Monday, December 29, 2008

I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter*

Holiday highlights in pictures.....

Dad waiting impatiently for the kids to come home and find the kitten Santa
left on the doorstep:

New kitten in basket, tired from that long sleigh ride from the North Pole:

Henry, very happy, holding Moses (he came in a basket, what else were we going to name him!):

'Real' letter from Santa:

Christmas has come and gone, and here we are, on the cusp of a New Year. I have written a number of journal entries in my head, but none have made it this far. So many of my thoughts have just been too personal, not something I feel is meant for public consumption. I think my reality is a little too real for a lot of people.

We made the best out of Christmas that we could. It wasn't Dad's best time - he was doing really well about a week before Christmas, and then not so much on the holiday itself. The saturday before, he came over and made spritz cookies, and I made steak frites and pomme frites. We even had Belgian beer - and Dad remarked that he didn't need to travel to Belgium now, because surely the food couldn't be any better than this. We had a really wonderful day and evening with him, and Mom said that was his Christmas! We're never able to predict how he's going to feel from one day to the next. He can have three or four really great days, where he's lucid and walks well, and can carry on a conversation and follow things, and then we'll have a week where it's just not good. And the bad days can wear on you to the point where you wonder, really, how much longer you can go on and be strong. 

People ask me a lot how things are, or how Dad is. And sometimes, I have a hard time answering, because it's not a simple reply. At least, not at the heart of it. Because the reality is this: even when the news from the doctors is 'good' - and I use this term loosely - our lives with Dad, and his life, doesn't change. He's still difficult to deal with. Sometimes he gets angry, combative, mean. Then the next moment, he's fearful and contrite and sad. His mind doesn't work so well, he can't remember things, or his brain gets stuck in this 'loop' and he'll become obsessed with a certain train of thought that he'll repeat over and over. He's frail, his clothes hang on him. He shuffles when he walks, he's unsteady and weak. We live in fear that he'll fall and get hurt. Sometimes, his face will look so blank, just like there's no one in there, and I wonder where my father has gone, and if he'll ever come back to me.

The reality of cancer is not pretty. But this, as I've said, is our new normal, and we make the best of it that we can. Some days, I handle it with grace, and some days, I don't. I'm grateful for his good days, and sad and angry at the bad ones. So much of who my Dad was is already gone, and that, some days, is just too much to bear.

Thank you all for your concern and friendship this past year. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday spent with those you love. Here's wishing us all peace and health 2009.

*all my blog titles, in case you haven't figured it out, are song lyrics. Usually whatever I'm listening to at the time. This is from the Tori Amos song "Winter"

Sunday, November 30, 2008

"these are the things that take my breath away..."

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.

We've all done things, said things that we're not proud of. Maybe we had the best of intentions and it came out wrong. Maybe we had every intention of hurting someone. Maybe it was just ignorance, and we walked by, blissfully unaware of the pain we caused. Whatever the excuse, we have all done it. As I've grown older, I've started to think more about those wrongs committed on my part, I crave absolution and forgiveness. 

I had a friend some years back that I hurt deeply. I can sit and rationalize that everything I said was true, and that I was concerned about her life, her path, her children, but in the end... I judged her. I may have had the best of intentions, but it was poorly, terribly executed, and it cost me a friendship, one that I never ceased missing. Now, many years later, I'm mortified that I would ever judge someone I cared about so harshly. I don't want anyone judging me or my actions, and there is nothing about my life that puts me above anyone else. And I've learned over the years that there are some things you just keep to yourself - I think deep down, we are all well aware of our faults and shortcomings. None of us need them pointed out, it serves nothing but the make the other person feel terrible. 

I never thought this friendship was salvageable. I assumed I was beyond any sort of redemption in her eyes. I figured, at some point, I would run into her, and she would rip into me. And I felt she had every right. I felt I deserved it. Years went by, and I did see her out and about. She was always nice, pleasant, if a little guarded. I still waited for the other shoe to drop, until one day, through the strange miracle of Facebook, I found myself at her house for a Thanksgiving get together. Deep down, I still figured she must despise me, and I still felt I deserved it. 

