Having Each Other

"You should go home and play with your little girl."

That was my oncologist's parting counsel when we last saw him. 

Walking us out, we discuss "talking about death" with our kids, his son's 7 and Che's 6, in front of a desk full of stone-faced, eavesdropping Nurses. 

"You shouldn't do anything until it hurts and you're forced," my urologist concludes, minutes after meeting  us.  

He means we don't have to actually treat my newly diagnosed prostate cancer until it's too painful to ignore.

We take this as good news.

"We got it all. No need to call us back," the plastic surgeon says to the answering machine, referencing the basal cell cancer removed from my chest two days after learning about prostate cancer.

Once home, I'm sick with chills, night sweats, nausea and exhaustion, meaning the demands on Sarah triples, focusing on Che who's worried about me. We work hard to keep life "normal" for our daughter and, though she's used to such episodes, a deep level of exhaustion binds us.   

I improve and our  conversations drift to things we want to do but it's hard to think about anything beyond today.

Living life in 24 hour increments, Sarah plows through her work somehow, I don't know how, as we've cultivated  a cloistered life, with established routines and expectations, that works well for us. 

Even minor disruptions cause major havoc to what "quality time" we have, as energy spent on others robs us of what's needed to take care of ourselves.  We're perpetually running on empty. 

I go to Live Strong, the YMCA's fitness program for cancer survivors, though I can't participate while recovering from the skin cancer removal.

"Anybody want to compare scars?" I ask but my classmates are concentrating on working out and getting better.

Staring into the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the workout room I watch them but see myself, a ghastly skinny tan under long hair, dressed in an old baggy tee shirt and black running shorts held in place only by the tightest of drawstrings.

I'm fragile, sick and sad. 

I want to be home with Sarah, so I leave in the middle of class.

After a sad attempt at lunch, Sarah and I sit at the table talking. She tells me one of her new patients died suddenly, just days after meeting him. Her parents are both undergoing treatment, her Mom's leukemia, her Dad had stents placed in his heart and they are planning to visit soon. Maddie's coming home at the same time, which happens to be Che's birthday week.

Flashing a tired smile, Sarah pauses, sips her Pepsi and says, "There's more."

I can't take any more! 

"The car has a flat and the appointment to have it fixed isn't until next week."

The next day, I'm home alone, struggling to focus when I receive a text from Sarah: "I put the damn shopping cart back all the damn time. I am a good person. Just W ... T ... F?!"

WTF indeed. 

"Don't forget you're volunteering at the school tomorrow," Sarah says later that night, as I rub her feet, watching television. 

She thought i'd be good for me to join a group of Dads to welcome kids as they arrive for school. 

"Che will be so excited," she finishes. 

So in the morning, after Sarah reminds me again, I meet 3 other Dads who volunteered. Yellow Mariner Tee shirts were made for us and mine was the sole "medium" which easily slides over the tee shirt I'm already wearing. 

The other Dads wear fluffy white Micky Mouse gloves.  

I wish I'd thought of that. 

Well, honestly I wish Sarah would have thought of that like she does everything else. 

Taking position beside one of the entry points, we cheer, greet and high 5 elementary school kids sleepily or enthusiastically arriving for school. 

They go nuts, jumping, slapping and laughing. 

Rushing teachers giggle when they pass. 

Che sees me in the distance, breaks into a smiling run straight into my arms and, damning Doctors orders, I pick her up and we hug.  

"Mom says I can stay with you for a while," she says.  

"Absolutely!"

After a few minutes, she kisses me goodbye to join friends who joyfully embrace her and they walk in mass down the hall. 

The event ends, the Dads resolve to do it again next month and I make my way home. 

"How was it?" Sarah asks.  

"Awe, it was so good," I tell her grinning. 

"I knew it would be," she smiles.  "Tell me all about it."

And we laugh and celebrate what we have, which is each other. 

Finding the fun in it!

