D Day Minus

D Day Plus 324: (January 26, 2011): Epilogue: Time and Appreciation – Here and There

2011-01-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

Seventeen thousand and eight hundred and ninety seven days ago, part of me left you there. Three hundred and twenty four days ago, part of you left me here. Today is my birthday. I’m forty-nine—at least in reality years. I’m not sure what that is in eternity years—probably a blip in time. What do you think?

I can’t see everything like you now. I’m not all omniscient. How could I be? I’m not all put together like you are. You’re all there. Part of me is here and part of me is there. Talk about feeling scattered. Don’t you like my silly humor? Hey, at least I still have a sense of humor. By the way, will you let Hannah know I’d like better lenses so I can see what you two are doing up there? I AM AN ENQUIRING MIND. I’ll cool it with the paparazzi. You won’t even know I’m looking. Promise! I won’t sell the photos. Or even Photoshop them.

I do know you’re there, but sometimes it’s hard to find you from here. That’s all I’m saying. Could you leave me a clue? I like scavenger hunts. On second thought, you have left clues. So I want to know:

Did you wake me in the middle of the night to go check on Katie about a week after you went there? I think you did. You woke me from a sound sleep to make sure your Katie was okay. I was dead-tired (no pun intended), but forced myself to go all the way up the stairs in Bassett, knock on her door, invade her privacy, and ask if she was okay. There she was in bed. Awake and wanting something from you. How did you do that? I want to know.
Did you have anything to do with our Glo (who you met in Hawaii when you were three) coming all the way from Washington for your celebration? And staying at the same hotel as our dinner afterward? I think so. You knew I needed my Glo after all these years. You brought us back together after fifteen years. How did you do that? I want to know.
Did you send the butterfly to come visit on the patio last summer? I think so. It stayed for a couple of hours. Were you letting Dad and me know you were okay? How did you do that? I want to know.

Would you mind making it just a little easier to decipher the clues? Could you please make one exception for me? Come on, I brought you into this world. Pretty please! Okay. I’ll stop haranguing you—for a minute.

So what did you think of the blog and your story? I can take it. Wait. Never mind. Lie as long as you let me know it made you feel better. All lies aren’t bad. Really, they’re not. Dad lies when he tells me I’m beautiful when I’m sick and crusty looking. I lied when I said I wasn’t drinking contraband. Remember?

Do you know who else lies? They do— whoever “they” are. They say that time heals all wounds. But it doesn’t. Appreciation does.

Do you want to know why? I'll tell you. If I focus on time, anniversaries, the "should haves" and "would haves," then my heart sinks because I'm missing you. Time drags and so do I. So, I'm guessing you don't like to hang out at Fifth and Sad. Right? Neither do I.

Now, I make it a point to find a way to appreciate everything. Like— get this. Earlier this month, I was on hold with tech support to get the licensing fixed for my new embroidery software. I waited and waited and waited. No one came on the line for almost a half an hour. I got so mad, I figured it out. Now I appreciate that I got so mad because I figured it out for myself, felt empowered, and became a better problem solver. I was proud of myself for turning a negative into a positive. And my heart sang. Yes, it's something trivial. It's the little things that count. Big time.

What does all this appreciation mean? It means that appreciation can change worlds —here and there. At least that is what I'm thinking. Since last year was kind of a downer as I figured things out, I decided to make 2011, my year of appreciation.

I launched my own Mission Appreciation to let every person who has touched me know that I appreciate them. Remember all my hats. That's part of it. I'm starting with them. The idea is to remind each recipient how much they are appreciated when they wear them. On FaceBook, I'm posting something that I appreciate each day. Not the big things. The small things. Each day, I find at least one thing to appreciate. It's not that I'm so nice. I'm actually very selfish. I want to to feel good. Because the better I feel, then I can find you. So, I'll keep appreciating. And appreciating. And appreciating. From here to there.

There's nothing else to say, except Aloha.

D Day:(March 8, 2010): Transcending Time

2011-01-22T19:50:00.000-08:00

This morning your body caught up with your soul. You transcended time. Like magic! At least that’s what I like to think. You became whole. You became who you really are— a perfect soul. A perfect soul who completed his mission. A perfect soul who reminded me who I was, who we all were. A perfect soul who is with me through all time and eternity. At least that what I like think.

We were all there, by your bedside. Dad, Katie, Morgan, and me. Just like you wanted. I held you and cried. And counted your fingers. Just like I did when you were born.

The Funeral Director came and got us before they wheeled you to the hearse. You were swaddled in a gray blanket on a gurney. Looking peaceful and pain free. At last! I hugged you. And well you know, I wondered if you knew how much I loved you and if you were still there. Somewhere?

Now Dad, Morgan, and I are picking out a box for your ashes. We’re at the funeral home. I’m keeping my promise. I’m doing things just the way you asked. No grave! Too dark! Too scary! A celebration! Comfort those who loved you. The ones you left behind. Take care of Katie! Take care of Morgan! Take care of Dad! Oh, and take care of myself. I will try for you. I will be okay for you. At least I think.

We’re going to Hawaii to take you back to where you were born. Where Aloha has so many meanings – hello, goodbye, love. Where I first met you— my loving, adventurous, and zany little man. You always wanted all of us to go back. Dad, Morgan, Katie and me. But, not this way. Somehow you always get your way – one way or another. I’ll give you that!

We found a box we like. I think you’ll like it too. It’s made of wood – classic and elegant. Simple, just the way you’d like it. No fuss. Just your name, your dates, and “In Loving Memory of…”

We’re sitting around the table going through flowers, registry books, and programs. Looking for just the right way to celebrate your life.

The Funeral Director stopped by. She asks if we want to see you one last time. My heart stops and I forget to breathe. Morgan blurts out “Yes.”

There you are. In a room all by yourself. Almost on a pedestal. Flowers in the corner for another person's service. Still swaddled in the gray blanket. I am calm. I am at peace. I am not crying. At least not much. Dad and Morgan hug you. I soak in the moments of Dad and Morgan hugging you one last time. Then its my turn. I walk toward you. I want to know you are okay. I want to know if you'll keep your promise. I want to know if there is something more. I bend to hug you. Then I look up. And you blinked. Not once. Not twice. But three times. I looked back at Dad and Morgan, but they didn't see. Dad was consoling Morgan. My body tingled from head to toe. And I just held you tight. Then I knew. You did it. You kept your promise. Just like you said you would.

This morning you body caught up with your soul. You transcended time. Like magic! At least that’s what I KNOW.

D Day Minus 1: (March 7, 2010): Saving Time

2011-01-20T14:39:00.000-08:00

So here we are. It’s my turn to be with you. I'm sitting in your tan brown recliner, writing your eulogy. Except I don't want to call it that. I'm still trying to figure it out. But, it will come. I can't have someone who didn't know you give it. Now that would break my heart. Who knows your heart and soul better than I do?

How did my annoying teenager of a son become more than a son to me? How did you become one of my best friends? I don't want to do this, but I don't want to forget. So I'll do my best. And no, I'm not adding "Forget the Rest" ala Tony Horton. Like I would do normally. This isn't normal. You were supposed to write my eulogy. We were both supposed to live to 121. I'd stop aging after sixty so you could catch up. We had a plan. But I guess it's true, life happens, when you're making other plans. Ain't that the truth? And it sucks. Big time.

We've been taking shifts, so you haven't been alone. Never alone. Like I promised. The humidifier masks the other low voices in the house and it makes it easier for you to sleep. So you say. It's working, I guess. You're asleep. But it's probably the good drugs. That is, I think you're asleep. Now you're smiling and talking nonsense. And raising your hands up to the sky, seeing things I'm not supposed to see. At least not yet.

Katie is resting in Morgan’s old bedroom. It’s been tough on her. She's been by your side for the past three weeks. Hardly sleeping. Rarely going home, except for a change of clothes. Even then, her sisters or mom, bring over fresh ones. All I can say, is she hasn't left your side. She hasn't given up. For that, I appreciate. Because this is not easy.

Morgan is in the guest bedroom, seeking comfort from her cats, Abra and Eevee. She's taking time off work without pay. Because there is not other place she'd rather be. But It’s been tough on her, too. Did you see that neon blue cast? It's sure bright. She broke her wrist the other day riding her bike in Algonkian Park. Yeah, and she's having boy troubles. When it rains it pours. She needs someone to soften the edges and bring out the best in her. Don't you think? Will you talk to her?

Dad is checking on arrangements on his laptop. You know, for when the time comes, which is soon. It’s been tough on him, too. Only he doesn’t show it. At least not as much as me. But you already know all that. He has to be the rock. My Rock.

Neither one of us like to talk on the phone much. Especially about you. I put the word out, not to call, as soon as we got back from Houston. I didn't like the way the conversations went. It's like you're already gone. When you're not. Staying off the phone, keeps the inevitable at bay.

Dad just sent me some links to Funeral Homes on MSN chat. At least I had the sound muted, so I didn't bother you. Did I?

Outside it is dreary and blustery. Much like it is in your room. It's woven into the fabric of this time. And of this space. It is deep forlorn sorrow. It's invisible threads are in my heart. They are in my soul. Everywhere! Only we force cheerfulness, because we don't know what else to do.

The only thing I want, I can't have -- more time, with you.

In the background, I hear the television, in the family room. It's the stupid Alice in Wonderland Trailer. It just came out a couple of days ago. Maybe before all this happened, I'd jump to go see it. Now I want to scream, when I see the rabbit or hear the Queen say, "Off with her head." I don't know why it bugs me so much. It just does.Could it be that life is passing us by?

How can the sun go on shining? Don't they know its the end of the world? The words are from a song, I heard when I was a little girl. It was by Skeeter Davis. It transports me back in time. I'm six years hiding in the belly of big metal wheel on the playground at Hillsdale Elementary in Granger, Utah. How could I have known then, that all the sadness of a six year old, was nothing. Nothing compared this. My worst fear coming true. To lose a child. To stand by helplessly.

I want to shoot the person who said "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." But that is stupid, because I hate guns. I'd be a weakling if it meant this wasn't happening. I would. I really would. You know how driven I am. I have to take care of myself. I don't need anybody or anything. I'd give that up. I would. And you know needing and wanting are two different things. Right. I want you. I want Dad. I want Morgan. And .....

Since we came back from Houston, you keep saying, "I'm not dying." You said it earlier today, when you caught me looking sad. If you're not dying, then why am I writing your eulogy? Am I missing the point? Do you know something I don't. Is death another state of being? Only most people are not tuned into it? If that's true, how will I know? How can I go where you are? And not leave Dad and Morgan? How?

I know you can't answer now. But when you can, will you? I'm not going anywhere. Funny thing you said that too, "I'm not going anywhere." Right after you said, "I'm not dying." What does it mean? I know you can't answer. But I want to know. I want to know. Okay. I'll quit asking for now. For real.