The thing that struck me hard, I mean really blew me away, was her kindness to Dad. She hasn't seen him in years - probably since my wedding. She talked to him, made sure he got in line for food, introduced him to her friends. It was a selflessness that defies explanation, and I was, and continue to be, deeply humbled by it. The funny thing about forgiveness is: we often forget to forgive ourselves. We beat ourselves up over things we can't go back and change. We sit in an imaginary confessional, knowing full well that no amount of Hail Marys will take the bricks from our shoulders. When you go to church, and you confess your sins, do they really just go away? Does the hurt you caused cease to exist? Maybe the absolution serves as a placebo for the real thing. Because when it comes? It will take your breath away.

Thanksgiving this year had a deeper meaning for us: another holiday Dad has survived. I mentally tick them off in my head, a little morbid laundry list of things I hope to get to do with Dad before he dies. After five or so good days with Dad, we had a rough holiday. He was out of it again, and weak, nearly falling several times at my house. He was determined to go to Squaw Creek today with a friend to see the eagles. Mom and I were very concerned, but as usual, he pulled through and did fine. I talked to him tonight and he sounded like himself. We never know from one day to the next how he'll feel. We don't know what the future holds anymore.

Monday, November 24, 2008

sometimes it snows in April

In the end, sometimes, this is all that's left......

It's been a rough few weeks for our little family. Dad had a much more difficult time tolerating chemo, and had about a week of severe weakness and exhaustion. He was 'out of it' most of the time, it was difficult. He's made his way past the worst of it, and we've enjoyed several days of him being like himself. 

Last Tuesday, I woke up to our kitten, Mendel, falling off the bed. He seemed to lose use of his front legs. The vet was unable to find an underlying cause, but tried steroids and antibiotics, hoping it was an infection or parasite, but by Wednesday night he began having seizures, and by the middle of the night, I was up with him every 15-20 minutes. At one point, wrapping him in a blanket because I was afraid he'd injure himself after the 5th fall off the bed. By morning, what I had to do was painfully clear. I've never heard my daughter cry quite like this before, it was a wail of true pain and anguish. My kids, these last few months, have learned some difficult lessons: sometimes things can't be fixed. Sometimes doctors can't make you better. 

So, we lost our 7 month old kitten. Dad was devastated. Mendel had brought him so much joy. He said 'I didn't think I'd outlive the kitten.' On Wednesday night, when I was still vacillating as to what to do, he said to Mom 'If I'm ever suffering as much as Mendel, please put me out of my misery.' That offered me a real moment of clarity. We offer our pets more dignity in death then the people we love. That's something I can't understand.

Last night, as I tried to fall asleep, I felt like my brain was on repeat. I kept thinking: Leo is gone. Mendel is gone. And soon Dad will be gone. It was like a broken record, over and over, and I laid in bed and cried in the dark. I sometimes feel like the world is going on without me, and I move in slow motion, dwelling in an alternate reality, unable to really communicate with anyone outside of what I deal with. It's a hard path to travel, but we all eventually walk it. We all have to lose our parents sometime, face our own mortality and fear of death. I'd like to say that everyday I carry myself with dignity and grace and handle things perfectly (with a clean house) but I don't. I struggle and get angry. I lose my patience. I want to hide from my kids sometimes. But I keep going. We all do, we have to ride the roller coaster until the end.

Until then, we try to find joy in our lives, and there is always joy to be found. Even if you have to look a little harder some days. We celebrated Tyler's 13th birthday, and I felt gratitude that Dad was there. Now we look on to Thanksgiving and all the preparations that go with it, and I feel relieved that we've passed another milestone. 

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. Be sure to look for the joy. 

Friday, November 7, 2008

I am happy to report that the compression fractures are from his previous injury in 2004. For some reason, it didn't show up in the prior CT scans, so they thought it was something new. Thankfully, it is not! Dr. Kelly is also going to take him off of the Carboplatin, as Dad has suffered significant hearing loss from it. He will continue to get just the Taxol, and we're hoping that we'll get the same results from just the one drug. Dad is doing remarkably well for now, and we're relieved and grateful. 

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

"There will, in my life, be other good nights. But none of them will ever be as good as this one."

                                  (Still life with Addie's foot and Obama. The morning after.)

When I was in highschool, I was obsessed with the 60's. The culture, the music, the politics, the movement of change, reform, and civil rights. I wore tie dye and listened to Hendrix. I read the speeches of Martin Luther King and watched tapes of JFK in Berlin. I wanted to be a part of something like that, to be a witness to real history. I thought I'd never experience anything like that in my lifetime. Until now.