Pancreatic cancer left me with active spots on my liver, cancerous lymph nodes were cut out as were, a little later, melanoma. And now, it seems I have prostate cancer too.

"You know what?" I told Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one), "I think I'll go ahead and get them all. You know, complete the set."

You could use a score card," he offers. "It's getting hard to keep up."

"Right?!"

The next day, Bill sends me a scorecard, a marvelous poster of colored ribbons signifying every cancer currently being treated. 

He even went ahead and marked the cancers I already have. 

How thoughtful is that?

I send it to Sarah who concurs it's "funny", though she and I find humor in lots of things no one else thinks is funny at all.  

So, if you want to play along, print out a copy of the score card so you can keep up and make the most of it like we do. 

AND, our kids are already working on a BINGO score card and doesn't that sound even more fun?

Tooth Fairy Gifts

In the soft glow of candlelight, I'm high, intensely reading something, with no idea what time it is, though the sun's not up yet, so it's still night.  

A long cold cup of coffee rests on the table beside me. 

Lainey softly snores from the sofa, my nighttime companion, and it's a good almost morning, so far anyway. 

Suddenly, I feel a presence, look up and see Che standing in her Pokémon underwear, flashing a beatific smile with four missing front teeth.  

"Da, you want to see if the Tooth Fairy came?"

Grabbing my hand, she guides me down the hall, into her bed room, flips the lights on and we climb in her bed. 

Her eyes are the size of aqua water moons, wide and sparkling, as she reaches her hand under the pillow and swiftly pulling out four quarters and the lost tooth in a plastic baggy. 

"She let me keep it Dad!"

Che has all of her lost teeth in a plastic tooth container. 

She drops each quarter into her piggy bank. 

"Which tooth you think will be next Da?" she asks, so I poke my finger in her mouth and determine it will be a front bottom tooth. 

"No Da, those are my adult teeth coming in!"

I look again and laugh. 

"What does Dad know?" I smile. 

We return to the sofa, collapsing on it in a close snuggle.  She watches television with her head on my chest and I resume reading. 

I remember the excitement of reaching my hand under the pillow searching for Tooth Fairy gifts, when I lost a tooth when I was six. 

Sixty years later, I got to do it again. 

Who gets to do that?

I am one blessed guy. 

Che and I settle, cuddled tightly on the sofa and wait on the sun to bubble out of the Sea.

I'm tripping on a spinning world

 "Da, you gonna be able to walk me to school today?"

We're cuddled under a blanket on the sofa, her legs rests on mine, playing on her IPad while I try to keep up with the spinning room. 

After a string of feeling good for several days on end, yesterday's Chemo cocktail brought them crashing on our living room floor, where I lay after throwing up, night sweats pouring from my body and I have vertigo. 

Vertigo's a recent addition to my bodily experience.  

Somehow, I don't know how, I get up, smoke a bowl and take a shower that won't stop spinning. 

It was as wild as any Disney ride I'd ever taken but I managed to dress myself without waking Sarah. 

Che wakes as soon as I collapse on the sofa and, thankfully, excitedly rushes to me, grabbing her IPad as she comes. 

It only takes her a few moments to comprehend that I'm not feeling good. 

"I'll always take care of you Da," she tells me, laying on top of me, under the blanket. 

"Of course I'm walking you to school," I reply, hugging her. 

Sarah's floats in the room, dressed beautifully, re-calculating her day, scheduling back up if I'm unable to pick Che up from school as she's got work meetings all afternoon. 

She does all the things I do in the mornings in addition to what she already does. 

I seem to be unable to move. 

Time flies and it's time to go. 

Sarah guides me as I lean on her for balance walking Che to school.  

Che holds my other hand. 

They're being careful. 

I am tripping.

"He has vertigo, Sarah explains to questioning stares from other parents.

"Oh," one quickly replies, "you look like you're in love."

"Love you," Che exclaims, suddenly spinning herself around, arms outstretched, to hug us both. Then she kisses Sarah, kisses me, turns and makes a mad rush to join her friends. 