So far, this is what I have. I couldn't write a eulogy for the crowd for a third person, so I wrote it to you. I included editorial comments in red. I thought you'd like the color coding. So it was easy to follow. But be easy, I'm still working on it. Mostly, I'm trying to save time by capturing my memories.

Dear Greg,

I know you already know what I’m about to say because we had time to talk things to death, but I wanted to let you know this one last time with my own editorials and no interruptions.
First, I want to reiterate the three things that have torqued me off during the past six months: Dad can’t win the lottery; Skittles don’t work anymore, and you can’t share your physical pain.

On the lottery. Dad keeps on trying to win it every trip to Bassett. We stop on I-81 on exit 73 – you know the Mount Jackson exit. I try not to erode his confidence, but frankly he couldn’t win the lottery and I mean the big one if he tried. He is totally worthless. It is a good thing I love him just the way he is. I only wanted him to win, so I didn’t have to work, so I could only focus on getting you better. I know how you hated being alone when you didn’t feel well. You taught me things don’t matter, people do.
On Skittles. I just don’t understand why they don’t work anymore. What happened? They solved everything when you and Morgan were little. You fell down, I gave you Skittles: tears gone, problem solved. They must have changed the formula like Coke did to the New Skittles or something. We tried the Skittles treatment several times as you fought your battle, but it didn’t work. I will forever remember Skittles and how the silliness of it curing cancer made us laugh. You taught me to enjoy simpler things and to live in the moment.
On your physical pain. Katie, Morgan, Dad, and I pleaded with you to share but you just wouldn’t give it up. You were so stingy with sharing it was maddening. You kept saying you wouldn’t wish the pain on anyone. You never complained or played the victim. You taught me the importance of grace, dignity, acceptance, and surrender.

Now I want to remind you of things I remember about you -- in random order (of course). I promise not the meander too much and do too much of my normal yada yada talking. I want to remind you of about thirty or so things and provide my unsolicited feedback and recollection of the event from my nearly unbiased perspective

Remember when you tried to overdose on Sudafed when I took you and Morgan to Disneyland with Aunt Sue and her family. You were four and Morgan was a year and half. The whole trip was exhausting. We lost the car at Disney Land. I had a rental and they all looked the same. Anyway, I was giving Aunt Sue and her family a hug. You managed to unscrew the Sudafed bottle I had in the console and started eating them like red hot candies. You even shared them with your baby sister. We ended up at the ER outside of Los Angeles getting your stomach pumped – fortunately Morgan didn’t have time to swallow the pills. Man you moved fast, I was only out of the car for three minutes. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t have shared so much. After that, I was militant about keeping any medicines out of your reach. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.
Remember March of 2007, before you graduated from George Mason, you said you had a lump in your groin about the size of a goose egg. I was having an endoscope procedure that day and couldn’t go to the doctor with you, but made the appointment on the spot. I knew how much you hated going, so I didn’t give you a choice. You said it was probably cancer. I said, “Don’t be so negative. You don’t know anything for sure.” I was wrong. I’m sorry. I wish I could have been with you at the doctor.
Remember when you knocked on my bedroom door around midnight the night before you were supposed to register for your first classes at NOVA. Your midnight knocks on the door meant bad news to follow. You had a hair-brain idea to take some time off before you started college. Like you needed time off. It was one of the few times I said “No.” I said “you would regret the delay and you wouldn’t be insured.” I was right and you admitted it.
Remember when you tried to start the house when you were five or six by putting a key in the outlet. Dad saw an arc of electricity out of the corner of his eye and ran to get you. Morgan kept chanting, “Greggy tried to burn the house down.” You hopped around and said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Fortunately, you only singed your fingers and got a little shock. You never did that again. Did you?
Remember this past January when we were talking to the clinical psychologist at MD Anderson about cancer and dying. You said you weren’t afraid of dying. You were afraid of leaving your Dad, Katie, Morgan and me. I told you we would be fine. I'm still not sure about that, but I'll come back to this before I actually read this to all of your followers.
Remember how long it took me to find April from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when you were four or five -- Almost three months. We still have April and the other turtles in the attic and Morgan plans to share them with her kids when she has them.
Remember when you lost your license for racing for six months and you started driving like a grandpa after that. You learned your lesson, didn’t you?
Remember the first time I told you I chose you for a son and I was so proud of you. I did and I am.
Remember when you were playing intramural basketball and I shouted your name across the gym. You shot me a death stare, like I had committed the worst crime. You and I fought about your “behavior.” Greg, you were supposed to be annoyed with Dad and me when you were a teenager. I was so happy to know you as an adult and to have meaningful and deep conversations as you went through your cancer journey. I don’t think I would have had the opportunity otherwise. You always pointed out the silver lining to the cancer.
Remember our trip to Hawaii your Junior year of college during summer break. We retraced your roots, the catamaran, hiking Diamond Head, and whatever crazy thing I could think of or whim you had. I wanted to have memories of you before you ran off to start your life. We had so much fun on that trip: sailing on the catamaran and all night shark hunting were my favorites. I liked the catamaran because I’ve never seen you so relaxed, happy, and peaceful. I liked shark hunting because it was a comedy of errors – from the drunken Japanese tourists hurling over the bow, the running feet of the Canadians who actual caught some sharks, the Captain of the boat that probably had a bounty on his head, and me having dry heaves that started fifteen minutes into the hunt. You kept saying, “I thought you were in the Navy.” I’m so glad I took the trip. It will forever be one of the highlights of my life. And yes Greg, I really was in the Navy.
Remember your senior trip to Myrtle Beach. You turned off your cell phone so you were incommunicado. You had like twenty voice messages from me. Even though, you said it was like fifty. Each message was more frantic than last. When you got back, we had a heated discussion about the rules and being 18. We made a deal - I would step back if you would pick up. I did and you did.
Remember the first time I dropped the “f” bomb. You were in fourth or fifth grade, the alarm system was going off at the house. I was trying to go to work and get you off to school. I didn’t know how to turn the alarm off and you were having a panic attack. I dropped the f bomb, which shocked you because I always had “G” rated language by you. I guess you realized I was human. Sorry.
Remember our trip to Nags Head when you and Morgan were in High School. You and Dad went body surfing. We made all the trips to Krogers. You were dating Katie and were a kind of being grumpy because you missed her. I had a melt-down about something Morgan did, which caused a ripple effect of tension. After we all made up – I said something about putting the “fun” in dysfunctional. We were never a perfect family unit, but we always loved each other.
Remember me doing KempoX and crying in the hotel after we found out about the last treatment didn’t work. You told me to cry and let it out and just be myself. But warned me not to cry for too long. We talked about alternative treatments and getting you strong enough for other treatments. We didn’t sleep much that night. I’m glad we were there for each other.
Remember when we played hooky from work and school when you were in something like the third grade to go the Smithsonian. We took the metro into DC and went the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaurs because you loved Jurassic Park so much. Thanks for telling me how much that meant to you as an adult.
Remember when we deemed Christopher Cross as our music track for Hawaii. We would sing “It’s All Right. I think we’re gonna make it.” on the plane through the turbulence and every time we were stressed. It is all right. And I think we are going to make it.
Remember Happy Shopping on Saturdays when you were grade school. This was before the time of Wegmans and cell phones. We’d listen to the happy musak track and push the cart to the song. It was silly and fun. You carried on the tradition at Wegmans and tried to actually identify the songs on the track. I still don’t know how in the world you thought the Pointer Sisters were singing “Please Don’t Shine” for their song “He’s so Shy.” I tried Googling it, but could never find it. It took nearly a year to figure out what song you were talking about. The mystery would have never been solved if I hadn’t heard the song with you. Singing was never your strong suit. But you didn’t care.
Remember how you worried about not being successful for your age. Like success has a timeline. You thought you should have a house and be self supporting. You could be very hard on yourself at times and you did not extend the same compassion to yourself. Most people never have the success you had – a true love, unconditional love of family, a job you were excited to have, a work environment that you loved, and the good sense to take time to appreciate people and let them how you feel. I told you crises define people and instead of seeing yourself as a victim, you inspired many. YOU WERE A SUCCESS.
Remember how much you loved food. You were game for anything. Each place or event was bracketed by the menu. You enjoyed talking food and recipes with Dad. FoodTV was one of your favorite channels. If you could have channeled Alton Brown, you would have. I loved that you loved food. You were always the good eater.
Remember the appreciation lists we started last April. Every time when we were down or concerned, we would list the things that made us appreciate. It helped us let go of the oars and float downstream instead of fighting the current. It helped us through many scary times in the upcoming months. We appreciated simple things like getting a good room, having the support of friends, energy to go for a walk, or flexibility in our jobs.
Remember when I told you the extent of my Believe in Zebra “intention” from February 2008. I didn’t show the flyer until you got home because I was afraid you’d be embarrassed. You thought it was just wrist bands. You had no idea of the extent of intention in February 2008. Over 500 people intended, prayed, or meditated for you to help you get through the surgery. It worked – you lived a precious year longer because of it. You told me that you had this strange sense of peace and surge of energy at the time of the event before I told you extent of the intention. It made me feel like there is something more than this. Thanks Greg.
Remember our celebration in Roanoke in August 2008. You had just moved to Roanoke for a new start. We thought you were cancer free again after finishing a year of Interferon treatment. You were starting to gain some weight back and get some energy. I enjoyed the celebration and the moment. Later you told me you were concerned something was wrong. I hoped you were wrong, but you were right – it was confirmed the next month.
Remember when you tried to teach me to make the Chewbacca sound. I could never get it right. You would laugh and laugh and laugh because I would sound like I was gargling spit. You would always make the Chewy sound just to taunt me. I’m never going to get it right. I’m fine with that.
Remember the Dance of Joy last April, when we got the first report that you were cancer free. We were in Houston in search of barbecue. Aunt Janiene was with us when we got the news. We were so relieved, because you nearly died in February from the surgery where your bowel ruptured. We truly believed in Zebras. You took the picture of me and Janiene dancing in the street. I have the picture you took and will always treasure it.
Remember our early morning breakfasts at McDonalds before school. I really wanted to be a stay at home mom and spend as much time as possible with you and Morgan. I will always remember your order: an Egg Mcmuffin, large OJ and two hash browns.
Remember when you said you were getting a divorce last year after being married for only a year and half. You told me not to be sad and that it was going to be all right. Getting married young is challenging – getting married young with a diagnosis of cancer is even more challenging. I’m glad you got a second chance with Katie, who stayed with you until the end.
Remember our promise to each other to let the other know if there was something more if they died first. TBD.