I asked Dad the other day if this was what it was like when Kennedy ran. After a moment in thought, he said "no, this is bigger." Mom agreed that while the 60's were a time of change, they were also a time of great sadness and strife. This is bigger. This is hope. Last night, I thought of the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Belloq says to Indy as he touches the Ark: "we are simply passing though history. This - this is history." And that was how I - and I'm sure millions of others - felt as I watched Barack Obama take the stage at Grant Park. I'm not sure there will ever be another election in our lifetime that has been as important as this one. I felt a deep sense of gratitude that I was able to share the evening with my parents, my husband, and my kids. When they called it for Obama, we shed our tears, popped the champagne, lit some sparklers, and enjoyed the moment. Bob Greene is right, there will be other good nights in my life, but this one is going to stand out in mine and my kids memory for several reasons. 

We have been awaiting the test results to Dad's PET scan he had on Friday. I wanted to wait to blog until we knew something, but we're still waiting. He had a CT last Tuesday, and they were concerned about 3 compression fractures in his spine. He has severe osteoporosis, and it could be from that - but it could also be the cancer spreading to the bone. Dr. Kelly seemed fairly concerned, which never does a lot to boost anyone's confidence. All we can do now is wait and pray. The other results of the CT looked good - more shrinkage in the lung tumor, and no change in the spots on the liver. 

Mom and Dad were overwhelmed  by the surprise generosity of a group of Highlands parents - headed up by the incomparable Nicole Browning - who donated money to help with mounting medical bills. I have said all along that Highlands has the coolest group of parents I have ever met, and this just clinches it. I know that there are people who gave who don't even know me, much less my Dad. If that isn't true compassion and generosity, I don't know what is. To just say 'thank you' seems to fall short. I am humbled at everyone's kindness, and it leaves me at a loss for words. I hope you all know how deeply grateful we are, Mom and Dad have been able to get the bill from his stay at Shawnee Mission paid off in full, and that is a very good thing. You are all amazing. You do know that, right?

Sunday, October 19, 2008

"The American story has never been about things coming easy – it’s been about rising to the moment when the moment is hard."

This past Saturday night, I stood in line with 75,000 of my closest friends to see and hear Barack Obama at the Liberty Memorial. Or, as Mom said 'to carry on the family tradition'. 

I went alone, but under different, better circumstances, I would have had both my parents with me. This was of course, not possible, which made it even more important for me to attend. I've spoken about my parent's love of all things political, and about how they have instilled in me the importance of being involved, and knowledgeable, and above all, exercising your right to VOTE! 

When Dad was first diagnosed, and things were so uncertain, Bryan said to me 'he HAS to make it to the election!' And I truly could not fathom going through an election year without him. With two weeks to go, I can't begin to tell you how thrilled and excited I am that he's here, he's still fighting, and he'll be with me on November 4th when we go as a family to cast our ballots. I know there will be elections and holidays and milestones that he won't be here for, but I am thankful right now for this moment, because beyond that, nothing is ever certain. 

My Mom took me to my first rally in 1988. Michael Dukakis at... Avila College, I think? I was 17 and not particularly politically saavy, but I was excited nonetheless. I remember standing in a long line talking with those around us, everyone was jovial despite the cold and the long wait. It's a memory I will always cherish on a sentimental level - but I'm sorry, Mom, this trumps it all. I couldn't feel my feet by the time Obama took the stage, I had a weird old guy with a wispy grey ponytail invading my personal space, I couldn't have moved if my life depended on it - but I didn't care. I was alone, but my family was with me in spirit. Health Care is, and always has been, one of my #1 issues. I have watched my parents struggle with medical bills, even before Dad was diagnosed with cancer. You can imagine my crumbling composure at this part of the speech:

"If I am President, I will finally fix our broken health care system. This issue is personal for me. My mother died of ovarian cancer at the age of 53, and I’ll never forget how she spent the final months of her life lying in a hospital bed, fighting with her insurance company because they claimed that her cancer was a pre-existing condition and didn’t want to pay for treatment. If I am President, I will make sure those insurance companies can never do that again. "

It was waterworks. Change for our broken health care system may come too late for my Dad. But I am passionate in the belief that NO ONE should have to worry about paying hospital bills when they're sick. Health Care is not a privilege for the wealthy, it is a right for all of us. 

