It's getting old again

 

Che's playing with a friend in the front yard, Sarah's seeing clients before picking up Cassidy from somewhere and I'm holding onto the sofa for support, watching the kids and listening to "Blue Lights" on Spotify.

The days have been difficult lately so it's nice to see Che being "normal."

Suddenly Che shouts something to her friend and storms inside.

"Da," she says breathing heavily, "Red Juice?"

I retrieve it from the fridge and the sweaty mess of all girl jumps on the sofa, pulls me down and lays her head against my belly.

I smile, soaking up everything about the moment.

Abruptly tossing her cup aside,  she crawls in my lap, looks me straight in the eyes and asks, ""Do we die when we get old?"

Stunned, I turn the music off and stare into the largest deep blue moon eyes before holding her to me and chocking back tears.

"Honey, everybody dies," I say as fatherly as I know how while not having to look at her.

"But are you old Daddy?" she asks sitting up again in my lap.

"Well, why are you asking Clare-Bear?"

The deep blue moons draw me in again as I see her tiny fingers grab my hair and twirls the long grey strings.

"Your hair," she says softly.

"WHAT?" I mock laugh. "I have great hair young lady!"

She continues staring at my long strings of hair twirling on her finger.

"It's grey," she says as soft as a Christmas night whisper.

Unexpectedly she drives her head into my chest, her arms around my stomach, Che hugs me tightly and quietly sobs.

"Mom will protect us from dying," she confidently says, snapping up to reveal the conviction of her beliefs.

"It's just part of life Che-Bay," I say as a matter of fact, "everybody dies."

"Well," Che sighs drawing the matter to a close, "I'm not for it."

Cuddling on the sofa, we surf YouTube.

"What time's Mom gonna be home?" she asks laying her head in my lap.

"Late," I answer.

"Awe," she sighs before noisily slurping the Red Juice.

"Can I have Mac-n-cheese Da?"

"You can have any damn thing you want Che," I grin, getting up and stumbling into the kitchen.

Game On Cancer!

Again I'm already preparing what to wear for my next Chemo shot and I'm upping my game!

Last month I wore a tee-shirt reading, "Pot's Bad! Burn it!" and do you know not a single patient in the Mayo Clinic waiting room even noticed!

Sometimes I wonder if they can even read!

Beside the great shirt, I wore my customary dress kaki shorts, flip-flops and my designer ankle bracket.

I designed it myself!

Sarah humors me by storing extra leather in case I run out and disturb the intriguing elements that make up my "Vibe."

My wife has a closet full of Angel wings.  

So here it is!

Game on fellow Chemo shot recipients!

Tanning Cancer

I'm sitting in the front yard catching some rays on a glorious deep, blue, sunny sky day. 

I prefer my cancer tanned.

I think it just looks better and Sarah Elliott and I always enjoy it when the people at the Mayo Clinic admirably say to us, "Nice tan."

Come to think of it, we haven't seen a lot of people with tans at Mayo.

Perhaps that's why I never see anyone wearing flip-flops in the Chemo shot waiting room except for us.

Anyway, I'm sitting there, high on life, when a car passes, slows, stops, backs up, parks and a friend I haven't seen in a year climbs out and sits beside me for a visit.

"You look good," he starts.

I roll my eyes.

"But man I gotta tell you something!"

"Oh yeah?"

"I don't know what it is about you and cancer but your hair is even thicker and longer than last time I saw you."

It's hard not to feel good when you hear things like this regardless of how you really feel.

"Awe, thanks Marty!"

He leaves and I continue basking in the holy glow of sunbeams baptizing me, humming an old song from when I was a kid.

Oh say can you see my eyes

if you can

well, then, my hairs too short

Christmas Again?

What's left of my stomach's finally surrendered after another epic late night battle with what's left of my intestines and I'm now sipping coffee, listening to "Chuck Prophet" music through earbuds by candlelight.

I also have a buzz going.

Lainey, our Dalmatian, has her head resting in my lap.

"Da," I hear out of the corner of my eye.

Che stumbles into the flickering light and falls in my lap, filling the room with a loving glow.

"Why don't you have your Grinch pajamas on?" her muffled voice asks from my lap.