That's what I have so far. I highlighted some areas to go back to and have one or more "TBDs." I know it's still a work in progress. So,what do you think? I want to make you proud. I want to be a better person. I want to know if there is more. You'll let me know. You promised.

You stirred in bed, trying to get comfortable.

"Mom," You said. "Thanks for everything."

With that I closed my computer and sat next to you. I held your hand tighter than I should have. But, I was saving time.

D Day Minus 24: (February 13, 2010): Buying Time

2011-01-18T17:52:00.000-08:00

I just used my PayPal account to buy another supplement so we can follow Bill Henderson’s Alternative Cancer Treatment. The one Dad suggested we try after we went through all the crap on the Internet last night.

"Did you hear the email from the receipt?" I don't want to wake you. It's been a rough night -- for both us. I'll try to mute it. But, I always screw it up. I think I got. Let's hope.

Don't move!

Please sleep!

I'll be quiet. I know it’s 5:00 AM CST. Houston time. MD Anderson time. Cancer time.

The receipt is on top of my inbox -- just a few emails below the one we wrote together. The one from last night. The one I helped you write while we cried. The one that you cc'd me on, so I'd have it. The one to a friend of friend, the melanoma cancer doctor at the National Institutes of Health.

We'll fight. Promise! I'll go down with my boots. Right with you. Just like you told the doctors today, after they said: "Give up. Go to hospice. Get your affairs in order."

I won't leave you. I PROMISE. I promise. i promise. I won't leave a man down. NEVER. Ever. ever. Especially, my little boy. My silly curly red-headed little boy.

"What's that? Are you waking up?"

You're just getting comfortable. I'm glad. You need your rest.

Just sleep. Please just sleep! Just so you can heal. THAT'S ALL. That's all. that's all.

The heater in this hotel room is loud and klunky. But that is good, so you can't hear me. Really, I am trying to be quiet. I just need to buy stuff on the Interent. Not fun stuff. Or stupid stuff for me. Not this time. It isn't a stupid face cream, shoes, books, or anything. It's all for you. I'm not buying any of that junk. I'm trying to buy time. Not a watch, a clock, or some time-saving device. I'm trying buy real time. I'm trying to buy time for you, for me, for Dad, For Morgan, for Katie, and for everyone we know.

"Is the light from my computer too bright?" I can't see the list of supplements. It's hard to see. Tears are blurring my vision. I have to get it right. I have to get the right supplements from the right place and they have to get to the right address. They have to get to Sterling as soon as possible. This is no joke. I'm not kidding. I'm buying time.

I think I got everything. But I have to check. So I'm Rainmanning now. But it's a good thing, because I'm trying to buy time.

I think that was the last one. Maybe I can sleep. Maybe not.

After this I won't buy anything. I won’t buy anything else. And if I do, then I’ll mute the speakers and dim the light some more on my computer. I promise. Besides I already bought every alternative cancer treatment book I could and had it downloaded to my Kindle. I'd do whatever it takes to buy time. And I know you would too.

And yes, I’ll read the books to you—later today. All of them. As much or as little as you want. I won't read them fast like I usually do because I don't have time. I'll read to you however you want. I'm buying time.

But now I’ll just lie back down on the fold-out couch. And meditate with Kelly Howell. And imagine my magic powers becoming yours. And poof, we’ll wake up and the nightmare will be over. Really! It will. Then we’ll go to McDonald’s for breakfast. You’ll say, “You buying?”

Yes, I know McDonald’s is two blocks down, but I don’t want to leave. I’m kind of hungry, but it doesn’t matter. And I don’t want to wake you. Because neither one of us slept. You couldn’t get comfortable because you’re so skinny and the cancer is squishing your insides. I had another kind of pain—helplessness and loneliness. Is there a pill for that? If there is then, I’m buying. And I'm sharing it with you.

I want to run like Forest Gump right out of this hotel room, through the lobby, all the way to Hawaii on the bridge or tunnel—with you by my side. Look my shoes are ready. I just need to slip them on. I won’t cry like I did last night doing Kempo X. I won’t ever cry again. I promise. I’ll quit beating myself up for—everything. I’ll buy you house. I’ll mow your lawn. I’ll watch your kids.

Please get up and run with me. It will be okay, if you get up now. If you get up and run with me.

You have to do it now. Now! We’ll forget this ever happened.

"Greg, do you want to make a run for it?"

I know you’re tired. Come on. I’ll even buy you new shoes.

"Will you get up?"

I’ll buy you more Pumas. I’ll buy you all the Pumas.

I’m laying down. Trying to be quiet. You need your rest. But did I do it? Did I? Did I to slow down time so I could buy time. I think I did. I'm sorry. I don't want you to hurt anymore.

"Did you hear that?" That was another receipt for another supplement. BECAUSE. Because. because. I'm buying time.

D Day Minus 86: (December 12, 2009): Duality, OJ, and Time (Part 2)

2011-01-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

The just phone rang. So I can't explain the experiment. At least not yet. It was Dad. The lady trapped in the phone told me so. I almost tripped over my shoes, tucked underneath the kitchen table, trying to find the cordless phone. The damn thing was buried under a blanket on the couch in the family room. I know. I know. I should have put it back in the cradle. "Yada, yada" to you. But seriously. Did the commotion wake you? I hope not.

Dad was at Best Buy picking up a cable for my new twenty-four inch monitor so I could have a big screen for my zebra-skinned Netbook. I complained about needing more real estate so I could see a document and a spreadsheet at the same time. I wasn't really complaining much. Seriously, I think Dad just wanted to go someplace or do something where he felt in control. Because. Well because, the stupid treatment didn't work. And the cancer spread to your liver.

We're an odd bunch, don't you think? But somehow it all works. Dad loves facts and things and us: you, me and Morgan. I love my feelings and emotions because they make me feel alive. But mostly, I love my little dysfunctional family. All of you. So I guess family is the common denominator. The only difference is our numerators. There I go with my math talk again. But it fits, at least this time. Don't you think?

"The roads aren't too bad, but the snow is starting stick. I have the cable." Dad paused. "We doing anything for lunch?"

A snow flake melted on the patio door. And I was glad it was Dad, not me, out dealing with the cold and the crowds.

"Get something on your own. We're fine." Dad was all chatty. I wanted him to hang up. I sort of lied about a bad connection. I had to. I was in the middle of my experiment. And I had to focus.

I worked quietly for about an hour capturing the data and setting up the parameters of the experiment. I even pretended I was on CSI and had cool music in the background. You know it makes everything more exciting. Then I got to thinking about whether my hair in the back was separating by the cowlick. Because if I really was on CSI, and the camera was looking down on me being all studious and solving mysteries, then I'd want my hair looking good. Then I got stuck.

So you know what I did? I got a big Diet Mountain Dew from my not so secret hiding place - the little black fridge tucked in the corner. Shhh. Don't tell.

I unscrewed the lid and it made the "Shhh" sound too. All the "Shh-shing" must have knocked something loose. And I had an epiphany.

Now I have to revise my hypothesis. But this is even better. You'll see. I'll annotate the modifications to it, just like I was a professional.

Crap. I just tried to annotate like a professional, with footnotes and all, but my stupid software won't let me. So I'm just going to underline it. Okay? But, please pay attention. This stuff really matters. Well, at least to me. And you are part of me, so it should matter to you by default.

Don't you like how I just made all this about numero uno? Me.

Notice how I added fancy words to the experiment and the analysis —some with three syllables even. Dad would say, "Nance, you're a genie—ass." Like I don't know he's making fun of me. Because I am a genius. Okay, so it's hidden—a little. Well maybe a lot. I know. I know. You want me to focus. So I will. Just for you.

Here it goes. Note (notice how I said note, like I had something important to say -- like in a scientific journal or something special), I have set up two test cases. Event A and Event B along with in-depth analysis. Which really means stuff that just popped into my head. Okay, I'll shut up and let you read it. You'll figure it out.

The Hypothesis. Noun-particles are the catalyst for verb-waves. And verb-waves can generate noun-particles. Thus, causing noun particles and verb-waves to become entangled and intertwined. Therefore, entanglement is a fact of life. Thoughts are matter. And thoughts matter. Thoughts create feelings. Feelings dictate perceptions. Perceptions define reality.

Experiment Setup: The control is how an individual (me) perceives an event because that is all I really can control. Just my reaction. So for the control, the subject (me) will report on my perceptions. Feelings will calibrate the amplitude (better known as mood swings) and the oscillation verb-waves that have to reverberate at undefined frequencies.

Noun-Particle A (aka Event A: YogaX, Heavy Socks, and Omens)

On December 3rd, I got up at four thirty in the morning to do Yoga X with Tony Horton in the basement. I only had three weeks to go until I completed my first round of P90x. And I knew I was going to work late. I didn't want Morgan to beat me at P90X. You know how Morgan and I can be.

Around a quarter to six you came downstairs to get your Wegmans shirt out of the dryer. Even though I was in child's pose, your favorite, and couldn’t see your face. I could tell you weren’t bouncing like Tigger. But then again, it was early. I hadn’t seen or talked to you much the past couple of weeks. We were busy avoiding cancer and embracing life.

On November 18^th, you got good news again. It was the first time you made the trip to Houston by yourself. Remember there was snow in Chicago and your flight was delayed so you had to pay triple to get a car because Enterprise, which had a really good rate for MD Anderson patients even if they weren’t twenty-five, was closed.

Anyway, I had a feeling something wasn't right, so I skipped savasana (aka corpse pose) and the ohms and went upstairs to talk to you before you left for work.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I can’t do this anymore?” You said sitting on your bedroom floor, pulling on your sock like it weighed a ton. Gone was the sparkle in your eyes. In its place dark circles haunted them.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Work these hours. I want more regular hours.” That was the first time I heard you complain about work.

“This isn’t forever.” I said. “Each day is a stepping stone, getting you to the next place. You are supposed to want more. It’s not being greedy.”

You nodded and got up from the floor.

“I’m just a little tired.” You said trying to convince yourself more than me.

I hugged you and told you how much I loved you. Then I threatened to send you positive juju throughout the day whether you liked it or not. That made you smile—a little.

Preliminary Analysis of Event A, Phase 1: Significant noun-particle established due to negative emotions and premonitions during Event A: YogaX, Heavy Socks, and Omens. Thus providing catalyst for subsequent verb-waves categorized as general and specific. General verb-waves will be documented first. Followed by specific verb-waves. (Are you digging my scientific gobbledygook?) Please lie to me.

General Verb-waves: General negative emotions and feeling clouded the general verb-waves. All of them were drawn to me like a magnet to steel. The bad feelings came without warning and stayed whether I wanted them to or not. At work, at home, at the store, in the car. They were leeches on my soul. General verb-waves are:

1: Fear. It was in the pit of my stomach and stayed like an unwelcome visitor. It was knowing something wasn't right based on a feeling. Yet not really knowing. Then starting the vicious cycle again and again.