I don;t mean to get up on my soapbox, but on a normal day, this is an integral part of our family dynamic. We all cried when Tim Russert died. We often watch Countdown together. We debate, we discuss, we speculate, we monitor polls daily. This is our last hurrah, our last big Election Year as a solid family unit. Two weeks from tomorrow, I'm not just voting for change. I'm voting for my Dad.

Monday, October 13, 2008

“Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit”

First two photos by Scott Hoober

There are two things that my Dad has always been passionate about (not counting politics) and that is photography and the outdoors. Both illustrate my Dad's ability to be a passive observer, a witness to things that maybe the rest of us don't see. As our lives get busy, and busier still, very few of us stop to take in the world around us. We rush from one job to another, to picking up children and bustling them to their various games and lessons. We're entertained by a myriad of gadgets - that in many ways connect us, as evidenced by me writing this and you reading it - but in some ways seems to make us also disconnected. 

As a child, Dad tried his best to make Steven and I appreciate the world and all it had to offer. He made us look at birds, at trees, at clouds. He wanted us to know the different names and properties. He would point to the night sky and which stars were out in summer, and the ones that would make an appearance in winter. I don't think I fully appreciated his passion until I was older, until I realized that most people don't.

I remember a few years ago, driving through Mission Hills, and the shadow of a Very Large Bird flew over my car. I looked up, and a few feet above me, soaring gracefully, was a Great Blue Heron. Not something you expect to see in suburbia. I pulled over and got out to watch it as it landed in a pine tree. A man rode his bike by, and I excitedly pointed it out to him. All I got was a strange look.

He didn't look at the bird. 

I called Dad and he was every bit as intrigued as me. Where did it come from? Where was it migrating to? After that, I began calling him about all my sightings: a wild turkey in my neighbor's yard (the bird, not the bottle), a red tailed hawk eating a squirrel, a grey fox crossing my path during an evening walk, a possum hissing at me before ambling away, vega in the summer sky, a full moon so low in the sky, you'd swear you could touch it, a chorus of frogs in the creek late at night, a family of mallards waddling down brush creek. I find myself doing the same thing to my kids: I once walked home from a long evening stroll carrying a toad to show the kids. It was dark and I carried that thing for about two miles. I woke up the kids to show them and determine if it was a frog or a toad. I have caught snakes in the backyard for the kids to look at. Picked up cicadas so they could touch their shells. Hung preying mantis eggs in the garden, and watched as hundreds of tiny baby mantis' hatched out and scattered in a few minutes. As a result, my kids are as fearless as I am: every creature, every part of nature is beautiful and curious and interesting. There are lessons to be learned in all of it.

I got a bike the other day, and I have covered a lot of ground in the last few days. And I think what I have enjoyed the most is how it makes me observe the city around me - a city I have lived in my entire life - with more clarity and focus. As I came coasting down Ward Parkway today, I reached up and grabbed a leaf off of a maple tree for Addie and her nature collection. I had a brief thought of how lucky I have been to had a Father that gave me this deep appreciation for the Earth. This is probably more deeply rooted in me than any religious dogma ever could be. It makes me feel more connected to him, more like him. 

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

The Day the Whole World Went Away

As of yesterday, it has been six months since Dad was diagnosed. It's a day I will never forget, because it's a shock and pain I never knew possible. I can still see myself, in the parking lot of Whole Foods, getting the call from Mom. "It's lung cancer. They think it's in his brain. They're admitting him." It was like my soul cracked wide open, and I cried in  deep, wrenching sobs. I held my cell phone absentmindedly. I knew I needed to call someone. Anyone. Who would calm me down? Who would know the right thing to say? Diana, of course. What is it about the sound of her voice that is so calming? I don't remember what she said, but I do remember I was able to collect myself together and get home. 

It was a bad day, followed by a succession of very bad days. But as days wore on to weeks and months, this has become my new normal. It's surprising to me how a life absent of cancer can become one consumed by it. There is nothing else in our lives that eats up so much of our energy and time. If not in day to day activities, but in our collective thoughts. All of our lives in this family are held hostage by this disease. And it sucks. 

