My Interview with Death

I'm here with Death, also known as the Grim Reaper, The Destroyer, The Hooded One, The Angel of Death, & The "God" of Death.

Death's always around and SHE's agreed to answer a few questions.

The first thing to know about the Grim Reaper is she's a woman. 

Honestly I'm a bit surprised and I don't know why I presumed Death is exclusively man work so I want to begin by apologizing.

"Oh that's all right. If I think people are too sexist I just take them ... you know what I'm saying?"

I nod and wait. 

"You're still here so I'm alright with you," she smirks. 

I exhale a sigh of relief. 

"Besides I don't know why everybody's so shocked to find out I'm female. Like all women I'm into fashion and set the trend to dress in black ages ago! That's why so many women dress in black today and I'm happy to see it crossing over sexual lines and men dressing in black too ... especially in large urban areas and across Europe."

"So is this where the phrase 'dress to kill' comes from?"

"Of course," she flashes a brilliant grin. 

"I've got several questions everybody's always wanted to ask you so do you mind if we get right to it?," I forge ahead. 

"Not at all."

"Good! Okay first question ... Beatles or Stones?

"Well ... obviously The Rolling Stones."

Because of "Sympathy for the Devil"?

"No! Because I'm so sick of the opening riff of 'Satisfaction' it inspires my work. That's why I haven't taken Keith Richards ... I think it hurts him more to listen to that damn opening riff every single day he's alive."

"I see."

"Next question ... you seem to work in 3's ... meaning people seem to die in 3's ... one ... two ... three ... why is that?"

"Honestly it's because I like Sudoku. I can't get enough of it. So three at a time is all I can manage before I take a break and play some more."

"Sudoku? Really?"

"It's better than wasting time on Facebook."

"Right. So ... why are you so white? I'm wearing sunglasses just to conduct this interview. Don't you ever get out in the sun? Have a little Beach time?"

"Well I do own a time share in Myrtle Beach which I'm always using to comp customers ..."

"Wait! Comp Customers? Who's your customer?"

"Funeral Homes, elected officials and televangelists."

"Of course ... um ... what can we expect from you in the future?"

"More of the same. It's a pretty boring job but ... it's a living."

"That's funny," I laugh. 

"Oh?" she asks in a not so pleasant way and the interview is abruptly over. 

Death disappears and I'm left alone holding my pipe in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. 

It's good I'd asked all the important questions already and I'm satisfied with the results.

Leaving the table to find Sarah and Che, I stop dead in my tracks as Alexa plays the opening riff to "I can't get no satisfaction."

A Tiny White Bible

Sailing down I-95, rushing to appointments at the Mayo Clinic, I

reach into Kristen's glove compartment for a napkin.

"Oh," she says, "I don't have any but there is something in there you should get," my daughter smiles. 

Reaching blindly into the dashboard my hand rests upon a tiny book, which I pick up. 

Touching the little white Bible, my fingers suddenly catch fire as I feel the old, soft, worn leather. 

Literally! 

It shocks my fingers.

"Dammit," I exclaim, jerking my hand back while still holding onto the tiny Gideon Bible my Grandmother gave my daughter years ago. 

Holding the tiny New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs, I literally feel my Grandmother's presence rushing up through my fingers, up my arms and into my heart, as I can literally feel her flash through my entire body. 

Gasping, joy full tears erupt from my eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Kristen's ask, suddenly concerned, reaching for my hand.

"Nothing," I softly answer. "What a gift.  I can feel her."

Grandma Carver gave it to me," Kristen explains. I keep it with me."

I nod but have nothing to say. The rush of emotion and surprise is a weird, wild spiritual rush.  For a second, my Grandmother fills me up and is just as alive as everyone else in the car. 

I hold the Bible, snap a pic and send a text to Sarah sharing what's just happened. 

"You okay Dad?" Kris repeats, grabbing my hand and not letting go. 