2: Uncertainty. What the hell is the meaning of life anyway? Is there really something more. Did I make up Hannah? Was this really it? Just this?

3: Doubt. Where was my faith that you would be all right? Why don't I think the treatment is working? What ever happened to the whole belief in zebras? Was it a stupid joke?

4: Anger. Not again! This isn't supposed to be happening. We were positive. We tried everything. We did what the doctor's said. Even more. Who lied?

5: Pity. Why me? Why you? Why us? Why not them? We don't deserve this.

Specific Verb-waves: Specific verb-waves increased the amplitude of emotions, and the oscillation of feelings. Much akin to a rollercoaster ride where you never see the light of day. These verb-waves became entangled with snapshots of memories, thus becoming entangled with other noun-particle. Duality in full motion. Sort of like the chicken and the egg. Specific verb-waves observed were:

1: Crying a lot in bed in Bassett – both days of the weekend. Even during “The Soup” and “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant.” Note: Stupid things don't work when you are not on a happy appreciative wavelength.

2: Meditating and trying self-hypnosis when not in tears. Yoga Nidra was added to the mix. Note: Altered stated sought with all. Minimal impact.

3: Assuming everything was NOT all right. I'd given up. I knew something was wrong to the core. Note: If beliefs are thoughts you think over and over again. Was I making it worse? Fact. The more I thought about the bad things, the more bad things I thought about. Is this a Catch-22?

4: Fighting with Dad. He said I was overacting and that I didn’t have anything to worry about about you and the treatment. Everything was fine. I was just being a worry-wart. I told him about the noun-particle. Except I didn’t call it that. I thought Dad was a stupid jackass. And told him so. Then I cried some more. Note: Dad and I weren't really fighting, we just weren't on the same wavelength. And that is okay in the end. Sometimes I'm a jackass too.

6. Increasing the Raimann bit. Funny thing, I don't think you noticed. I thought the more I checked on you the more I showed that I cared. And the more I showed that I cared. The more things would be okay. Note: I am what I am.

7. Thinking about this experiment. Was there a way to prove a cause and effect as I tried to piece together my feelings, perceptions, and its impact on time. Note: This is the beginning. I'm just sharing my initial thoughts with you. Because you get me and won't think I'm a crazy mom. At least not for this.

Preliminary assessment of Phase 2 of Event A. Both general and specific verb-waves started with the noun-particle. All verb-waves are calibrated to emotions. Noun-particle was perceived as a negative event. (Note to myself -- What happens when a noun-particle is positive? Put in backlog of research. Can a noun-particle be both negative and positive? You know, I need to write things down fast before I forget. Yeah, I'm a mess.) Subsequent verb-waves were ripples of the negative event. The more focus on the event with the same negative lens, the more negative verb-waves were generated. Therefore, the more negatively you think, the more negativity you get. Conversely, the more positively you think, the more positivity you get. (Another note to myself: More field research needed. Sorry. I don't want to forget. You understand). The paradox is how to find something positive, when you are in a negative place.

What do you think so far? The ass-kicker, is how to move from a bad spot to a good spot. But you know the answer. You just try to feel a little better. Maybe that's what this experiment is about. Just trying to feel a little better.

Are you ready for the next part, the linkage of Event A to Event B? I won't wait. I'll just continue writing it down and let you read it when you feel better. But I expect an in-depth discussion. You can even play devil's advocate. I do have an open mind, you know.

Noun-particle B (aka Event B: Orange Juice and Airplanes)

“Now I can drink orange juice.” It was the first thing you said two days ago when you called me at work after your third round of treatment.

“What?” I asked. “You’re not making sense.”

“The treatment is not working.” You said. “So they're taking me off the trial. I’m so looking forward to drinking orange juice on the plane.”

Immediate reaction: My heart and soul filling with concrete and being dropped in the ocean. Literally drowning in a sea of despair. Hannah, I need you now. I don't know how I'm going to ride these waves. They're just to big.

Preliminary Analysis of Phase 2 of Event B: Findings show.....

Did you hear that? Someone just pulled into the driveway. Do you know who it is? Were you expecting someone? What's that? Do you see it? She has huge bouquet of flowers. They're so beautiful. Wait I can see her. She has short brown hair. Her eyes are red and so is her nose. She's been crying. I think it's Julie. Your boss from Wegmans. But, I'm not sure. You've only told me about her.

I opened the front door, that sticks, before she got to the front step. Snow flakes fell across her face and landed on an eyelash. Did you notice how slow the snow was moving? Do you think I could stop the snowflake if I tried?

“This is for Greg.” She said handing me a big envelope and flowers. "We hope he feels better soon."

“Thanks. He’ll appreciate that. He appreciates Wegmans so much.” I said, my throat closing on the words. I was numb and didn’t ask who she was for sure or even ask her in. Stupified, that was a good description. Don't you think?

I took the flowers and put them in the middle of the dining room table, just beyond, my zebra Netbook. And typed: Noun-Particle C: Flowers and Card from Wegmans. Then I typed more notes to myself: Verb-waves ??????????????. What is the correlation between Events A, B, and C? Be sure to investigate any relationship between time and what you focus on.

I looked up. And there you were. Right next to me, pointing to the flowers.

"Wegmans." I said in tandem with little tears tricking out the corner of your eyes. But, they were happy tears. I knew that much because you had the hint of a smile.

I closed, my NetBook, intent on testing the latest addendum to my hypothesis. Does time last longer when you focus? And if I focus on you, will time expand for you and me.

D Day Minus 86: (December 12, 2009): Duality, OJ, and Time (Part 1)

2011-01-03T18:43:00.000-08:00

You were upstairs, sleeping in your room. This morning you went to work only to come home two hours later because you “didn’t feel well.” I was in the middle of a thought experiment. Sort of like the ones Einstein did, but not exactly. His experiments solved problems in mankind. I just wanted to not think about cancer. That was kind of stupid. You know why? I just Googled Melanoma Clinical Trials and the National Institutes of Health (NIH) Clinical Trials page winked at me, like it was in on some horrible joke.

You know how I like physics—especially quantum. I told you. Remember? I’ve read a lot of biographies on Albert Einstein, Richard Feyman, Marie Curie, Erwin Schrödinger, and other physicists. I read them while I waited for you during all those baseball practices at Claude Moore Park. Believe me, I was paying attention when it counted, when you were playing. Really, I was. At least, I brought the good snacks —the drink boxes and fruit roll-ups. I tried to understand baseball. I did. Now how many people are on a team?

So, do you want to know why I love quantum physics? Drum roll please. Because it tries to explain some of the freaky things that can't be explained. Like how things can all be connected though quantum entanglement and you can change the outcome by your expectations. There is so much more to know, only we don't know how to measure.

Oh and I did like the drama and the trials that the old timers encountered when they tried make sense of it all. But, I'm not that crazy about the math. Not at all. Even if Ellie, Jody Foster's character, in Contact said it was the universal language. Give me words and feelings any day.

But don't you think it's cool and mind-blowing all at once? All you have to do is dig a little and it just raises more questions — but thought provoking questions. One other thing, don't you think Michio Kaku is cool too? He’s been on the Science Channel. I even read his books before he was popular.

Do you want to know what all those physicists had in common? They took the path less traveled and found a way to fuel their passion. Albert Einstein wasn’t a shining star – at first. He had to deal with a dysfunctional marriage and a boring bureaucratic job at the patent office. Others had their own trials and tribulations, but they didn’t give up. They were left alone to try and figure out a solution. Sort of like us and what we’re going to do next, now that trial isn’t working. But, we’ll try. Besides, we know there isn’t a crowd on the leading edge. And right now we’re on the on the most leading edge. I'd say we had one foot on the ledge.

Anyway, do you want me to tell you? I know you’re tired and scared. So am I. But it is something to think about. You know. My thought experiment. Or maybe it’s a hypothesis? Sometimes I get confused. Actually, I’m always confused. But, whatever!

It’s about the duality of matter at the quantum level and whether matter is a particle or wave and all the craziness of quantum entanglement. It matters because we’re all about matter. And it matters because it shows we’re all connected.

Even if! Even if. We can’t see the connection. It matters because it shows that we don’t know everything and that there is more to know. Okay, don’t freak. That’s as deep as I’m going to get. Google it when you feel better.

The thing that makes my thought experiment different is that I'm by-passing the math and using the construct of sentences. Sort of like my own little worm-hole to speed up the learning process. At least for me.

Did you diagram sentences in school? I did. Anyway the sentence is deconstructed based on rules to follow the order of language. All language really is —is a way to structure communication. What I’m saying is life is structured like sentences with verbs, adverbs, adjectives, nouns and pronouns in the simplest terms. Am I making sense? Or does my idea need life support?

I have you to thank in a warped way for helping me come up with my hypotheses. I think it is. But I could be swayed back to thought experiment.

So here’s what happened that made me come up with my idea. A week from last Thursday, you gave me a noun at the macro level or a particle at some level we can’t see. From this point, we’ll call them noun-particles. Bottom line, it was an event—a snapshot in time that has been my touchstone since. We'll call the actions and reactions verb-waves. It will make sense in a bit. So hold on to your horses. Dad says that —it still doesn't make sense.

The Hypothesis. Noun-particles are the catalyst for verb-waves. And verb-waves can generate noun-particles. Entanglement is a fact of life. Thoughts are matter. And thoughts matter. The control is how an individual (me) perceives an event because that is all I really can control. Just my reaction. So for the control, the subject (me) will report on my perceptions. Feelings will calibrate the amplitude (better known as mood swings) and the oscillation of the verb-waves at various frequencies.

Do you like how I got all seventh grade science project on you? I hope my science teacher, Mr. Fry, at Westlake Junior High forgives me and my creative license. But this experiment is way cooler than growing beans in sunlight. You'll see.

D Day Minus 113: (November 15, 2009): A Wrinkle in Time

2010-12-30T20:20:00.000-08:00

Dad and I had a bright idea to surprise you while you were working at Wegmans. Well mostly it was my bright idea. But I couldn’t help it. I missed you. Oh and remember when we were walking in Houston last month by the park near the zoo – you really wanted to show Dad how well you doing. You didn’t say you wanted to make him proud, but you didn’t need to. I knew. So that was the other reason why I thought it would be good to surprise you. Plus, like I said, I missed you—a lot.

Both of us were busy. So it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I was working and trying to brush up on my drawing skills. I was inspired by all the late blooming artists and thought, why not? You were working, romancing Katie, planning for the future,and just enjoying things we used to take for granted.