Before going to sleep, our 5 yr old asks Sarah and I wear the matching pajamas we had worn on Christmas morning.

"I forgot," I confess.

"Is Mom wearing hers?"

"I don't know," I lie.

The golden glow of the candle dances in Che's pillow mussed hair still laying on one leg while Lainey's head remains on the other.

"I wanna be with you Da," she says crawling on the sofa beside me.

This is her now, letting me know, in no uncertain terms, how loved I am.

It's Christmas morning all over again at our house.

Worn out at the Marathon

What do you do when you're absolutely worn out, utterly exhausted handling things, plagued by plans that never work, feel awful physically and wrestle with God demanding answers that won't come?

Sarah and I go to Che's "Marathon Day" at her Pre-K.

Dragging ourselves to the bleachers at the football stadium, we watch our daughter perfectly execute her plan.

"I'm going to get a side stitch,"'she explained to her Mom the day before.

As soon as the kids are lined up, a whistle blows, music blares and Che shoots down the track like a bullet!

A quarter of the course later she holds up her arm, slows to a walk and looks towards her teacher who immediately rushes over.

The two of them hold hands and slowly make their way on the asphalt lane.

Che waves at us.

"Just like she said," Sarah muffles a laugh, shaking her head.

"Yep," I marvel.

Another girl, one of Che's besties, develops a side stitch too and joins her.

The teacher leaves and the two girls laugh as they stroll.

Two boys suddenly stop running to talk with our daughter.

"She really is owning this day," I say out loud.

"Yep," Sarah agrees.

A little boy starts crying so Che stops everything to make certain he's alright.

She walks beside him as they're shepherded back to the school, giving us a quick wave as she reaches for his hand.

Sarah holds me up as we make our way home to continue with the powers and principalities of our world.

How I do Cancer

 "How are you?" Leah, my former "LIVE STRONG" instructor, asks, taking a break from pushing Saylor, her 3 year old in the stroller.

The truth is I'm higher than a kite and her question brings me to the realization I've walked way farther than I meant.

I can't tell her that.

"Can I have one?" Saylor asks, saving me with her giggling as I unwrap a green Jolly Rancher with my teeth with one hand while the other holds Lainey's leash.

"Oh course you can," I answer, handing her a red one, completely bypassing asking Leah.

"May I pet your dog?" my new friend asks, and as she does so it comes to me that Lainey must have dragged me this far.

"Well how are you?" Leah repeats with a concerned smile.

I don't know what to say.

I'm here.

I still in awe of being here!

We're still making plans for our future but it's Sarah doing the work!

Che suddenly has 4 boyfriends and her mother and I personally observed one doting all over her while painting and another gives her elaborate love notes!

Maddie's engaged!  Laurel's moving to another state! Cassidy has emerging clues! Chelsea's giving us a new grandchild!

All this means that when I'm lucid and mobile, about 1/2 the month, I 'm delighting in the incredible joy all of this brings!

The rest of the month I resemble a washed up, over drugged, Zombie trying to convince myself I'm doing alright.

I gauge how I'm really doing by Sarah's reactions to me.

Whenever she tells me to leave her alone because she's behind in work, school and has to do something for all 4 girls at the same time which, of course, she accomplishes while still speaking to me, then I know I'm doing okay. 

She can look the other way for a second. 

The days I know what's going on in my wife's life is when I'm doing pretty good!

Most of the time it's a struggle to remain engaged, which I eventually comprehend by the look of concern in Sarah's loving, analytical, calculating most lovely aqua-blue-green eyes.

That seems like too much to say to answer the still hanging question.

I'm tired anyway and Lainey has to drag me home or I'll have to call my wife and interrupt her, again.

"I'm good," I smile.

Honestly I have no idea how good I really am.

I can't do as many things this month as I could last month and it's driving me crazy because Che and I have established lots of games that bring us joy and we're missing them.

Just a month ago I was playing them just fine but I just can't right now.

Sarah's eyes are perpetually filled with concern and calculations.

Lainey drags me home where I smoke a bowl, collapse on the sofa and lose myself in music streaming through earbuds.

~ I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but didn't finish it because I didn't have it in me.

Now I've just finished smoking a bowl, laying on the sofa, streaming music through ear buds while the girls sleep because it's 1:59 in the morning.

