh again telling the story.

We laugh together!

God it feels good to laugh!

There's not enough to laugh in the world anymore, not just for those of us waging wars against Cancer, but everyone, everywhere, is struggling to find joy and meaning. 

We've entered into a time of global sadness.

Laughter remains the best medicine but, politicians and religious leaders are proving successful in making it illegal.

While we know it’s not true, though it seems so to us, Sarah are I were among the first entries into the global sadness we all now share.

Cancer always gets you bumped to the front of the line!

These last few years have been hard and we are tired.

As sad as our world sometimes is, Sarah and I fight like Hell to find something to laugh at together every day!

It's hard work anymore because the whole damn world is so sad.

God knows we fight, each in completely different yet perfectly complimentary ways, to keep living together together because, in spite of scientific evidence to the contrary, my wife and I have no plans to separate under any circumstances.

On the rarest of occasions we share tears. 

This only happens on the highest of Holy days, when neither of us have anything left and we hold on tight because there's literally nothing else to hold onto.

Mostly it's Che, the revolutionary giver of life to those who feel it slipping away, we focus on.

She makes laughter.

A chip off the old block, I suppose, because "Sarah", in ancient Hebrew, means to laugh, and our little girl makes us cackle every single day,

Truth of the matter is we're not focusing on the rest of the world right now.

We work hard to prevent the great cancerous sadness forever growing to infect how we live every single day.

We spend far too much time fighting for good health care in the world's richest country, COVID spikes, school cancelations, the daily erosion of civil rights, depression and the awful conclusion is to live is to fight, which is, of course, no way to live.

It's exhausting.

But when we find joy, and laughter comes, and a sad day becomes a magnificent one, even if only for a second, well, that's worth keeping up the fight.

If we laugh together, we live. 

Otherwise we fight just to fight, which is where the world is right now.

Sarah and I spend whatever time we have looking to feel so good, love so much, laugh so loud and rest with contentment and, maybe every once in a while, a tiny bit of peace. 

It’s not a bad way to live.

It's not a bad way to live in such a sad, sad, world.

Funny as Hell

 Running his fingers across my stomach he smiles.

“That looks good.” he says with devilish eyes.

Sarah nods from a distance. 

In another corner, an Asian woman with long blue hair sits quietly watching.  

Caught up in the moment, I smile with moist eyes.  

The world stops spinning for a second. 

“Yeah that’s a nice scar,” my oncologist says standing up. 

“It is isn’t it?” My wife beams, still getting over the breakup with our surgeon. 

The Intern silently claps but remains seated.  

Laughing, I hit "Send" and wait to see if Sarah responds.

I never know if my wife's going to respond or not because if she thinks whatever I share is stupid, or she doesn't understand, she won't dignify me with a response.

That just makes me try harder.

The phone buzzes and I jerk it off the table.

“Your side sure,” Sarah replies, "mine would start, 'how can you not love a bald guy who compliments your long flowing hair'?"

Erupting into deep laughter I rush to our room, where she's resting, to laugh with her.

"We're so funny," I giggle.

"I am," she answers, straight faced but with dancing blue green eyes.

We've just returned from the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, FL where I expected to see a giant jar of lit Mayonnaise revolving on top on a Hospital.

Equally as brilliant as her daughter, Sarah's Mom's already watched a Youtube Video on the Amazing Mayo Brothers of Sueur, Minnesota, Will and Charlie.

I am humbled by these men's accomplishments, legacies and current best practices.

Sarah and I are processing our first visit.

After an exhausting morning, making certain Che's routine of Public School Pre-K after a year of lock down, her Mom's determined her life's going to be "normal,” we made the 2 hours to Jacksonville  

Laurel, our 17 yr old full time College student who hasn't graduated from High School yet, got up early to up accomplish Che's "normalcy" by disrupting her own.

Anyway, the Mayo Clinic is great!

We're going back next week!

So much for Laurel's schedule getting back to normal soon.

In the scheme of things, nothing's changed. I still have Cancer that's growing and surgery's no longer an option. Thankfully, neither is Chemo. There are other things with side affects though we understand as the next step in, well, keeping things like they are.

I like things like they are. 

I listen to good music. Drink some Rum. Smoke lots of weed. Sit beside Che every second I can. Laugh at Laurel's latest scheme. Wonder how much food Cassidy's taking from our house to her father's house because she doesn't like the food choices there. Marvel at my wife's craziness, brilliances and, I admit it, the woman is funny as Hell!

"Let's write a blog together," I suggest.

"I can't write with you," my beautiful wife grins, "you make up too much shit.”

My wife’s funny as hell I tell ya. 

Funny as Hell, I tell you.  

The Big Showdown's Coming

WYELP! 

Here I am.

Fighting Cancer.

Well, Cancer's doing most the fighting.

I'm not exactly a pacifist but truthfully I haven't contributed very much.

Sure I do my part, taking numerous vitamins someone swears helps cure cancer, smoking copious amounts of weed and listening to really good music.

Like continuously listening to the Jam George Harrison and Eric Clapton break into in the outtake of "Hear Me Lord" on the 50th Anniversary edition of "All Things Must Pass" that really should have been on the final mix of the original album!

That's pretty much me fighting cancer.

Well, I take Lainey for a walk every day.

Happily high as a kite, I shuffle down the sidewalk, snapping my fingers, absolutely stunned at the original version of "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft" by "Klaatu" that our Dalmatian actually walks me until I suddenly wonder how I got home so fast?

The printer sprints out endless pages documenting surgeries, body imaging, scans, test results and medical notes.

Sarah dashes in and out, grabbing pages while participating in an online training required by her work, as she continues building the file for my referral to the Mayo Clinic.

Now my wife is waging one Hell of a Battle against my cancer!

"You know," she says, "our life does not need to revolve around cancer" but try as we may, it does seem to dominate everything.

Sarah's been looking forward to a 5K at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida for the past two years. It's in 2 weeks. My initial appointment at the Mayo Clinic is the week before. It's impossible for us to do both.

Life is so unfair!

Physically, everyone says I look great!

My most successful contributions in the battle with cancer have centered around recovery.

All I do is perpetually recover!

It's the mental war against a relentless, ever advancing foe, that takes it's toil. Cancer demands attention while Sarah and I squeeze life out of every single moment.

Something's going to snap.

But it won't be Sarah.

She doesn't take things, I'm uncertain of how to best explain, passively. 

Oh she seems passive receiving terrible news but don't be fooled, she's calculating, and within seconds she'll have a plan designed to deal with whatever's, again I search for words, "slowing her down."  

So you have to see things from my perspective.

There's a big showdown coming!

On one side is cancer.

I'm on the other side.

Sarah's between us.

I'm not going anywhere until I see how this ends!

My money's on my wife!

Well, and me, of course.