Sarah guides me home in the bright morning sunshine, neighbors rushing to their cars wish us a "Good Day" or "Feel better".

My world keeps on spinning and it's still quite the trip. 

POOF! And I don't care today

And then yesterday, after months of struggle, when everyday seemed as if I'd taken a bath in Gorilla Glue and wearily, stumbled mindlessly forward, a shaft of light rips through the clouds.

POOF!

The fog clears. 
Energy erupts. 
Focus returns. 

I have fun. 

Free at last! Free at last!

Well, how long will it last?

Days on end, I hope. 

Physically my body's a miracle, according to the professionals as I'm told I defy odds with each passing day. 

Though my PSA numbers for my Prostate are off the charts and the odds say it's new cancer but there's all these test I have to take first to make certain. 

Plus the trip to the plastic surgeon to cut off the new skin cancer. 

I'm carrying it well I'm told. 

Looking good even!

"He's the healthiest looking person with that much cancer I've ever seen," Laurel writes.  

Anyway, I don't care. 

I felt good all day yesterday. 

And today?

So far ... so good.

Tropically Depressed

"How's the drive to Mayo every month now? Going on two years isn't it? You sick of this drive?"

My brother David asks, driving his brand new white pickup truck, stepping in at the last second to take me as the days of me going much anywhere alone are gone. 

I'm staring at the Sydney Lanier Bridge across the broad savanna between I-95 and Brunswick, specifically at the Marsh.  

I love the Marshes. 

"The smell of the Marsh is the aroma of sex in the Tropics," Marshall Chapman said, and throughout my life, I've lived in awe of their beauty. 

"No," I finally answer, "it gets me out.  I love being out. It's beautiful. I don't mind the drive."

David stares silently ahead listening. 

"I love being out. Going places again. Seeing how fast everything is changing."

"Have you been touched by depression?" he asks, jerking the conversation in another direction while continuing to stare, and drive, straight ahead. 

The slap of tires rhythmically hitting the road fills the silence for a spell.    . 

"That's a word Sarah and I toss around lately," I finally answer. 

Shades of green fly passed the window, under a clear blue sky with white cotton Candy mountains floating overhead. 

"How does anyone who's depressed know they're depressed?" I smirk. 

David shares a time when he struggled and gives a great pep talk. When he's done I feel our team will beat anyones. 

"Sarah and I have wondered aloud about that word the last few days," I say as traffic thickens at the JAX Airport Exit. 

We both worry about the other. 

Sarah wonders if I'm getting depressed as I stare off into space, don't answer direct questions or lose what we're talking about as we're talking!

I wonder if the weight of everything she carries is finally wearing her down, which makes her work even harder while maintaining a "normal" home environment for the girls while caring for herself!

"Do you think you are?" she asks as we talk after dinner. 

"No, do you think you are?" I reply. 

We agree we're not. 

At least not yet anyway. 

But we could be. 

Honestly Sarah's too busy to be depressed, although she could reach a tipping point and spontaneously combust. 

And no matter what's going on in my world, I'm doing my very best to find fun wherever I can, laugh as much as possible, play with Che, Tweet craziness, help Sarah if possible and tell her just how beautiful she is. 

And that's okay. 

I have tons to do myself while I'm vertical, mobile and seem to be speaking intelligible today. 

Most every afternoon we've been getting spectacular Thunderstorms. As lightning flashes and thunder cracks, Sarah, Che and I snuggle on the sofas and Lainey, our Dalmatian, is scared to death and desperately wants Sarah to hold her. 

The truth is we have constructed our own private sanctuary where we block out cancer, anything that takes too much energy which unfortunately include lots of people because we choose to focus our limited energies on what's most important, which is us. 

Eventually Lainey ends up on the sofa too, where we hunker down in each other's arms, hugging, laughing and enjoying it as tropical storms rage all around us. 