Another part of 'the new normal' is that my Dad is not the same. He is forgetful. He has trouble processing simple things. He is often confused and hard to understand. There are good days, too, but we never know from one day to the next what the day will hold. Today was chemo day, and I took the morning-to-lunch shift, Mom came in for a little bit, and Steven took the afternoon-to-end of the day shift. It's easier to split it up. They'll do another round of scans in a few weeks, and then decide whether to keep doing treatments without a break, or, if things look good, let him have a break from the chemo. They seem to be scanning him fairly often - every six weeks- which is good, I guess, because I think we'd all be worried and wondering if it's working. But I also know that it's a sign that they're concerned, too, and that doesn't do a lot to assuage my fears. All in all, he is doing remarkably well, considering the first Oncologist we saw told us it ' wasn't worth ' doing treatment. Well, he's still here, so I guess that moron with a God complex was wrong. 

I meant to get a photo of the outside of my parent's house, it looks so nice now. Mom's friend Debbie came over last week and worked for days sanding the front door and shutters - they hadn't been painted in a decade or more - and repainted them black. She's quite the perfectionist, and did a bang up job! She also got a new light for the outside, helped Mom pick out new, updated door hardware, and painted the house numbers black to match. It looks so sharp, and I know Mom and Dad are thrilled. I continued to be amazed at what good friends we all have.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

An inappropriate glimmer of the old Dad

We're driving down the street and he says: "There's this old man's 90th birthday, and his friends get together and send him a hooker. He answers the knock at his door, and there's this gorgeous woman who says 'I'm here to give you super sex' and he thinks for a minute and says 'I'll have the soup.' "

My Dad is King of the off color jokes. When I was younger, I would cringe when I'd hear him say to someone "have you heard the one about....?" Now, it's just nice to see flashes of who he used to be, because most of the time, he seems like a stranger. Everyday is a balancing act, a tightrope walk. For him, for us - there's no certainty or routine. He has really good days and really bad days, and days in between. 

And that's all I know for now.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Where I get nostalgic. Again.

My cousin (second cousin? Third? My Great Aunt Chickie's kid!) sent me a link to a bunch of family photos he had scanned, and I have loved going through them. There are a fair amount of ones of Dad as a child and young adult, and this one in particular got to me. When I blogged about my parent's anniversary, and described them when they were young, this is the image I had in my head. I know that people who haven't seen Dad in awhile are shocked at his appearance, but I see him all the time, and really, I look beyond the frailty. I see this handsome man. Maybe it's because it's too hard to look at him as he really is. Or maybe it's because when you love someone, your love transcends all that's on this earth. We all have to leave this mortal coil at some point, and what's left? Our memories, the people who love us. I hope that we can all live on in some form. 

I'm making apple dumplings tonight, as a surprise for Dad. One of my memories of childhood is going with Dad to Nickel's Diner down in midtown for dumplings. Which was fitting, because the place was a dump! But he insisted they were the best in town, and we'd go tooling down 39th street in our Datsun B210 - this is all before the Health Department shut down the Diner, and before the passenger door on the Datsun had to be tied shut - ah, the salad days! 

I hope that this will bring back good memories for Dad, too.

One more photo, this is one of my favorites. It's of my Dad and his Aunt Chickie. She was only 15 when he was born, as she was the youngest of the three sisters. She is also fighting cancer, so please remember her in your prayers, too.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

How about them apples?

The kind and lovely Katie Farkes brought me a  
metric ton of apples. What do you do when you have a lot of fruit and a sick kid at home? Well, if you're me, you bake some free-form apple tarts:

I made four of them, with a little cinnamon and an orange/amaretto glaze. Of course, I had to try a bit, and they are to die for. I'll be delivering Two to Mom and Dad in a bit. And the bag of apples? Nary a dent, so I see lots more baking in the near future, and if you're lucky, and I get sick of apples, I may be showing up on your doorstep with a dessert in the next day or two. I'm sure you won't complain.

We've had a fair bit of drama the last few weeks regarding Aunt Henri. She makes Hitler look like Mother Theresa, I'm not kidding. It's too long and drawn out a story to get into, but suffice it to say, she has been truly hideous to all of us, but especially my Dad. My dying-of-Stage IV-lung-cancer-Father. I'm slowly realizing why it was she had no friends in California, and why her kids won't speak to her. No longer a mystery. In any case, today Dad signed papers severing any legal ties he may have had with her, while I stood by and prayed for Jesus to give me strength so I wouldn't beat her down with my Dad's cane. It was a white knuckle kind of morning.