I'm navigating the treacherous waters of this month's Chemo side effects and, as I'm learning how my body will work this month, still struggling to answer Leah's question.

How am I?

I'm okay.

Obviously I could be better but I think I'm doing alright.

I delight in the crazy chaos of a life not going as planned!

But boy is it going!

Hold on, I have a text.

It's from daughter Laurel who's celebrating her birthday which is just another reason to continue the never ending party that is her life!

She wants me to come hang out with her at 4:42 am.

I don't know how other people who have cancer live with it but this is how I do it.

Laurel informs me she's going to bed.

I light some candles, peek at Sarah sleeping, then at Che, then Lainey crawls under the blanket with me on the sofa.

Cheesy Love

 

"Don't touch me," he hisses, holding two boxes of Government issued surplus cheese that is given him.

Immediately I back away, staring at the 20-something, homeless, neat freak in the bowels of the Church I inexplicably pastor. 

Flagrantly mixing Church and State, we'd scored a ton of cheese recently released by the Department of Defense where it had been reclassified as "unnecessary" to sustain war efforts.

The basement social hall was packed with homeless people, residents of the projects across the street and poverty embracing Seminary students lined up to receive the cheese.

"Sure," I grin, patting his shoulder.

David withdraws to a stack of cheese filled boxes, opens a container I'd given him, rips off a piece and eats.

"I got wine to go with that," Bruce, a country music loving homeless Church member, grins.

"It's not for me Rev," he continues seeing me glare, "I don't need it. I quit drinking six times yesterday."

Laughing, we resume passing out free cheese.

David drives me crazy!

He has every right, of course, because he's the first Bi-Polar Schizoid Manic Depressive, I've met and have no idea how to deal with him.

But I'm the minister and supposed to love him somehow though I have absolutely no idea how.

David's mental health waxed and wained but by Christmas Day he was well enough to come to my house.

I'd lost my mind, or given it to Jesus, and invited all the homeless people I knew to my house for Christmas dinner because I couldn't figure out any other way to show I loved them.

And they came!

Mine and David picture's proof.

He was a missionary kid who grew up in Bangladesh and while his folks saved the world, they watch their son lose his mind.

By the time they returned home, they'd lost David and we found him and were crazy enough to take him as one of us.

I don't remember much about that Christmas day with no recollection at all of David being there because he was always so damn difficult.

Seeing the picture though, I remember this moment.

I'm threatening to touch him.

Recoiling, David smiles radiantly, and, for the briefest of moments anyway, the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in Heaven.

In the middle of the night, I Google his name and, through the miracle of the Tower of Babble, I find his obituary.

David's "remembered by his family and friends as one who valiantly fought mental illness all of his adult life and later bladder cancer."

"Hey David," I say into the darkness.

The night is silent and holy. 

"DA!" Che sleepily calls, shooing old things away.

"Mom says we're going to the movies today," our Love Child says rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Whatever your Mom says," I whisper in Che's ear as she hugs me for the first time today.

My painfully beautiful life

"Let's watch that Da."

"The World's Fattest Animals" is a YouTube option.

"Yep," I agree, hitting OK on the remote while holding it over Che's stomach because she's laying fully inclined on top of my fully inclined body, half of me on the sofa and the other on an armoire.

On TV, a 47 pound cat lays on it's back with 4 tiny paws hopeless kicking to sway momentum to roll over.

Wearing a black Tee with a colored Solar System and black cheetah print shorts, Che and I are cuddling. 

With her laying on top it's  impossible for me to do anything else.

Not that I mind.

"People are the number one threat to cats," we learn but Lainey, our Dalmatian, stretches herself off the floor and licks Che's nose.

"OOOHH," she giggles before jumping up to hug the dog.

Sarah orchestrated Lainey's rescue last year and our dog's very much part of the family, rising with Che to make certain I'm okay when they hear me up in the middle of the night.

The two of them cuddle when I dash to the bathroom or step outside to light my medicine.

"Can I have Pringles for breakfast?" she asks from under her blanket with Lainey now beside her on the sofa.

"You can have anything you want," I grin making my way into the kitchen.

I settle beside them on the sofa under the blanket. 

Che lays her head in my lap.