Time was really flying by. But, why wouldn’t it? Life was good. The treatment was working. The trips to MD Anderson were more manageable. You only had to fly to Houston every three weeks. Your last trip was on the fifth. You and Katie made the entire trip in less than twenty hours. I even got up at the crack of dawn so you could make the flight. That was the first time you flew on Air Tran.

When you called to tell me you made it to Houston, you complained, “ The seats were like cardboard.” I listened with compassion for a second. I really felt bad the seats weren’t comfortable. But you couldn’t tell that from my response: “The price was right. Dirt cheap! And you could fly out of Dulles early in the morning and fly back later in the day.”

When I picked you and Katie up at eleven, both of you looked like extras from the movie Dawn of the Dead. Did I ever tell you about seeing that at the drive-in with Uncle Paul? It doesn’t matter. The point was you both looked like zombies.

“Don’t ever try to make the trip in a day. It is too much.” Katie nodded complementing your advice like an exclamation point. But to be honest, it was a wimpy exclamation point. I laughed and filed it in under “never again.”

You warned Dad and me not to come on opening day last Sunday. “It’s going to be crazy.” You said it seriously like you were the parent and we were the kids. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t going to happen anyway. Dad and I spent that weekend in Basset raking leaves and catching up on chores. Besides you gave me a blow-by-blow of the day once you got off work. You called on your way to the Milk Truck, your white SCION, in the parking lot. So it was almost like I was there.

I was riding in the SUV with Dad, covered with blankets and crocheting my latest hat. We were on our way back from Bassett. I mostly forgot what you said. But your excitement and enthusiasm was infectious. And I was grinning ear-to-ear.

Dad asked, “Why are you smiling?” I ignored him because I was talking to you.

Dad exited off I-81 to make a pit-stop at Sheetz. You know the Mount Jackson exit, number 273 on I-81. The place where Dad always gets a lottery ticket and you always check out the Made to Order menu for your latest “snack.” You had to go because Katie was calling and you had plans with her plus you were almost to the house in Sterling.

After I hung up, I smiled really big at Dad for five or ten seconds and said, “Just because.”

Like I mentioned earlier, I had the bright idea to surprise you. Only the big surprise was that we couldn’t find you.

As soon as we got to Wegmans, I nudged Dad and channeled you, “The floor plan is the opposite of the Dulles store.” I recited all the details just like you told me. You would have been proud. I did pay attention.

I pointed the bakery out to Dad and left him in the dust with the cart. I peered into the bakery in search of you. But you were nowhere in sight. I paced back and forth between breads and cakes so many times, the people in the bakery could have asked for a restraining order. And got it. I was just looking for you.

Dad finally caught up with me. He was all calm. Not like me. I was the epitome of emotions – love, fear, pride, anxiety – on steroids cranked up on high in a Waring blender.

“Text him.” I said to Dad. It was blend of a whine and a command. “Ask him if he can go to lunch.”

Dad gave me his “damnit Nance” look. He knew better than to give me too much grief or he’d have me balling in the bakery at Wegmans. And having shoppers think that he beats me. Mostly, he knew how much I wanted to see you in your new habitat. It was just as much for me as it was for you.

Dad hadn’t mastered texting on the Droid so we had to find a place to sit. I didn't have room to talk though. I'd butt dialed you more times than I'll admit to with my Droid.

Anyhow, we ended up at the pretty nice upscale café you mentioned just outside the bakery. I order tofu and vegetables that was less than three hundred calories. That way I could eat some cake later and not feel guilty. Dad got some fish and started to play with his Droid.

Dad said, “My eyes are terrible.” I handed him a spare pair of reading glasses. I kept them in my purse just for these occasions. Then Dad complained a few minutes about the layout of the keyboard on the Droid.

I was afraid we’d have our food before Dad finally texted you. But it finally happened. He hit send, talked to the phone like that made a difference, then waited for you to text him back. But you didn’t answer.

I asked Dad if I should ask someone in the bakery to get you. All Dad said was, “If you want.” Of course I wanted. That was so stupid of him to say, don’t you think? I wanted him to say “he wanted.” You’d think after being together for over a quarter of a century, your Dad would get it. Katie was sure lucky. I could coach you on how not to do stupid things. Don’t you think?

After I made up my mind to track you down after lunch, I got to thinking about you and Thanksgiving and how many different ways I tried to control your holiday. I asked Dad. “Do you really think I’m Rainman?” It was the same time our lunch came. Dad shook his head yes, while he unwrapped his silverware from the napkin. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t get pissed because it was what he thought. So I did the next best thing. I pretended to listen to Dad about what we should do the week we were off for Thanksgiving.

I was really thinking about you and stupid Thanksgiving. Maybe I did ask you a lot about what your plans were for Thanksgiving, but it wasn’t because I cared if you were in Bassett. I just didn’t want you to be alone for the holidays.

You got kind of grumpy when I suggested that you come down after work or that we postpone Thanksgiving Dinner so we could celebrate together. You just weren't saying for sure if you were going to Katie’s for Thanksgiving. After the tenth time over the past few weeks when you said, “Mom, I can figure it out. They’ll be plenty of Thanksgivings. It’s not like I’m dying.” I decided not to ask anymore, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about it. Isn’t that obvious?

After lunch, I asked a lady in the bakery if you were in the back. I said I was your mom. Tears welled up while she looked for you. I wasn’t sure why. But they did. She found you within two minutes and said you’d be down soon. If she could have warped you to me, I think she would have. You said that you had a good team and that everyone was very supportive. I saw it in action.

You walked toward me from the back of the bakery. You moved in slow motion, but each step was like stop frame photography.

Frame One – It was today, you were at Wegmans, clad in black Dockers and a white Wegmans polo, clutching a clipboard wearing a Wegmans hat. A little hint of a smile sneaking from the corners of your mouth.
Frame Two – It was 1987, you were on the path at the Honolulu Zoo, running toward me in your gold tank top and blue shorts, with your fire-engine locks blowing in the wind. A carefree smile infecting all those on the path.
Frame Three – It was back to now.
Frame Four – It was back to 1987.

At least a hundred frames alternating, between today and 1987, passed before you made it to Dad and me.

Remember the book, A Wrinkle in Time, when Meg and Calvin came back to see their mothers one last time before they went to rescue Meg’s father. That is what it reminded me of. I could see you through time, but you couldn’t see me. You and Morgan loved the book. Fiction was one thing, but reality or surreality was another. Frankly, it was sort of freaking me out.

You and Dad talked about your day almost in animation. You were all about setting up production schedules and getting ready for the onslaught of activities you expected with the holidays.

Did you know you really look a lot like Dad? And you both get excited about the details? I was mostly quiet taking in the moment. I tried to enjoy the time like a celebration. Here you were talking shop with Dad. Things were going smoothly at work.

My mind should have been full of all your possibilities. Only thoughts of your grand entrance in stop frame kept sucking me back. You looked tired. It was in your eyes. Maybe it was from all the work and not getting rest, but your eyes were a little red on the lower rim. Maybe there really was a Wrinkle in Time. Maybe there was a man with red eyes just like in the book. A man who tried to take over your power and give it to IT—the main dude from Central Central Intelligence. Maybe IT from the planet Camazot was really the cancer coming back.

The only thing I knew was that I didn’t know. I had my suspicions and it started with a Wrinkle in Time.

D Day Minus 130: (October 29, 2009): Time Flies (When Life is Good)

2010-12-27T21:03:00.000-08:00

“It’s working.” You’d said it once, but that was the third time I made you say it. Morgan laughed in the background, probably in the waiting room by the fish tank across from the vending machine. The one where I bought the Diet Dr Pepper that I couldn’t drink because it tasted like cough syrup last week. You know in the waiting room at MD Anderson Phase I Clinical Trials. You thought it was so funny. I threatened to never buy you another pack of Skittles— the cure all for everything. Well it used to cure everything. But that threat, only made you laugh harder.

Anyway, I waited and waited all day for the good news. I even forced myself not to call you every ten minutes and go all ‘Rainman’ on you. It was just after noon in Virginia, so it was a little after eleven in Houston. I was in the middle of some analysis of my latest technology metrics. Well not really – because in order for me to analyze something my frontal lobe had to be engaged. What I was doing was more of an instinct, which was actually a good thing. Because mentally I was with you and Morgan in Houston at MD Anderson:

walking the SkyBridge, dodging the golf carts filled with patients too sick to walk and staff too busy to walk;
eating at the WaterFall Café and Café Anderson;
waiting with Morgan while you got scanned and tested;
sitting in the chair opposite Morgan with you in between us in the hospital bed, while the nurse monitored your blood and vitals during treatment;
taking in all the other sights like volunteers in their blue striped seersucker jackets manning the Jolly Trolley handing out coffee, tea or juice to any and all;
watching the juxtaposition of the new cancer patients in the main lobby with their new fears and hopes (looking a little lost and confused) next to the old patients with their old fears and hopes, navigating the maze of carpet maps, buildings, and elevators like professionals; and
waiting with both of you for test results in the waiting room, while we talked about food, Wegmans, Tony Horton and P90x, and whether I should start Morgan's latest workout, Shaun T’s Insanity, after I finished with P90X.

I hollered, a happy holler, loud enough for someone two offices down to stop by just to make sure I was okay. I gave him two thumbs up and a big smile. But I already knew the trial was working. I knew it the weekend after our trip where we almost didn’t catch the plane. Does “Holy Hannah” ring a bell?

Do you want to know how I knew? It was in your eyes. They were bright and sparkly like the time you got Super Nintendo for Christmas. Remember how excited you were? You didn’t expect the game because I’d gone on and on about Santa not having many toys and he’d have to share with other kids, so you shouldn’t expect Super Nintendo. When you unwrapped it, you danced up and down. You even screamed like a school girl. Don’t worry your secret is safe with me.

Morgan caught the Super Nintendo fever too. That Christmas break, she didn’t leave your side. She was your one person Super Nintendo fan club. Remember how you explained the intricacies of the game to her. Sort of like how you explained the intricacies of bread making to me now. Did you ever know that you were Morgan’s hero? I’m singing it in my head right now and thinking how much I annoyed you – sometimes.

I know I digress, but I just wanted to let you know how I knew you were going to be okay. It was in your eyes – your beautiful green eyes. Hey, I think you have my eyes. Does that make me stuck up for saying your beautiful eyes?

So mostly you eyes gave it away. But, your energy level was another clue. It was higher than it had been in years. Two or three times you worked ten or eleven hours at Wegmans and came home to work on plans for inventory and how much bread to make. And that was nestled between our trips to Houston. When you worked all those hours, I asked if you were doing too much and if you needed to take it easy. You said, “The store in Leesburg is opening next month and I want to give my team the tools to succeed with or without me.” Last week you even bounced down the stairs, like Tigger, and said, “I feel pretty good.”

