Day Laughing

 

I wrote Sarah a love note thanking her for our shopping date to Publix. 

Neither of us wanted to go. 

We're exhausted and whatever energy we have is happily spent by Che so it took both of us propping the other up to get groceries.

But we had a grand time!

At one point, Sarah's hand rubs my back as we steer towards the Orange Juice, Milk and eggs.

Sarah's not big on Public Displays of Affection so this is huge!

I'm still touched the next morning and write her a note explaining how after all these years, her mere touch still sends me over the stars!

Sarah takes her time in the morning, dressing as though she has a presentation before a Fortune 500 Company, so when she purposely strides into the kitchen for coffee, she takes my breath away again.

Reading my note, she impishly flashes her aqua-blue-green eyes at me, smiles and explains, "Oh Honey, I was just pushing you along. It's the only way I could keep you moving."

Holding her gaze, I wonder if I've lost more of myself already before her grin breaks open and we erupt in laughter to start our day.

The Torch in the corner

 

"Will you run with it again Da?"

"Naw Che-bay," I say wistfully, "it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing."

Sarah's pulled out the Olympic Torch, cleaned it up and displays it in the corner beside the blanket basket with the girls middle names on it.

"Daddy carried the torch in 1996," Sarah explains, "there were lots of people. It was a big deal!"

"Well, I'm pretty fast," Che responds. 

"Watch this!" she screams, streaking down the hall, bouncing off the wall before racing back to the Living Room.

"That's pretty fast," I agree.

Sarah and Che settle on the sofa for their nightly routine of completing a "Grateful Journal" and reading books from the Library.

Smiling, I watch them before slipping off to smoke Weed.

Afterwards we kiss our daughter goodnight, collapse on the sofas and get lost in Netflix, Hulu, Paramount or Disney.

Sarah quickly consumed in texts with Laurel, who's moving again, Maddie, who's graduating College and moving soon, and Cass, who is nowhere to be found and won't respond to messages.

It's far too much for me to keep up with and I find myself staring at the Torch.

A mashup of images, sights, sounds, touches and feelings explode in my brain and I relive everything about that day. 

The calm of the bus we sit on before being released. Thousands of people lining the street. Faces in the crowd. Prideful smiles on Homeless men and woman passing the Torch around in the shelter after I'd finished. Hanging it in the Breakfast Club for the next year for anyone who wished to enjoy it. Then put away until Sarah decides it's time to bring it out again.

A nanosecond, maybe it was really a thousand years, later I'm staring at my wife on the other sofa doing her College homework while texting the girls and watch our show, absolutely loving my life.

The next night at dinner, Che announces, "I told them that my Daddy was in the Olympics."

"Who?" Sarah and I ask.

"Saylor and Zane," she replies eating a white chocolate peanut butter cup.

Saylor is her best friend.

Zane is her latest boyfriend.  

The last one wouldn't play with her during recess so she dumped him for Zane.

Che wears a tee shirt she painted the 5 colored rings symbolizing the Olympics she made along with her class at school.

"What was their reaction?" Sarah asks.

Che rolls her eyes, shrugging her shoulders and asks if she may watch television.

Sarah shrugs her own shoulders.

Che slides away from the table so Sarah and I lock eyes and laugh.

"Well, she told them you were in the Olympics," Sarah laughs, "not that you carried the Torch."

"What's the difference?" I ask.

Sarah rolls her head.

"Da!" Che calls from the sofa and its time to snuggle with her for a while before her bath.

So we rush to clean the dishes for family time on the sofa, beside the basket of blessings and baskets, next to the Torch in the corner.

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