"Yeah," I say, wiping my eyes, "I'm good. What a gift!"

I stare out of the window at the marshes of Glynn silently and wondrously, as we sail down I-95, feeling much loved. 

The Happiness of the Bell

 

Waiting on my name to be called, I feel a commotion happening at the Mayo Clinic and look up to see a family gather to watch her ring the bell. 

A slender, dark skinned woman with the brightest of smiles, and one forceful tug, yanks the rope. 

TING! it loudly clangs and echoes. 

Surrounding her in hugs, whooping and yelling, they dance. 

I can't help but smile, happy for her, and her family still dancing in hugs and smiling for pictures. I send Sarah a quick text to share what I'm watching. 

"I may ding it on the way out," I type. "Close as I'll ever get."

"Yep," my wife replies. 

"Micheal!" I hear suddenly, breaking my smile. 

Standing, I take a last look at the happiness of the bell, then force myself to follow the Nurse into the room for my injection. 

When I walk out, the happy family and friends are gone but my daughter Kristen sits, waiting. 

She rushes over, grabs my arm to lead me out and says, "I got you beer in the car."

When Sarah's not with me, I make it a point to find something I enjoy after an injection and that's normally beer for the ride home. 

Turning up the music as she drives, Kris gives me lots of space to see how the shot affects me. 

Sometimes, I get violently sick and pass out. Other times, it's days before I feel any effects. I never know. 

Tom Petty's wandering through the wildflowers, Kristen's singing along, I stare out the window, sip beer and text Sarah. 

"My entire life I have ridden down and up I-95 listening to great music and drinking beer ... I love and relish each and every time ... some way more than others."

A heart emoji appears. 

"Eternity is a long time, especially towards the end," Stephen Hawking said and it always gives me pause whenever it comes to mind, as I sip beer, listening to Kristen and Tom Petty sing about somewhere you'll feel free, ready to be home. 

I don't know how she knows

I don't know how she knows but she knows. 

"You look so sad Da," Che says last night, roller skating through the living room. 

I'm hunched over in a chair at the dinning room table, head in my hands, as Sarah prepares dinner after being away at work all day. 

She's bone dead tired too. 

Skating over, Che slams headfirst in my lap, crawls on me, sitting on me. 

Sarah watches us as she cooks. 

Later as I tuck her in for the night, Che hugs me tightly and says, "Sleep with me Da."

Smiling, loving it, I tell her I'll hold her tight in the morning, kiss her once more and turn out the light. 

The morning starts a little after midnight and I settle into dark hours of contemplation, prayer and Twitter. 

I'm off to the Mayo Clinic for a day of tests and a chemical cocktail today. Che has a field trip at school and Sarah has work deadlines that must be met and our lives to manage. 

I'm preoccupied, lost in music and my own thoughts, standing in the kitchen when I hear, "Da."

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, staring at me from the sofa, clutching her blanket and "Baby", Che says, "I just want to be with you."

So we cuddle together in the dark, her head in my lap as she watches her IPad as I resume contemplation, prayers and scrolling.

Wishing for Granddad

At dinner, Che's talking about her grandparents and how she only has one grandpa now. 

"I told Da," she tells Sarah, "that if I could I would bring him back to you."

Sarah smiles and nods. 

"Where's he buried?" Che prods. 

We explain that he was cremated and what means. 

"Aunt Angie has him in an urn. When Georgia plays football, she sits him in a chair with a beer to watch the game," I add. 

"I wish I could meet him."

"Awe, he would have eaten you and your Mom up," I wistfully sigh. 

"If Aunt Angie has him then she can she bring him so I can meet him."

Sarah and I erupt in laughter!

"Why not?" I giggle, sending Angi a text that, if she has room when she visits Mom next week, to bring Dad too. 

His youngest granddaughter is dying to meet him. 

My Budtender

"How can I help you?"

"I have three different cancers and want whatever will make me feel the best," I answer. "You know, euphoric and psychedelic."