The final clue was how fast time went by the past two weeks. It compressed and literally flew by since the trip before last. I know somehow we went to Houston, worked full-time, and managed to stay in touch with everyone – you with your Wegmans entourage and me with the Utah entourage. The only thing I remember was hope and going with the flow.

Don’t you think time expands and goes really really really slow when everything hits the fan? Remember how long it seemed before we got an answer on the trial? Remember how long it took to figure out the first round of treatment – way back in the beginning – just before you graduated from George Mason. Remember the year you were on Interferon – it was nearly an eternity. I felt it every single hour of every single day you were on it too. Time was dragging then. Now it was flying. I guess it does, when life is good.

On Haitus until Christmas Break

2010-12-20T19:18:00.000-08:00

Zebra friends and D Day Minus Blog Followers,

I will be on a break until after Christmas. I will finish (or nearly finish) my labor of love during my Christmas vacation. I've missed writing and sharing our story. I've been down with a bug for nearly a week. Now I'm playing catch-up at work so I can take some time off for the holidays. C'est la vie.

I hope you are finding something to appreciate every day during the holidays. I know it can be hard with all of our daily demands and the dramas where we play center stage. I started a daily tab of things I appreciate. I'm even using a lap counter to keep track. It helps me stay positive and not dwell on how much I miss Greg.

One thing, my Greg taught me was to find something to appreciate whenever possible -- especially when you don't think there is something to appreciate. :-) When you do, that is when the zebras and butterflies come out to play.

All my love,

Nancy

Sick

2010-12-11T09:10:00.000-08:00

Hey all,

This is Morgan posting on behalf of my mom. She is out sick with the flu right now but will return to finish up the blog with about 5 more posts to go. She wants you to know she hasn't forgotten about any of you and is looking forward to sharing the rest of the story with you when she is well and able.

Much love,
Morgan

D Day Minus - 144: (October 15, 2009): Chicken

2010-12-03T21:38:00.000-08:00

I was nearly eight hours into my first day of your Clinical Trial. But it felt more like three or four days. Time at MD Anderson always expanded. Don't you think? It's like we're split between two realities -- Virginia and MD Anderson. In Virginia, sometimes we forgot the cancer. Here, at the hospital going through another treatment, you couldn't. Maybe it's because we were always waiting for an answer. And the stakes were always so high. I don't know. But all we had to do was look around us, here in the hospital, to know -- we weren't that special.

I was cold, like always. This time I dressed in layers and had my leather jacket. The room was dim because your head hurt a little. Even then, you offered to turn on the lights so I wouldn't be bored. You didn't have to worry. I had a zeal of zebras disguised as an iPod, a Kindle, and a NetBook.

In between hourly vitals and blood draws every two or three hours, you'd doze off or ask what time it was so you could eat. Then you'd talk about all the food you wanted to try in Houston. Every once in awhile you'd start a text rampage with your Wegmans posse or Katie or your friends from George Mason. You didn't watch TV because they didn't have the Food Channel or the History Channel. So what was the point?

It was nearly five and you were dozing off again, so I walked the Sky Bridge. Partly for a change of scenery but mostly out of guilt because I couldn't do P90X. I didn't want to get fat. For lunch alone, I ate both of our jalapeno corn muffins and a three vegetable special. I figured that was nearly 1000 calories if you counted all the Dentyne. Besides, walking and burning calories was at least one thing I could control.

I "relistened" to Bruce Lipton's Biology of Belief on my iPod. Plus I mastered the obstacle course of doctors, patients, and crazy cart drivers who honked to clear a path.

Remember the book? Remember how much we talked about beliefs, the law of attraction, the The Secret, and all the connections between your thoughts and cells. But we stopped a few weeks ago. Or maybe I did.

I thought that you'd think, that I thought the cancer coming back was your fault. But I didn't. Mostly I didn't want any of my doubts to cloud your beliefs because I was scared. The only thing that mattered was how you felt and what you believed. Not what I thought or believed.

The more I listened to the Wisdom of Cells and the more I walked, the more I wanted to ask what you thought. And come clean about what I thought. This morning, I could have mentioned it. You asked, "What are you reading? Is it good?"

I lied and said I was reading a book on measuring the value of information technology and droned on about it long enough to make you close your eyes. Really, I was bouncing between two books on my Kindle. One was The Energy of Belief – Psychology's Power Tools to Focus Intention and Release Blocking Beliefs, by a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, and PHD. The other was The Human Antenna: Reading the Language of the Universe in the Songs of Our Cells. I didn't say because I was a big fat chicken.

I wanted to tell you just because we don't know how to measure or monitor the role that thoughts and beliefs play in our lives, with all the scientific data, doesn't make it any less valid. It only means, we haven't figured out how to measure it -- yet.

About the time I got comfortable with my logic, you called asking for something good to eat -- whatever that was. I brought you some pudding. I teased you about dressing up like Chewbacca at Wegmans for Halloween and getting fake fur in the dough. But we didn't talk about what I was really thinking.

I was chicken. A big fat chicken.

D Day Minus - 145: (October 14, 2009): Holy Hannah

2010-11-29T19:06:00.000-08:00

“What is the deal? ” You asked with a heavy emphasis on is along with the obligatory, “This sucks.” You’d said it at least thirty times since we got on I-95. And at this rate, you’d say it another thirty. But it did. You know – suck. It sucked big time. And I had the feeling it was going to get even suckier as I turned on the windshield wipers full blast blurring the sea of red tail-lights.

A white box truck, the kind they thought the D.C. sniper drove, wasn’t paying attention and nearly hit my little Miata. You know what I said, but I won't make you relive it. I sighed hard, took in a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of your recycled lunch.

“What’d ya eat?” I asked rolling down the window, not caring if the rain hit me. You feigned idiocy and laughed. Hard!

I laughed too, only a little. But I really was annoyed. I didn’t have any place to go and Miatas are dinky little cars.

At least that broke the tension. And man alive, there was a lot.

Playing center stage in the matinee in my mind, was all the worse case scenarios – We’d miss the plane. We wouldn’t catch another plane. They’d take you out of the trial even if it was working. We’d get to BWI just in time to see our plane taxi down the runway. We’d never get another flight out. We’d be stuck in this traffic until tomorrow morning. There'd be another wreck. I’d get fat because I didn’t do my P90X. I’d run out of Dentyne. You’d never make it back in time for the Leesburg Grand Opening of Wegmans. We’d run out of battery for our phones. We’d run out of gas. We'd run out of food. We couldn't find a bathroom--ever. It didn't matter if I was full of Diet Mountain Dew. It just didn't. All that was playing out. And I hadn't even finished the first act.

You texted Katie and your Wegmans posse, while I started the second act of my worst case scenarios. Then we got a break in the rain and traffic. And coasted along at a whopping thirty five miles an hour. We even dared to hope that we’d make it to BWI. That's when I got to talking about Hannah and how she always helped me out. She's always been there when I needed her. Remember?

“Do you believe in my guardian angel?” I asked, but didn't wait for your answer.

Then I told you all the times Hannah just made everything work out. Like the time I locked myself out of my house when I was little. The door was locked, I knew it was locked. I’d tried to open the door twenty times. Then when I’d given up – the door opened.

“Say you believe.” I said, but you only nodded a half-hearted nod. “Say you believe.” I said, taking my eyes of the road, so I could see the green in your pupils. “Say it.”

“I believe.” You said eyes fixated on the Garmin GPS, so I'd get my eyes back on the road.

“Do you?” I downshifted in concert to another wave in the sea of tail-lights. “Or are you just saying that so I don’t kill you on the way to trying to save you?”

“I believe.” You half-smiled straightening out the creases in your jeans. “But we only have 65 minutes until the plane takes off."

“I believe too.” I said. “Let’s just keep saying what could go right.”

“You first.” You said, eyes center front, still tracking the Garmin GPS.

“Okay. Okay.” I said imagining some good scenarios. “I got it. There won’t be a line for Security. Or they’ll let us through because we’re running late. The plane may be delayed. Or....”

We imagined all the best scenarios that we could. Sometimes it was hard, because we weren’t moving. And to top it, Garmin took us off track a little. But, we made it to BWI. Just barely. We got long term parking a half an hour before the plane was supposed to take off.

It’s okay that you flipped off the first bus that left us in long term parking. Another one showed up a minute later. It’s okay that the first line in Security was long. Because when we told TSA agent about our saga, he sent us to a different security line. And we got through it fast.

It's okay, you got selected for a random body search. The search was fast and you could put you shoes on at the gate. It's okay that we’d never flown on Southwest and were confused when the cattle troughs to open seating – opened. It's okay that we got split up, because I got on first and saved you a window seat – your favorite.

You stuffed your duffle bag in the overhead and I moved to the aisle so you had the window seat. We sat down. And sighed long and hard. We had to. We had to erase nearly three hours of rain, wrecks, bumper to bumper traffic, near misses, full bladders, worse case scenarios, and recycled lunch.

I said, “Holy Hannah.” It was the only thing left to say. And you nodded – like you meant it. This time.

D Day Minus - 149: (October 10, 2009): Stupid Phone

2010-11-25T11:00:00.000-08:00

I circled Dulles Airport in search of the stupid cell phone parking lot for twenty minutes – only to end up in some industrial park where bad people dump the bodies. I didn’t care. You were coming home. That is if you still wanted to. I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you didn’t. I’d been a drama mama most the week. And it wasn’t like you were on a trip to Disneyland. You were in Houston to start the BrAF Clinical Trial. So while you traveled light with Katie and carry-ons, I stayed behind with more emotional baggage than would’ve fit on a DC-10. Frankly, if I would've had a choice not to live with me, I would've left myself.

On Tuesday, you called me at work on the stupid phone with the news. “I can’t start the trial until Friday after I go to Clinic. I can't get to Clinic today. There was a little mix up. They can't fit me in. Thursday is the next day for Clinic. So I have to stay an extra day or two. I can’t fly home on Friday because that is when treatment starts. I’ll probably have to fly out on Saturday. I don’t know for sure yet.” You were walking I could just tell—probably on the Sky Bridge or between windows where you got stupid phone reception.

“What?” I said loud enough for me to shut my office door. “We told the Scheduler that you were flying in. Not staying. Didn’t we? I asked at least ten times when I was there. Both you and the Scheduler were annoyed when I asked. And kept asking. Right? Didn't I say we needed to make sure we got the appointments scheduled because we needed to work around our schedules?"

You signed on the other end and rolled your eyes. Frustrated.

"Where's Katie? Is she next to you? Can she hear?" I asked even more frustrated.

"Yes." You said, voice even. But I knew you were forcing calm out. Meanwhile, I felt like psycho meddling mom. I didn't care what you or what Katie thought at the point.

