The Last Hole

 

n the darkness, I finish dressing by sliding the prong into the hole of my belt, letting a bulky grey sweater fall over the emptiness left by my stomach.

Che's eating a Rice Krispy treat laying in her bed as I get oriented to being awakened in the middle of the night because she's having nightmares.

Taking a handful of pills washed down with a quick swig of Orange Juice, I pour myself coffee and return to our 5 year old daughter's room.

Grabbing "Baby" and "Snuggles" the puppy, Che drags her blanket to the sofa where she lays her head in my lap. She sleepily surfs YouTube videos while I sip coffee and and rub her back.

I consciously appreciate these moments together until the familiar queazy rebellion commences inside of me, interrupting the bliss.

Che lays without me in the glow of candles we light and the television.

In the harsh glow of bathroom lights, I absentmindedly watch the prong of my belt slide into the wrong hole.

It doesn't go in the last one!

It goes into the next to last one easily distinguishable by the faintest use marks on the leather whereas the rest are blackened from usage.

Wait!

I haven't lost more weight??!!

The prong easily slides inside the last hole.

"Damn," I mutter, flipping off the light, resuming my seat with Che's head in my lap.

Later when Che's at Pre-K and Sarah's busy with the billion things my wife does every day, I join the "Live Strong" program at the YMCA.

"Live Strong" was created by Lance Armstrong to "unite, inspire and empower people affected with cancer."

There are 7 of us in the class and everyone's in remission or has no evidence of cancer, except me.

Staring at us in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the "cardio room", we resemble stereotypes on an old television sitcom, especially given we're all squatting on large colorful Yoga balls.

So far only one of us has fallen off a ball but was caught by our trainer before hitting the ground. She's being spotted while the rest of us hold on to our balls for dear life!

I want to laugh but am afraid I'll be the next to fall and there's no one to catch me before I hit the floor.

Ununited we stand behind our balls, seeing how uninspired we are in the mirrors while our trainer cheerfully sings the last words of empowerment, sadly drowned in the shuffling of survivors feet leaving the room.

Taking a moment I stare at myself in the giant mirrors.

"Damn," I mutter seeing the skinny, long grey hair and bearded, stoned old man looking ridiculous dressed in work out clothes.

I am so thin.

Home again telling Sarah about the class, I slide back into my jeans and pull the belt to the last hole and easily sliding the prong into it.

Sarah smiles but she may as well said "Damn" because that what her eyes screamed.

"Let's go out for lunch," she grins, taking me to a small family neighborhood Asian place we like.

Our waiter calls Sarah "Honey" in the drippiest Southern accent ever and we giggle every time he speaks. 

We laugh a lot, eat as much as possible and find joy in our days which is how we live, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

My Game of Life

 

The Nun's dark eyes flash recognition passing me on a trail through woods that occasionally hug baseball ball fields, but when my eyes lock her's, fear floods her face that I will acknowledge, or worse, actually speak to her.

I have nothing for her.

There was a time I did. 

I gave her a great deal in fact, which she happily took, still wanted more and fled angrily when my well had run dry.

A rage bubbles inside of me as we pass but only for a moment as it's quickly reduced to a wary sadness.

Her dark eyes suddenly break and she resumes staring into prayerful nothingness as Lainey our dog drags me away.

"Don't think about that shit," I mutter out loud before losing myself again in nature with music streaming in my ears.

"Excuse me. Rev Elliott?" she asks grabbing the sleeve of my coat and peering green eyes directly in mine.

It takes me a moment to realize I'm being addressed. 

Every morning our dog Lainey drags me for a one mile walk on a glorious path behind the Islands YMCA. I'm afraid if I miss a walk I'll quit entirely and, as my wife repeatedly warns, "You quit moving then you die" and I'm not ready for that!

Though walking grows increasingly difficult and I fear they'll end before I'm done.

For now though, Lainey helpfully drags me along, stopping at the baseball dugouts so I can rest, allowing me to pray, reflect, sing, cuss and generally zone out for a little while.

Pot helps expedite a trance like euphoria with a rock-and-roll soundtrack.

I look like a stoned, spaced out, Hippy relic who could topple over any second were not the dog dragging me this way and that, so it takes me a moment to understand I'm the Reverend Elliott she's asking.

"I am."

She'd been my gateway to hospital health care in the city, helping me learn how it really works and who makes things happen. I remind her, thanking her for how kind she'd been to me.

She introduces me to her friend saying, "He did a lot of good things for our community, I just," her eyes met mine sparkling, "helped coordinate things."

"Were you at Union Mission in the 90s?" the friend asks.

"I was."

Smiling, she recounts how her brother moved here then, is mentally ill and they lost track, unaware at where or how he lived. Landing in one of our shelters, he learned how to manage things, obtained a job, moved to transitional housing and then finally into his own home, where he lives now!

"We're big fans," she concludes, broadening smile.