Lainey lays her head in Che's.

"If your cat can't jump or play like they used to, wheezes or gets winded easily, can't groom itself, or generally sleeps most of the time, it may be too fat," the lady in the Safari outfit says on TV.

"That sounds like me," I say.

"Turn it," Che sighs before losing herself in another show while I lose myself in kissing the top of her head.

My grandmother once told me as a child she, my Mom and my aunts kissed me 76 times in 5 minutes.

I was raised in deep affection and I suppose I'm passing it on to our daughter while I can.

Lainey stretches, shakes her body and sits beside Che who pets her while watching her show.

The worse of the side effects from my Chemo shot have worn off so I'm better which starts me counting my blessings, which far exceeds the number of kisses I've given Che.

I blow Sarah, who's hopefully sleeping late for once, kisses of Thanksgiving for making our Love Child and giving me this painfully beautiful life!

We're now learning about more Fat Cats again and I hear the Safari lady ask, "Why don't they make mouse flavored cat food?"

Graduating again

I thought my days of graduating anything were long over and, honestly, none of my diplomas came easily. 

Every academic institution I enrolled into eventually threw me out with my certificate, although one required legal action. 

No one ever said Seminary was easy.

Anyway, I've now graduated from the LIVE STRONG program for Cancer survivors, which I've learned means, people who are in remission or are now Cancer free.

I'm not one of those but graduated anyway.

Initially I shared with instructors Leah and Kelli that my goal was to simply live longer than the program lasted and now I have a sighed certificate documenting my effort.

I am going to miss my surviving friends.

We shared some joy together and there's nothing better at getting you through difficult times than that!

Well then.

I wonder what I'll be graduating to next?

 

Giving Care and not taking

 

The lady staring at me is drooling.

I'm stuck in a corner sitting beside a fellow member of "Live Strong", a fitness program for cancer survivors, and a caregiver standing behind a wheelchair of a wild white haired lady who's complaining.

"I'm cold," the lady says as the caregiver, an exhausted brown hair woman dressed in black, makes a blanket appear out of thin air and covers her with Ninja moves.

A man drones on about honey.

I'd leave but I can't get out, stuck in the corner of the crowded "Savannah Bee Company" lobby.

Feeling awful with "nauseous fatigue" I hold my throbbing head staring at the woman who's staring at me.

The drool desperately clutches one corner of her permanently sloped mouth as the other hangs a half inch off her bare, pasty white, knee cap.

"These people ain't doing nothing for my self esteem," the cancer survivor whispers in my ear causing me to giggle.

"I'm still cold," the wild white hair lady bellows, causing the speaker to stop as the exhausted Ninja caregiver blocking my exit whips out a scarf the size of Atlanta and throws it perfectly over the wheelchair.

"See what I mean?" the cancer survivor whispers.

I notice for the first time that my admirer is holding a black, life size baby doll wrapped in a blanket.

"Male bees," the speaker continues, "sole purpose in life is to mate with the Queen."

"I'm still cold," a muffled voice loudly exclaims.

The exhausted Ninja caregiver looks like she's going to cry.

The drool baptizes the knee cap.

"Male bees die after mating with the Queen."

The cancer survivor starts to laugh and other members of the class join her and then, several of the wheelchair people.

Soon, most everyone's laughing and they don't know why.

The exhausted Ninja caregiver bends down to retrieve another blanket and I see my chance.

Mustering all of the energy inside, I heave one leg over her, throw my body upward and almost clear her head with my right foot.

"Ow!" comes a muffled voice.

But I don't look back, hobbling to the car as fast as possible, while everyone in the room watches me intensely.

"How was it"  my beautiful wife flashes a smile fast as a Ninja and asks with a tired smile?

"I had to get the Hell out of there before it killed me," I explain.

"Let's celebrate," she grins with exhausted eyes.

Unnecessary Words

You reach the point where words are no longer necessary.

Even if they're set to music and the words float around the creases of our hearts, they don't come close to what's possible.

"The word became flesh," we've been taught and I know one of the things that means now because you don't need words when you live love.

Happy Anniversary to the Wonder of the Woman who makes love in the damndest, and most wonderful, of ways, every single day, regardless of what the world throws at us.

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.