"Have you called work? You're supposed to work on Saturday. Katie’s supposed to work on Saturday, too."

“I know.” You said, “But what do you want me to do? What do you want me to do?”

I was silent, figuring out the next volley. What I wanted you to do and what I wanted to say were two different things.

“I wanted you to kick someone or some things a** and make the cancer go away. I wanted you not to be half a continent away. I wanted to take it all away. I wanted the treatment to work overnight. I wanted the Scheduler to pay attention. I wanted not to get so mad. I wanted not to be so afraid. I wanted to be there. I wanted. I wanted. I wanted. Anything but to go through this with you.”

What I actually said was a snotty. “Let me know when you know.” It slipped out just before I hung up the stupid phone— knuckles white, cheeks hot, knees weak, stomach knotted.

Ten seconds later, I was ranting – more like hyperventilating—to Dad on the stupid phone. The more I explained how wrong it all was and that this wasn’t fair, the more my voice cracked and tears ran.

Dad was all, “Let Greg handle this. He’s a big boy.” And “Nance, you need to calm down, you’re making it worse.” That damn stupid rationality pissed me off. Really, you know and I know that rationality and emotionality are like oil and water. They just don’t mix – ever, evER, EVER.

I tried to work, but couldn’t concentrate. So I faked it – glazed eyes checking email or open documents that made as much sense as all those black and white CT scans of yours.

I grabbed the stupid phone along with the calling card twenty or so times. But five was the number of times I actually called.

“The Scheduler is not at his desk. Please leave your name, number to be reached, the patients name and ID, and he’ll be sure to return your call.” Was what I got. But, I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I said a few bad words under my breath and flipped off the stupid phone.

As soon as I left work I called the Scheduler on my stupid phone from my car right, there in the parking lot. My little Miata was vacuumed sealed so some insane part of me reasoned that I would let the Scheduler have it whether I got him or voice mail. Anyway I got the voice mail – AGAIN. And I went on a full on rant that went something like, “You can’t mess with people’s lives like this. We TOLD you we wouldn’t be staying in Houston and that we were flying in. This isn't a game. My son could die. We need to get him started in the trial. He needs it to start now. I want him to live. I want him to live. Don’t you get that?” As soon as I hung up, I threw the stupid phone really hard on the passenger floor with a thud.

The silent echo punctuated my pain for ten seconds. Then I wanted to take it all back. Erase the stupid message. I knew this was all new, a TRIAL. Duh! MD Anderson was just getting it set up. There were no guarantees. I knew that. But, like I said, rationality and emotionality don’t mix. And I can be an idiot. Then I got to thinking about the next time you or I’d see the Scheduler again. Then I panicked even more – if that were possible. You’d see him the next day and I’d see him next week. Crap, Change, Cancer, Catastrophe came to mind. Then I imagined wearing my Scarlet Letter, “C”, for Crazy. "C" for Charming was dead to me.

I told you part of the epic drama, the next day. That was after I fished for information on the Scheduler and whether he mentioned my call. You assured me, he didn’t say anything and you were going to start the Trial – just a couple of days later. I guess Cancer makes for a lot of Crazy.

Dad and you worked out the details and left me out of it. Did Dad tell you I was losing it? You wouldn’t say. But I asked. At least you kept me in the loop at a distance. If not emotionally, then geographically. I even tip-toed around you through a couple of calls to Katie. But you figured that out. Didn’t you?

The rest of the trip, you were cordial – another “C” word. You’d give me basics about the treatment and what you were doing. Things were going well. It was all working out. Katie is keeper. But, that wasn’t enough. I was used to nuances and how you felt.

By Friday, I realized all my worst fears about this trip – not knowing the details, changing plans, and falling apart.

But this morning I was much better. At Bush International, you called my stupid phone. You said "Mom, I love you. You're not crazy. I really do appreciate you and everything you do. I think the treatment is working. I can't wait to get home." You'd said all this twenty times before. But this morning I was calm enough to receive it. Finally, we were on the same wavelenghth and communicating – almost like magic.

There still was distance. Only now, it was geography. The emotional distance was my fault. I smiled, just a little, all by myself in a scary industrial park with who knows how many dead bodies. All because now I knew a secret about distance and connection. The only thing left was your call and my stupid phone to ring. And it did.

D Day Minus - 154: (October 5, 2009): The Baton

2010-11-22T17:45:00.000-08:00

I chauffeured you and Katie to Dulles around three in the afternoon. You sat beside me in the passenger seat, eyes front, fidgeting with the grab handle of the SUV. Did you think holding the handle tighter would get you to the airport any faster?

Katie sat behind us on the hump. That way she could hear what we were saying – way in the front. She kept checking her purse for something. I think it was her identification and her phone. I knew it wasn't boarding passes. You had them. The only thing for sure was – she was nervous. Probably about flying or the treatment or running off to Houston with you. It didn’t matter what it was – she was allowed – on so many levels.

I didn’t say a word. I’m sure you’re glad I kept my trap shut about that. Instead we talked a lot of food in Houston and how big MD Anderson was along with the infamous Waterfall Café in the Mays Building. Then we were silent. Each of us absorbed in our own private realities.

I thought about this day as I drove in the pack of Washington Flyer Cabs, Mercedes, and BMWs and other high-end cars. I noticed there weren’t too many clunkers in Northern Virginia and my latest Diet Mountain Dew was almost gone. Mostly I thought “it was finally here.” It was the big travel day for our one hope—the BrAF Clinical Trial. And finally for two reasons. First, the two weeks waiting to start the trial, seemed like eons. Second, you sort of Rainmanned me. You’d called me two or three times to confirm when I’d be home. Then you called me a couple of times on behalf of Katie. She wanted to know about the logistics of flying since she hadn’t flown in awhile. “Would her nearly empty bottle of saline solution for her contacts make it through airport security? What is the weather like in Houston this time of the year? What should I pack? Should I bring my computer?"

You had an early shift at Wegmans. You were so excited about the Grand Opening next month and being there for “your team.” “Oorah,” with a Marine bark is what I’d thought every time you mentioned it. And that was a lot. I didn’t say anything because you’d think I was giving you crap. I wasn’t. I loved that you were so excited.

Anyway, I was trying to get in as many hours as possible. I was going to miss a lot of work the next two weeks. I was your travel buddy for weeks two and three of this round. I wasn't complaining. Just stating the facts. I’d do anything as long as I could be there with you. Still I was on edge.

This morning at work, I over compensated in organization and efficiency because that was the only thing I could control. Copious amounts of contraband gave my charade away. I went through four of twenty-four once – ers of Diet Mountain Dew along with nearly two plenty packs of Dentyne. Your voice nagged each time I threw away an empty. Something about diet drinks causing cancer. I shut it out by blasting my iPoD. I listened to Ludacris Get Back when I heard your nagging. So “You Get Back.” That made me smile and relax a little. But every now and then my stupid nose would tingle, which was a tell tale sign, I was on the verge of tears.

Honestly, I wanted to go so I could be nosey and know everything about your treatment. Then I wanted to stay so you and Katie could have some time together. But now, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything now, because what’s done is done. I could’ve booked a ticket. I could leave work. Work would understand.

On the other hand, part of me was relieved to get a break from traveling because if I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid. And you knew that was always in the back of my mind, whether I said it or not. Still part of me was jealous Katie was going to be the one with you when you started the BrAF trial. Plus I wasn’t sure how she’d react as the primary “go to” person if things, you know, “went south.” I didn’t want to pinch you off from Katie and control the situation, either. I wanted you to live your own life and know that I was always there on the sidelines.

Still, I had a heavy heart about not being in Houston for this trip. But, Dad was right. I needed a little balance and you needed to do some of this on your own. This was something you had to figure out with Katie. But I bounced between relief, a little hate, and sheer unadulterated fear about the whole trip. Talk about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. What a dichotomy? But, you know how I am. We probably talked it death at least thirty times. Because when it came to this, we had diarrhea of the mouth. You said, “Come. I don’t care. You’re my mom.” You meant it. But you needed your space. You did.

Route 28 was pretty clear so we made the trip to Dulles in fifteen minutes. I patted your hand on the tan console just before dropping you and Katie off. Just like I had since you were little. I don’t think Katie noticed, but you wouldn’t have cared. I opened up the back hatch and you pulled out Katie’s and your carry-ons. Katie wore as much zebra as she could beg, borrow or steal. That made me smile. I hugged you and said the usual. Then I hugged Katie and said, “Have fun. Be careful. Take care of yourself. Take care of him. I’m trusting you.” All in one breath.

D Day Minus – 17573: (January 26, 1962): Prologue—One Possibility

2010-11-20T19:34:00.000-08:00

I’ll do my best to remember Eternity. It was such a long time ago. So much has happened to make me forget. And you know the thing about Reality – by the time you can talk, you totally forget Eternity. Then you spend the rest of your time in Reality, trying to remember what it was like. You know? Before.

We were hanging out with our Cluster in Eternity enjoying non-life. Dad was there. Morgan was there. Katie was there. Aunt Janiene was there too. We had different names. Dad was Ineffable – mostly because he was. He chose that name because it meant “too sacred to be uttered or spoken.” That was kind of dumb because in Eternity, we didn’t speak. We didn’t smell, taste, hear or see for that matter. We had something better. We knew and we felt. Not like in Reality, where feelings can be hurt. What we felt here in Eternity really was ineffable.

I was Hannah. You were Michaelangelo. Morgan was Lily. Katy was Hunter. Aunt Janiene was Jennah – mostly because it rhymed with Hannah. She wanted part of my name to be even closer to me. Like that could make us any closer. But that was okay, because we were supposed to feel good. And if having part of my name made Jennah happy. So be it.

You, Jennah, Hunter, and Lily were still one and carefree. Not like me. I was mostly carefree, but some of Reality was getting mixed in with me. It happened each time I tried on my new physical body. Hannah was still there – but not. It’s just strange to know you’re going to Reality and leaving the biggest part of you behind.

I had to go. Because that’s what's supposed to happen. It's part of the circle. I tried to get Ineffable to clue me in. Because part of him went to Reality one hundred and eighty one days ago. Ineffable stayed true to his nature and thought to me in riddles. He wasn’t supposed to let me know. I had to figure it out on my own. I knew that. But sometimes I forgot – probably because Reality was getting in me.

Part of me really did want to go. But Reality confused me a little. It would happen to you – when it's your turn. And it would be your turn soon. I had to go first because you chose me to be your physical mother. And I chose you to be my physical son. And Lily would be your physical sister. And Ineffable was going to be your physical father. We all chose each other.

We didn't know what Reality was going to be like or have any plans. Just that we would do our best to help each other remember – Eternity.