My friend smiles, impish blue eyes still locked on mine, her hand still on my sleeve and as my eyes grow moist, Lainey drags me away so we yell goodbyes.

The dog stops in front of an abandoned dugout, out of the wind but in the sun.

I text Sarah first before collapsing on the bench to take deep breaths, wipe my eyes, focus on green treetops against blue skies, pet the dog and get lost in thoughtfulness.

I'm exhausted in every conceivable way and wonder if I can finish the walk without asking her to come get me.

My surgeon warned us that I wouldn't be the same person after the "Whipple", the removal and reconstruction of many internal organs to remove the cancer, and he was right.

I'm not.

There was a time I would have rushed to forgive the Nun, swap stories with an old
peer, or celebrate success with her friend but that's no longer who I am.

Now I'm Sarah's husband.

I'm Che's Dad.

That's enough.

Nothing's more important.

Lainey jerks the leash abruptly pulling me off the bench and dragging me home so I can get back in my game of life.

But I remember

 

Standing on the frozen ground in front of a destroyed crematorium inside Berkenau Concentration Camp, beside a mountain of rotten clothes I spy broken children's sissors, pick them up and hold them against the bitter sunshine. 

Che sashays in, dressed for Pre-K sporting a black leather jacket, pink boots with a matching headband, strikes a gangster pose and asks me how she looks.

"Beautiful," I answer so she dances back to her room leaving me considering the sissors again, holding them in the bitter sunshine half a world away from where they were found.

It's a day to remember the evil leaders and Governments inflict on men, women and little girls like ours.

Hollocausts are managed at multiple levels every day but the efficiencies of Hell were realized in the middle of the last century.

So few remember anymore.

Some even deny it happened at all.

But I remember.

And I am thankful our little girl plays with unbroken sissors as I cry for the one who lost hers.

The old man in the mirror

 

In the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the cardio room at the Islands YMCA, I watch myself doing chair yoga, an activity I truly loath.

Out of pure love with a sense of adventure I went with Sarah once. It was fucking torture and, advocate that I am, I let it be known laying on the floor screaming in agony.

Sarah giggles which gets April Moore laughing and pretty soon the class is disrupted and I swear I'll never do yoga again!

But there's a "Live Strong" program for cancer survivors and, out of pure love, with a new sense of adventure, Sarah talks me into joining.

So I watch myself being tortured in a chair with soothing words flowing from the epitome of health backed by Native American music emulating from somewhere.

Facing the wall of mirrors it's impossible to not look at ourselves though the instructor calmly tells us to close our eyes.

I'd fall out of the chair if I close my eyes so I look at everyone else who's eyes are shut.

On either side of me are six other survivors, who are all old.

The looks on each face clearly indicate they're also being tortured, grimacing while clutching for dear life with knuckles long turned white.

"Live Strong!" our leader yells encouragingly.

"Live sore," someone mutters and I giggle, meaning I can't lift my right arm while wrapping my left leg around my head, so I stop participating.

"Inhale," the lovely voice invites, "while placing your kneecaps against your earlobes."

I stare in the mirror to watch the survivors actually try!

None come close, of course, which makes me giggle again.

Thank God I got high before coming!

Again concentrating on the mirror I see myself as I am, not as I imagine me with complete disregard for reality, but the thin on top, long grey hair, white bearded, skinny, old man with a stomach that strangely tilts to the right.

I sigh, attempt to rejoin the torture but quickly stop wishing I'd brought a gummy.

Mercifully, yoga ends and we're shepherded to a classroom.

The survivors use this time to check each other out and I can see in their eyes they're also wondering why everyone else in the class is old except them.

"Is this the onset of dementia," I wonder?

"What does everyone do to relieve tension?" we're asked to share.

"I meditate."

"I play classical music."

Everyone looks at me.

"I smoke a lot of weed," I giggle.

"Did you bring any?" four of the six survivors ask.

The epitome of health again unleashes her calming voice to sprinkle meditative words nudging us towards inner peace.

I wonder what Sarah's doing?

I notice everyone's eyes are closed and it's quiet.

Somehow I missed the instructions that we're meditating now.

I want beer for lunch but it's a non drinking day and my arms will probably be too sore to raise a glass anyway.

We're dismissed and encouraged to use the gym before the next class but everyone laughs.

In the parking lot, I'm first in my car and use the opportunity to watch the survivors walking out, slowly shuffling feet towards the lives we fight to hold on to.

The skies are the deepest of blues and a faded white moon hangs on for dear life too!

I take encouragement in this and head home for a quiet lunch with my wife, extremely grateful for the the sense of adventure and pure love awaiting me.

Chasing Normal

 

"I'm going to miss you, Da."

It's 5:30 in the morning and Che and I sit on the sofa in a sea of candles we've lit so our living room glows softly.

She's plays on her I-Pad as I listen to music streaming through ear buds, surfing Spodify. 

I look at Che who's looking at me.