Making Movie Magic

I receive a lot of prayers from family, friends and well wishers.  

At least, folks tell me they're praying but I have no idea if they're just saying that to be nice or if there's more to it. 

Is meaning to pray the same as praying?

God only knows!

Anyway, many folks tell me they're praying for a miracle and I'm proud to say one happened yesterday. 

Sarah's day began before she woke up as clients canceled appointments so as soon as possible, she's forced to rearrange an already over scheduled work day. 

Somehow, as my Wonder of a Woman does several hundred things at once, she shoots me a text of a movie Che might like. 

The last couple of weeks have been tough ones for me. Everything I do seems to have been coated in glue.  I'm perpetually exhausted and out of focus, adding to Sarah's burdens.

Then, out of nowhere, I have just enough energy and a Daddy/Daughter date magically happens!

While Sarah tracks down wandering clients, Che and I somehow make it to Victory Drive Cinema's, purchase two $3 tickets to see "Mummies", purchase a $3 Combo Meal and settle in for the show. 

Che only stays in her seat until the previews are over before climbing into my lap in the marvelous reclining seats. 

We almost make it through the entire movie!

Thankfully, back home, Che's content to play on her IPad beside me on the sofa as I collapse again into the glue. 

Miracles don't last forever and that somehow taints them for us.

I remind myself of this, stumbling outside to smoke some medicine. 

"Da," Che asks when I return, "how we gonna find out how the movie ends?"

"Hmmm, I don't know Che-Bay."

"Yeah," she softly mumbles, returning her attention to her IPad, "Mom will figure it out."

May as well play

After our surgeon, Dr. Senkowski, successfully cut and carved 99% of the cancer out, rearranging various internal organs and actually throwing a couple away, he broke up with us. 

It was abrupt. 

"There's nothing else I can do for you you," he grinned, "but when you need a port installed, I'm your guy."

Sarah and I were devastated. 

We've rebounded though with Dr. Jason Starr, our oncologist, who was very clear that his is a lifelong commitment!

My life. 

Dr. Starr and Sarah intensely stare at three pictures of the cancer growing inside, which is visible to the naked eye.

"The growth is in millimeters," he explains, minimizing the disturbing expansion. 

"But a millimeter in the University of Georgia National Championship came was huge," Sarah says. 

Dr. Starr's scrunches up before his eyes dance and he laughingly agrees, "A millimeter is huge in that context."

I beam proudly at my wife, glance at the computer screen but have no desire to "eyeball" it. 

In terms of treatment, Dr. Starr recommends continuing monthly injections and monitor the cancer's growth. 

"I've got one patient that has the exact same thing as you and I've been treating her for 20 years," Dr. Starr smiles. 

"Who cares!" I laugh. 

He looks bewildered as I continue, "She's your outliner. She's the exception and not the rule. Every Doctor's got one. Let's talk about me."

The world stops for a second. 

There is no sound. 

There is no time, the second seems as a thousand years. 

There is hope. 

With his head tilted down, large coweyes stare intensely through black framed glasses over cupped hands, resting on a mostly black beard. 

Sarah's waits, staring intensely at the Doctor staring at me. 

"We understand," I continued, "I'm in pretty rare air! Stage 4 Pancreatic cancer for 3 years now. Not many people can say that."

The pregnant silence returns and a second is as a million years again. 

Slowly, he leans forward in his chair, smiles solemnly and says, "Play with your little girl as much as you can." 

And I laugh out loud. 

Sarah joins in and as we all stand, I impulsively hug Jason who returns in kind. 

It is a holy moment. 

With  his arm still around my waist, he guides Sarah and I down the hall, stopping at the Nurses station while explaining his 7 year old who lives in fear of his Dad dying. 

"How do you two talk to Che about it?"

Sarah explains we're honest about everything and the conversation continues as through we're friends talking about their kids over morning coffee. 

Except to the Nurses, all frozen at their stations, staring while pretending to not stare, and hanging on our every word. 