This is my first experience with a "Budtender", a professional dispenser of fine cannabis products. Much like a bartender, though seemingly more "medical" in diagnosing what will best meet my needs.

"He could use something to help him sleep," Sarah adds.

"Well, that's true," I laugh shaking my head, "but that's secondary in relation to my other needs."

"Something that helps sleep," Sarah repeats, and our Budtender, obviously an astute detector of who's in charge, immediately whips out a nicely packaged assortment of gummies.

"This will do it," he recommends with smiling conviction.

"I'd rather have the ...," I begin but Sarah takes his recommendation, as he types the order into his hand held computer.

Henry, our son-in-law, points out something he's used for sleep but our Budtender laughs while shaking his head, points at the black box of black gummies, and says, "Trust me! This will be fine."

"Now," he resumes, looking directly at me, finally addressing my particular needs, "for you I recommend ..."

"Perfect," I say, "we'll take two."

Checking out is no different from any other doctor's office except there's a long line of happy, smiling customers. Except here's affordable, unlike any America's Doctor's office.

Later, after a full afternoon enjoying family fun, we're crowded together on daughter Laurel's sofas and air mattresses, talking and laughing when everyone decides bed time's getting close.

"I think I'll try one of the sleep gummies," I announce.

No one in my family pays attention as they talk, laugh and continue to enjoy being together again.

After a few minutes of talking and laughing with them, I'm not really sure what happens.

Rob, Laurel's dashing most significant other, is suddenly grabbing me as, apparently, I'm topping over.

"Shouldn't we take his coat off?" Rob asks, holding me upright while Maddie and Henry grab my legs to swing them onto the bed.

Sarah says, "just leave his coat on. He'll be fine."

Che meanders over, kisses my forehead, and says "Poor Daddy".

"He's shaking," Maddie says.

"Give him blankets," Sarah instructs, so Henry throws a blanket on me.

Sometime the next morning, when I wake up, I stare at everyone who's already up staring at me.

"You slept all night," Sarah says.

"I'll be damn," I croak, grinning.

We learned a lot on this amazing, unlikely, slightly miraculous road trip, Sarah, Maddie, Henry, Laurel and Rob concocted.

Listen to your Budtender, is one a big one. 

Birthday Magic

 

Sarah asks Che what she wants for her birthday dinner. 

"Calzone and French Fries," is the answer so we head across islands to Basils, a local favorite. 

Everyone's delighted to learn the "The Salt Flat Pickers" are playing live bluegrass music. 

At some point, Che grabs my arm and says, "It's your Dad's birthday."

Dad died years ago so her only frame of reference is hearing me occasionally talk about him, so I'm flabbergasted. 

A few months ago, sitting on the sofa together, Che puts her arm around my neck, and whispers in my ear. 

"Da, if I could bring anyone back, I would bring back your Dad."

"What?" I exclaim, stunned, still feeling her warm, wet breath in my ear. 

"You miss him," she explained cuddling. "That makes you sad. I don't want you to be sad."

Now, months later, with no prompting or reminding, our now 7 year old, remembers the Grandfather she never met and reminds me to celebrate him. 

Che points at the beer poured in my newly gifted University of Georgia "2001 National Championship" glass. 

Back in the day, Dad and I would sneak off and share a pitcher of beer together, and visit, talk and joke. 

You couldn't talk to my Dad without hearing jokes. 

Since his death, I've toasted his birthday with a beer but have been so busy celebrating Che, I'd really not given him much thought.  

My brother David had posted some old photographs earlier of Dad which gave me pause to  celebrate the gift he remains to us. 

Che points at my glass, which I hoist to my lips and softly say, "Hey Dad."

Sarah pats my leg under the table. 

What a birthday it turns out to be, complete with a magic you don't see much anymore, and a Granddaughter reaching across time and space to touch a ghost, bringing him to the party one more time. 

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.