It's getting old

"Dad, are you old?"

Che's suddenly squatting in the kitchen floor staring at me intensely, her eyes the size of large white moons with singular circular oceans of the deepest blue, expressing grave wonderment.

"Why?"

Shutting the fridge, I cannot fathom how she went so quickly from laughingly hugging my legs as we pack her lunch to demanding a reality check.

"Because your hair's grey and you bend down slow," she answers matter-of-factly. 

"I do not" I challenge.

Joyfully she jumps up and counts.

1 ... 2 ... THREE!!!!

She beats me by a mile.

"See," she grins. "Can I have Ice Cream?"

"You can have anything you want," I answer, still getting up.

She watches videos on the sofa in the candlelit living room while I finish her lunch and scoop Moose-tracks then sit beside her.  

She slurps while we cuddle.

"Let's color Dad," she suggests afterwards.

"Sure," I grin. "You get everything and I'll meet you back here."

She skips away and I quickly head outside to smoke a bowl.

Back on the sofa we color for half-an-hour.

Coloring is a pretty exciting journey when you're high.

"Let's save these for Mom," Che concludes and we put everything away.

Later, struggling to take sips of coffee, Sarah gushes over our art when Che erupts into a sobbing, angry groan and rips the page I'd colored into pieces.

We watch in disbelieving silence, Sarah still seated at the table with Clare while I'm standing in the kitchen.

A moment of silence ends abruptly, Sarah and I quickly alternating questioning looks at one another and our "Love Child."

Che scampers down, darts across the room and latched on to my legs, hugging them tightly.

Standing upright, suddenly serious, the two moons with the deep blue oceans lock into mine and with the upmost empathy asks, "How are you feeling Daddy?"

Then she hugs me tightly, has me pick her up so she can throw her arms around my neck and hugs me even tighter.

"Time to do your hair," Sarah sings and Che slowly lets me go and follows her Mom.

"We're all dealing with everything in our own ways," Sarah sighs after Che's at Pre-K.

"Yeah," I nod. "She was just letting it out."

"Yeah," Sarah says, holding my hand.

My audience of one

 

Every single morning I get up, if I'm not already up managing things in the night, and I write.

I'm a morning person anyway so I've got more focus and energy then to concentrate on important things.

Plus Hemingway wrote in the mornings and it worked for him, so I figure it'd work for me so before the sun rises, I sit in the kitchen chair, pen in one hand and steaming coffee in the other.

Candles are lit offering soft flickers of Hope in the darkness.

Prayerfully, I exhale, chasing thoughts away before focusing on my wife for a moment.

Specifically, I'm wondering exactly what it is I love about her at the moment.

There's a great deal to be thankful for, I'd literally be dead without her, but I'm not thinking about the constant, draining caregiving she provides to her cancer stricken hubby; her agile focus on the ever changing demands of a 5, 15, 17, and 20 year old daughter; the burdens of managing the needs of 49 Developmentally Disabled patients daily; her commitment to running, yoga and staying fit with a schedule that doesn't allow consistency or time; her enrollment as a Nursing student carrying a full load; her enrollment as a Nursing student carrying a full load; or how frustrated she is because I interrupt her a thousand times each day.

I'm incredibly thankful for these things but I'm not focusing on them.

I'm asking myself what, exactly, do I love about her at this moment in time?

On a small, mostly square shape I've cut out of paper I stole from Sarah's workspace, I write the words, "I Love you because," then I close my eyes and wait for the answer.

Everyone's asleep as I silently see images of things she's done, said or contemplates flashing before me and something bubbles to the forefront and the pen moves as though possessed.

I'm usually smiling when the writing's finished.

Sipping the steaming coffee, I carefully place the love note in her cup, already laid out for Sarah when she wants it.

Every day I write for my audience of one.

I believe this is the most meaningful writing I've done in my life to this point.

Che calls for me and the day begins in all seriousness, if it hadn't already started without her because of side effects from my treatment.

The note disappears in the blur of activity before our daughter goes to Pre-K.

I have no idea what Sarah does with them.

Each may have been tossed in the trash as far as I know.

Sometimes she'll bring something up I wrote, needing clarification of fact over fiction as I was taught to never let the truth stand in the way of a good story and Sarah only deals in harsh realities.

Each may have been tossed in the trash as far as I know.

Mostly though, Sarah does whatever she does with them and they're not discussed.

Occasionally I still write other things, like this, but it takes a lot of energy of which I am in short supply.

The energy I do have is for Sarah, Che and Cassidy on a daily basis. If there's some extra, I may be focused enough to write for others but it's tough these days.

Besides, I don't really have anything to say other than what I've already written on the note in the coffee cup.

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.