We retrieved Che and Cassidy from the hotel we'd stayed at for the 2 days for testing. 

"What did the Doctor say?" the girls ask as Sarah drives us to Zaxby's. 

"It's playtime," we explain, as Sarah drives us home.

Mayo Road Trip

On the downside I can't do "Battle Royal's", where I lay on the ground and wrestle with Che. Every battle ended with us rolling in the yard, laughingly hugging face to face, and I inhale the hot breath of pure joyous laughter eyeball-to-eyeball. 

On the upside, Sarah purchased and put together a 3 feet deep pool in our backyard, and I can float and Che attacks me, we wrestle, laughing face to face spitting water and huge gulps of hot pure joy.  

"The Lord always provides a way," I was taught going up, and that may well be but, the sad fact is, I'm not physically capable of doing things I was doing a few short months ago. 

It grates on me. 

Like Seasoning Salt. 

Reaching for it, the extra tall bottle with the bright red cap, the Seasoning Salt isn't in it's place among Sarah's alphabetically ordered spices. 

Three days later, I find it by the Olive Oil in the cabinet above the stove. 

"How did it get there?" Sarah laughs exhaustively. 

"I have no idea," I muse, having no recollection whatsoever. 

"It's so frustrating," I sigh, feeling defeated. 

"Oh honey, it's nothing," Sarah scoffs, trying to make me feel better. "Everybody misplaces things like that."

Honestly, we're aware of the constant acceptance of slowly losing control over things I've always easily commanded. We worry what these omens mean for our future and they weigh heavily on us. 

I used to write it out of me, effortlessly crafting letters, articles, books, blogs and songs but the energy and focus required are things I now struggle to maintain. 

Thank God for Twitter. Interacting with people around the world in 280 characters is tremendously fun, well within my manageable focus and energy. 

All my life, regardless of the situation I find myself, I've tried to find the fun in it and things usually get better. 

Usually. 

We're under no illusions anything's going to improve this time. 

On Twitter I boast I'm, "defying death by coloring with Che" posting a pic of our works in progress. 

We understand what an outliner I'm becoming and what an accomplishment it is to be living, and doing okay, with stage 4 pancreatic cancer after 3 years!

Sarah and I rarely discuss these things, choosing instead to focusing completely on the day we've been gifted. 

On the one hand, all the news we get is usually bad. 

On the other hand, Sarah, Che and I have wonderful days playing UNO, Monopoly, Legos, making art, feeding turtles, cooking, lounging in a 3 ft back yard pool and, sometimes, we dance. 

That's how I look at it. 

Sarah let's me live as though these are the only things to think about though, I know she lives a whole other life, handling everything so I can focus exclusively on living.  It means she enables me to seek out the joys with the people and things I love most. 

I see how hard caregiving is for her. 

Today is a family trip to the Mayo Clinic for 2 days of tests and meetings. I'm sitting in the backseat with Che. Sarah's driving Cassidy's car because the air conditioner's broken in her's. Cass sits in the passenger seat. 

We're spending the night as this is likely our "summer trip" and Che's  beside herself with excitement. 

"TODAY IS MAYO DAY!" she said as soon as she woke up, asking me to help pack her backpack, hours before it's time to leave. 

The downside is this regiment is wearing us out. 

The upside is FAMILY ROAD TRIP!!

What's not to love?

Cloud Heart dancing with the Moon

 

I am having the shittiest day. 

Everything I do is slow motion. I struggle to remain focused. I'm short with Che. I constantly get in Sarah's way and can't seem to stop. I have lots of great thoughts flying by but struggle to grab hold of any, so I stare off, perplexed trying to make myself remember what I literally just thought.  

Somehow, I don't know how, I still go through the motions. I care for Che, follow Lainey as she drags me around for exercise, wash dishes and put them away (albeit often in the most interesting places). I read when I can, listen to tons of music, play on Twitter and pull weeds in the backyard. 