It's been weighing very heavily on Dad's mind, so I'm glad that we're done. I'm very protective of my parents on a normal day, and given Dad's illness, I'm even more so. Anyone who treats him poorly had better take cover, because I don't tolerate it! It's a role reversal for sure that sometimes gives me pause. It seems fitting, though, since both my folks have always been in my corner and stood up for me. 

Alright, enough, I have to deliver these tarts, check on dinner (Italian chicken stew, in case you were wondering.), and then stop at the store for more butter. Baking! Anyone have a good apple cake recipe?

Thank you for reading, and for praying!

Saturday, September 20, 2008

"now we say goodnight from our own separate sides"

Dad with Addie at her first soccer practice:
Dad in the fall of 2004, reading Jules Verne to Tyler:
There's lyrics to a song on my iPod that go: "you may tire of me, as our December sun is setting because I'm not who I used to be/ no longer easy on the eyes, but these wrinkles masterfully disguise the youthful boy below/ who turned your way and saw something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end/ but now he lives inside someone he does not recognize/ when he catches his reflection on accident." It was playing the other day when I took Dad to get a bratwurst from Werner's (a favorite Saturday morning ritual) and I had to turn it off. 

I look at these two photos, and I think - this cannot be the same man. How can he change so much in such a short amount of time? There is no spark left in him, no light. There are flickers of him here and there - just mention Sarah Palin, and he gets fired up in a hurry! - but he's mostly just flat. Sometimes angry. Sometimes confused. And a lot of the times, terribly sad and lonely. Mom and I can only do so much, we can't replace the life he's lost: his job, friends, ability to drive and be independent. It's a helpless feeling.

The other day, he gave me a huge box of letters that Aunt Henri had saved, ones he had written to her. They start in 1988, when I'm 15, and go up until about 2 years ago. He wrote her nearly once a week, so you can imagine the volume. I have been reading them for days now, and barely made a dent. I skipped ahead and read some of the 1995 era letters, when I was pregnant and had Tyler, and I don't think I've cried so much in quite awhile. To read his detailed and proud account of his firstborn grandchild's milestones, I could feel the love emanating from his words. This is such an amazing gift for my children. They may not appreciate it now, but when they are older, they will be able to read this and know how much Apaa truly adored them. It will also be a chance for them to get to know him. He talks about his work, all his camping trips, his volunteer work with an inner-city Boy Scout Troop, his work with the Shakespeare Festival, and you get a real feel for who he is. In one letter, he refers to his letter writing as 'cheap therapy' - and right there, I can see where I get my love of writing from. 

It's been a rough few days - though, what else is new! - with Dad's chemo on Wednesday, and Mom being sick. I think she's just let herself get too run down, and I'm worried she's going to get a diverticulitis flare up, and that would suck big time. I'm trying to take Dad off her hands so she can rest, but she still has to work. I just hope she can rest and recharge her batteries.

Tonight we were supposed to be hosting a portion of the Progressive Dinner for Henry's school, but I had to back out. For obvious reasons. I look around my house, with the clouds of cat fur rolling like tumbleweeds, the mountains of laundry in the living room (clean! folded! just not put away.), the traces of black marker still evident on my family room carpet (thank you, Addie), not to mention that it looks like a toy bomb went off in our house, and I think: there was no way in hell I could have done it. And I'm relieved I said I couldn't. But I'm still sad. I still feel like I'm missing out. I get resentful - and then feel guilty for feeling that way. It's an isolating existence, but unless someone has gone through this, they really have no clue. There have been a few people who have reached out to me in the last few days - a mom at Addie's preschool, who I don't know very well, asked about Dad, and a fellow first grade Mom called out of the blue to check on me. And these small gestures meant so incredibly much to me. I feel such gratitude for people that reach out. 

Alright, I'm running out of steam, and I still need to do my kettlebell workout. I'm off. More later.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Brought Dad his sandwich and hung out until Steven could get there. He's tired and out of it. Cancer is widespread - lung, brain, spine, liver, adrenal, kidneys-  but they say it's 'contained' for now. Meaning - when the drugs stop working, it will be fast. He will go in a matter of days or weeks. So we continue walking the tight rope between life and death, hope and reality.