"I'm gonna miss you too," I reply, smiling. She returns the grin before resuming her game.

I'm up most night dealing with side effects from Chemotherapy.  Che religiously gets up with me and I've grown to cherish the time before the sun smiles on another day.

She's also been having nightmares where I disappear and she can't find me. 

She cries. 

I comfort her. 

Then I cry because her dream will come true way before either of us is ready.

"I'm going to miss you Da," she repeats and I see her staring at me.

A tactic of counseling is when you hear something you don't understand, you repeat it hoping to draw more information from the client. I don't know what to do with Che's words so I repeat them to her.

"I'm gonna miss you Che."

She smiles, returning attention to her I-Pad.

Sarah and I work hard to make life "normal" for her while we navigate the treacherous waters of the American Health care system with a terminal diagnosis.

"Normal" means cancer isn't our primary focus so we get on with life as though everything's just as it should be for a 5 year old girl. 

"You want some of 'Mom's favorite toast'?" I ask trying to regain control of normal.

"I'm gonna miss you Da."

Frustrated I respond louder than I intend, "Why are you going to miss me Che? What's happening?"

Her bright blue eyes dance in the candlelight.

"PRANK!" she gleefully explains. "I'm going to miss you at school today!"

"Why you!" I grin before tickling and hugging her tightly. 

She squeals happily in my arms.

"Life is good Che-Bay," I pronounce as though I'm extending an invitation to join us at the alter.

Living Strong

I come home from the Gym to find my wife writing my obituary

I find this ironic but read it anyway and it's pretty funny

We laugh and laugh

I suppose it's "coming soon" to a media platform where you may or may or see it one day

She hasn't finished it yet and I'm not in a rush

 

The Magi's Delivery

 

The pink envelope's plainly addressed to "Che" and she's gleefully ripping it open.

Other than the postcards from the road Keith Rea sends, which are always fun, and the junk mail Sarah gives her to open, Che receives little mail.

Packages arrive numerous times through the day because it's Christmas and the Pandemic shopping's all the rage because there's nothing on shelves in stores. Che wants each to be hers but they never are so she's over-the-moon excited ripping open the pink envelope with her name on it.

Exchanging glances and shrugging shoulders, Sarah nor I have a clue who's it from.

Her tiny hand reaches in and pulls out a locket and a tiny black and white computer generated photo of Sarah and me.

There's nothing else so we have no idea who's giving the gift.

Holding the tiny black-and-white picture in one hand, Sarah holds the locket to the light and grins.

"We're in here Che," she explains while demonstrating how to find us.

"Whoa," our daughter gasps.

Wrestling with demons inside our little girl wears a locket every day when she leaves for school with our pictures in it. 

She never forgets and the locket shows. It's scratched silver surface is perpetually open and my picture keeps disappearing reinforcing those demons she fights every day.

The new pendant is elegant, concise and safe.  Che can see Sarah and I anytime she wants by holding it towards the light.

Magi no longer have to travel when you have Google and Amazon at your disposal and without a return address we have no idea if they're from east or not.

But like Mary after the first royal gifts were given, Sarah and I hold this in our hearts.

In desperate need of escape

 “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sarah says wistfully. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Da, can I watch YouTube on your phone?”

Zach has taken our order and we’re watching blue lights on bows of boats making their way from the Ocean to the safety of harbor. 

Che props my phone against a ketchup bottle happy to be back in the modern world of cyberspace.

Sarah and I watch the boats glide through the clear waters of the Gulf while a rocking band plays ”Get Back” on the other side of the restaurant.  

There’s only one restaurant on the island but it closes at 4. Two others lay just across a rickidy bridge, easy walking distance from the old Florida retro hotel my wife found. 

We’re in desperate need of escape as we’re perplexed by words. 

“While the radiologists conclude growth, we find it marginal and recommend continuing treatment as it is. We find the margins acceptable. Another scan will be scheduled in 3 months instead of the 5 or 6 we’d anticipated.”

The written report says the “innumerable bipolar hepatic metastasis” are all new but the old cancer didn’t grow, a classic example of “Good News/Bad News.”

Here’s our question: What’s an acceptable growth rate on an innumerable number?

“Those boats are racing Che!” Sarah exclaims, trying to draw our daughter back into the real world. 

Che throws the phone on the table.  

Our food arrives and throughout the meal, we eat, drink and make merry.  

Che determinedly walks in the middle to hold both our hands as we make our way under a full moon across the narrow bridge. 

On the Beach, I watch Sarah intensely staring off into space as I regain focus from my own 3 mile stares.  

Che holds our hands everywhere we go as though in desperate fear of letting us go.  

Holding on for dear life I suppose. 

“Hey Da!” she says “let’s eat breakfast outside.”

Holding a bowl of frosted Cheerios in one hand she leads me to the Tiki Bar where we eat in the moonlight beside the Sea. In desperate need 

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.”