And thankfully, I'm gifted with Weed, which I smoke sitting under an umbrella while I pray, despair, question, count my blessings or, sometimes, blissfully fall into a 3 Mile stare for undetermined periods of time because "a minute is a million years".

Sarah's equally exhausted, conducting an orchestra that never stops, with instruments constantly breaking, temperamental musicians, adoring audiences to the point of suffocation and her own questions, thoughts and feelings. 

At the moment, I'm outside watching Che swim in the kiddie pool Sarah got and put together for us. Che's waiting on a friend to arrive, after spending a fair portion of the morning playing with another friend. 

Sarah's trying to take a few minutes for herself, though I'm certain she's working on something for someone, so I'm watching Che. 

Our daughter happily splashes imaginary games as I light the pipe, hoping for a second of infinity before her friend arrives.  

"DADDY! DA! DA!," Che suddenly screams. "A HEART CLOUD AND THE MOON!"

Staring through the flame, my eyes follow the point of Che's arm and look up. 

"IT'S FOR US DADDY! THE HEART CLOUD AND THE MOON! THEY ARE FOR US DADDY!"

Impulsively, I snap a photo between puffs while simultaneously going inside to tell Sarah. 

The cloud dissipates quickly.  

Che's friend arrives. 

Sarah's suddenly busy scheduling me another Doctor's appointment because of a suspicious looking bump. 

I resume my place under the umbrella, now wondering about signs from Heaven on an otherwise shitty day.  

Dad's Carnival of Angels

Mostly she loved my Dad, a seemingly impossible task, because my Father was something ... a giant of a heart with a teenager's soul, a great streak of bad luck surrounded with the best of friends and a sense of humor that could laugh at Hitler.

"You know why Hitler hated Golf?" 

I can hear him asking, eyes already moist from the explosion of laughter that follows the punch line.

"Because he always finished in the Bunker."

Mom put up with ... even encouraged ... him.

Once, at the Athens Holiday Inn while we're at the game, pulling for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia, Dad and Robie Hester order a case of beer from room service.  They want to ensure there would be plenty when we return and neither wanted to walk to the store because they were watching the game on television. 

Everything was fine until they got the bill, when both blamed the other for being too lazy to walk to the store. 

Awe Dad, you were something. 

There was a time when I was busy trying to change the world and you were busy enjoying life when we'd sometimes sneak off together and share a pitcher of beer at the Captain's Quarter. 

We talked about everything. 

And we had fun sitting in the dark, dank watering hole. 

That's how I see you now. 

You were in your 50s then, with a Babe Ruth body from playing golf every day, and constantly busy with a boatload of friends. 

We clicked beer mugs and toasted being together again. 

Today Che and Sarah will take me out to celebrate Father's Day and I wish to God you could be there Dad. 

Lord you would love them so. 

I'll get a beer today in a frosty mug and toast you like I do every year, and I know that you'll take a moment to step away from the carnival of Angels you drink with at Heaven's Dive Bar, to tip your mug back at me. 

I love you Dad. 

Happy Father's Day.

Feeding Turtles

Now that schools out, Che's taking to accompanying Lainey on her

Morning drag of me through the neighborhood, which we call "exercise.

Down the street, behind the Library and the school, there's a path through the woods. It's a spectacular trek, dotted with lagoons, ball fields, patches of thick woods, an outdoor assembly ground and a playground for kids.

The lagoons are stocked, beaming with fish and turtles, which Che loves to feed. 

Everything about Lainey dragging me for morning exercise, and what's involved, has changed because of Che. 

She has to dress right before we leave and it's usually some theme. She's a Fairy, a police officer or a spy. I never know. 

Then she packs, something I never found necessary. Lollipops, Gold Fish, gum with food for the Turtles thrown in a backpack with other miscellaneous things she may need. 

It weights 32 lbs and I know I'm going to carry it soon after the walk starts. 

I use this time to smoke a lot of medicine. 

A lot!

As Che yells she and Lainey are ready, I eventually join them after enjoying personal hygiene products. 

She hands me the lease and, Lainey immediately jerks me out the house so quickly Che has to run to keep up. 

We find a pace and stroll along tall Pine Trees, a football field, a large lagoon full of egrets, Lilly pads and frogs.  

And we talk. 

"Da, when Mom and you are gone, Jacob and I are going to live in our house," she says sweetly holding my hand. 

"What? When Mom and I are gone?"

"You know," she explains pulling me along, "when you're dead."

"Yeah?" I ask, completely intrigued. 

"You're old Da, so you will die first. Then Mom. So Jacob and I will get married, move in, and Lainey and HopHop will already be there and we will take over your bed. We will change Cassidy's room to be my office and for my art supplies." 

"You are your Mother's child," I smile. 

"Jacob will take care of the animals because I'll have to work," she continues. 

"You two have really thought this through."

"But," she sighs, "we will also have a place in New York and the Beach."

I howl in laughter. 

The picturesque lagoon teams with fish and turtles accustomed to being fed so they flock to Che holding a stick of celery, which they eat from her hand. 

She squeals in joy and actually pets one. 

"Mom has to come!" Che proclaims. 

After the turtles are full, we have snacks and I learn Che's belly button, an innie, is big enough to hide a "Smarty."

Dragging me back, we talk about things we're going to do and what Mom's got up her sleeve because Sarah forever comes up with the most wonderful excursions or things for us to enjoy together. 

Before we make it back she's already playing with a neighbor. 

Inside I unleash Lainey and collapse on the sofa.  

As soon as I can, I smoke some medicine. 

Sarah gracefully floats in, immaculately dressed, taking a break from the several billion things she manages, asking me how it went. 

"Well," I begin slowly, "she really wants you to come so we have a family time feeding the turtles."

"Of course," Sarah laughs, pouring a glass of Lemonade. 

"But then after we're gone, she and Jacob have it all figured out."

"What?" my wife asks. 

So I let her know what's coming. 

Family Pier Pressure

Want to go to the Beach?" Sarah asks, munching on a veggie burger.  

Sighing heavily, I shake my head, "Not today."

"Che you want to go to the Beach?" she yells, turning her attention elsewhere. 

"YEAH!" she screeches, racing to her bedroom to change. 

Sarah puts on a bikini and packs a cooler. 

They're excited and as I watch them apply suntan lotion, I feel deflated. 

I'm so tired.

All of the time.

But there's no way in Hell I'm not going with them regardless of how bad I feel. 

"Yeah," I finally say, "Dad's coming."

"YEAH!" Che explodes. 

"Put sunscreen on," Sarah says, lovingly rubbing my shoulder and shooing me off to get ready. 

So we go to the Beach. 

"We had to get out," Sarah says with her toes in the sand. 

"Yep," I say, lost in the love of a wonder of a woman. 

"Da, get in the water with me," so I grab a chair and sit beside Che, submerged in a Tidal Pool pretending she's a Mermaid. 

Fairy Health Care

 

Dad, if you drink enough water you can live to be a hundred," she says, dressed as Fairy, walking our dog Lainey. 

"I drink water," I reply, lagging behind them. 

Lainey jerks the leash and she and Che take off in a dead run, fairy wings flapping behind her. 

Pausing under a tree, I catch my breath under a brilliant blue sky. 

In the distance I see that they've turned and returning in the same dead run. 

Stopping directly in front of me, showing no signs of expending any energy at all, not out of breath or flush, and looks exactly like a beautiful Fairy missing her two front teeth. 

"I want you to live to be one hundred," she says seriously, looking me straight in the eye. 

"Well, me too," I laugh. "I'm giving it my best shot."

Turning she grabs my hand and we resume our walk. 

"You drink lots of water Dad. It makes you healthy. That's why I am so healthy."

"Got it," I smile as Lainey drags us to the woods.