You knew Hunter was part of you. I knew Jennah was part of me. We had so many others that were part of us too. We knew we'd see our friends from Eternity. Somewhere in Reality. We'd know by what we felt. It could be love or hate or something in between. But if we had a feeling about someone in Reality, they were our friend in Eternity. The trick was to see them in Reality like they really were in Eternity. Then we were getting closer to who we really were – in Eternity.

We didn't want Reality to be easy. We didn't want to have all the answers. We didn't want material things given to us. We didn't always want perfect health. We didn't want everyone to love us automatically. That would've have missed the whole point and the journey. We wanted the obstacles. We wanted to want. We wanted to get better. We wanted to figure it out. We wanted to grow. We wanted to do our part to expand Eternity.

Most of all, we wanted to remember. We wanted to remember what it was like in Eternity. We wanted it so much. It was our one and only promise. We promised each other that we'd make each other want to remember. No matter what. Even if it hurt in Reality. Even if.

Just before part of me left to be born in Reality, I felt a surge of love from our Cluster. Followed by a sharp separation from the bigger part of me – Hannah. Then thoughts, followed by echos, followed by whispers: "REMEMBER WHO YOU REALLY ARE. Remember who you really are. remember who you really are. remember."

Next, I saw bright bright lights and physical faces with my own physical eyes. Right here in Reality.

D Day Plus 231: (October 25, 2010): Now What?

2010-11-14T07:15:00.000-08:00

“Now what?” That dominated my thoughts since I posted my first D Day Plus entry yesterday. You know and I know that one day changes everything. And I changed everything with your story by jumping ahead to blend our story to here and now. Yes, I had a general idea where to take it. But from the first posting last April, I quickly learned an entry was never a sure thing until I hit the “Publish Post” button.

“Now what?” Had really planted its sneaky syllables into my psyche like an uninvited guest over the holidays. Those two syllables reverberated in my left ear and out my right ear. Then in my right ear and out my left ear like a figure eight or maybe even like infinity. So there I was trying to get unstuck, planted on your tan brown recliner on Dad’s side of the bedroom. And it wasn’t happening for me. I needed a distraction—Big Time.

Usually work was a good distraction. That was a no go – at least not for a few more days—because I was still under doctor’s orders. So I did what I did best, got even more balled up in thought and emotions.

I tried to push through the wall of resistance. I had to. I was on my own self-imposed deadline. You know how I always have to add some stress even when there is no earthly reason for it. Even Microsoft had an opinion. That damn Microsoft Word stared me down with its blank page, all self-righteous and such. All because my word well had gone all but gone dry.

Now questions plagued me and I didn’t have answers. “Should I share the rollercoaster of emotions I just went through with my surgery or just do the condensed version with lessons learned – sort of like a post mortem they do in the military? Should I pick up where I left off before the whole surreal bevy of bowel drama took over and gloss over my journey? How do you really talk about eternity and hope for the here-after without bringing in the God Squad and all the versions of what’s true or not; what’s right or not? How do you compare a bowel obstruction to cancer? How do you show joy and talk about hope when the knee jerk reaction about cancer, death, and pain is to run the other way bellering like a baby?”

By now, I knew the best thing to do was some type of distraction and wait for an answer –or inspiration. But what? I couldn’t do Zumba, yoga, or clean. I was sick of movies and “on demand” television. I was even sick of watching Lynda.com training. I needed to get out of the house.

Dad says I’d never leave the house if I didn’t have to. He calls me, “His little Hermit." Or "Howard" (as in Hughes). Don’t you think he’s a liar? The fact that I needed to get out of the house was proof. Don’t you think? At least I don’t have agoraphobia. Well maybe a little when I drive over bridges or overpasses. Remember how I'd freak out and focus on my breathing, driving on the big tall overpasses from Bush International to our hotel of the moment, on one of our endless trips to MD Anderson?

I decided to go for a walk because I was thinking about how fat I was getting just lazing around on your chair. So instead of being agoraphobic, I’m probably more fatophobic.

The sky was blustery and ominous looking, like it was going to be all cold outside. I didn’t check the thermometer by the patio or Weather.com like you and Dad would have. I’m more visual, you know. Anyhow, I got all layered up – sort of like Nonook the Eskimo. I’m sure you’re thinking that’s a surprise and smiling – given the fact that I’m always cold.

I wore my flat suede boots. The ones I bought in NYC with Aunt Janiene when my shoes were giving me blisters and I didn’t want to go back to the hotel. Remember those were my "go to" boots last winter in Houston. I also had on my stretchy stretchy leggings (cause of my swelly belly), and my new fake down vest with a pocket for my iPod.

Oh, and I even had on one of the hats I crocheted during your appointments and hospital stays. This one was made with the infamous magic circle. Remember? That’s where I’d use a slip knot sort of way to start the first round of the hat to make the hole at the crown really really tiny – almost invisible.

I was so happy when I found a clip with instructions on YouTube. It was a few days before last New Year’s Day. You were in the hospital at MD Anderson because you had severe abdominal pain. The nurse just gave you Morphine. I teased you about being thankful for good drugs. You shook your head and gave me a smile that meant, “I’m glad you’re here even with your stupid comments.”

I didn’t want to bug you with the sound, so I used my iPod earbuds to plug into my Zebra-skinned Netbook. I’d watch the clip, try to make the ring, then watch it again. You asked what I was doing after about the fifth round of trying. I went on and on about the marvelous magic ring for at least three minutes. Your eyes glazed over. I wasn’t sure if it was the Morphine or me. You only said, “I got it. It’s okay.” But did you ever really get the significance of the magic circle? Don’t lie.

I took the trail behind our house intent to walk to the traffic light on Algonkian Parkay and Cascades Boulevard. Autumn leaves were falling to my right and to my left. And each time one fell, you can bet I double-checked to make sure it wasn’t a butterfly that you may have sent my way. No butterflies, just stupid autumn leaves—a whole lot of dead, beautiful, colorful, stupid, stupid leaves.

By the time I got to Algonkian Parkway, I was all sweaty. You’re probably thinking I should have checked the temperature. But I didn’t, so I stripped. First it was my fake down vest. That helped a little, but not enough. Then I stripped off my infamous magic circle hat. And boy I had some major hat hair going on. I almost put it back on. Instead I hoped I looked really sick to lower anyone’s expectations driving by.

At the traffic light where Cascades Boulevard and Algonkian Parkway intersect, I stepped on the big crack. It's the one in the sidewalk section where you press the oversized button to cross the street. I did it, because I always did. Remember how I made you, Morgan, Dad, and even our old dog Champ step on it before being allowed to turn around. It was the law. Now it was more of a habit.

As soon as I turned around, I got to thinking about the chain of pain and how emotional pain was the strongest link in it. Then I got to thinking about what we always talked about related to beliefs, thoughts, emotions, and feelings. A car honked and I ignored it. I didn’t want to lose momentum.

Remember how we’d talk about changing our thoughts or perceptions in order to find a way to feel better. It was the best thing we could do and the only thing that we had control over. In fact, we’d had a lot of conversations about it on the very patch of trail I was on.

All I ever wanted was to be closer to you, especially since your body caught up with your soul. After the past couple of weeks, I was finally starting to get it. It took some drama, but like we always said, "Words don't teach. Life experience does."

As long as I was feeling good and appreciating life - even the sucky things, I felt closer to you. By sucky, I meant watching your pain with that invader - cancer. We both knew thoughts control emotions and emotions spawn feelings. And I had the power to control my thoughts. It's just a matter of training myself a little bit every day -- by choosing the best feeling thought in the moment.

I'm starting to believe. So please let me know if I'm getting it right. If I find calmness and appreciation, then you'll be there. Because that's where you hang out. Right? I think so, because it happened on the bathroom floor that night I thought I was dying. It happened at the hospital whenever I stopped with my pity party. It happened a lot of other times -- as long as I didn't get ahead of myself and found a way to feel better about the reality of the situation. Even if it was a silly distraction. Right? It was really happening. Right?

So if I can change the way I think and what I believe, then faith comes and in some cases knowing? And if I can do that, then maybe I am a Superhero? Maybe you're a Superhero? Maybe we're all Superheros. Only most of us our too stupid to believe it.

I’ll try not to be a broken record. But I think I'm getting it. Like we always said, "A belief is just a thought you think over and over again, and if you change your thoughts, you can change your belief."

I'm not saying we're all Superheros with capes and kryptonite. But we do have more power by paying attention to how we feel every minute and finding better thoughts. Right? You always said you get what you give. So if I put out positive juju, then I'll get more back. Right?

Believe me, I'm not saying that I think you went through cancer or the physical pain to teach me or anyone a lesson. I think it happened because of timing and where you were. It did make us live life a whole fuller and really made us pay attention. Mostly it made us find a way to be positive -- mostly. It made us know unconditional love -- definitely. And best of all, it reminded me of Eternity and a lot of things we both forgot.

One more thing, I'd like to know. "What is Eternity? And why can I feel you?" I don't expect an answer yet. But I'll tell you what I'm thinking. I know I'm not getting the whole story, but humor me. Because I won't know for sure for awhile. But here's what I'm thinking. Eternity is where the thoughts we think go hang out. And thoughts we think are connected to our soul. If the thoughts we're thinking make us feel bad, then we're out of sync with our soul. And we aren't being who we truly are. Right? So, if we feel good, we're on the right track. If we don't, we're not. We just need to change our thinking. Right? But because we're always growing, it's okay if we're not always skippety do dah happy with birds circling around our heads. Because it gives us clarity. Right?

So you know what you don't want. And knowing what don't want gives you best clarity of what you do want. That makes Eternity grow because we're trying to get to what we do want. Right? We are all in this together whether we like it or not. Right? But when we like it and don't get to wrapped up in being right and making the other person wrong then we're on the right track. Right? And in Eternity, we are all loved. Right? And everything is okay because we never get it done. Right? So we get a lot of "do overs" and chances to be creative. And most of all we get to choose what we believe. Right?

All those questions and a little clarity came on the trail in woods behind our house. Almost the same place you and your friends got all that poison ivy when you were in grade school. Anyway I stopped with the questions, because I was getting all tense. And if I was right, that meant I was getting further away from you and Eternity. So I listened to some songs on my iPod, to give it all a rest. Well mostly me. Wasn't it was obvious? I was having a hard time keeping up.

I dropped off my fake down vest at the house so I could walk the pond loop without feeling like a pack mule. While I was home, I got my dapper straw hat (the one I bought at the swap meet when we all went to Hawaii to take you to your final physical destination). I needed it to hide my horrendous hat hair. Plus I guzzled a whole lot of water because I didn't want to get all plugged up again in the bowel department. I'd learned my lesson.

Two minutes later I was walking the loop around the pond. More leaves fell to my left and right and like before I double-checked. Still no butterflies. I listened to some more random songs and tried to get the words right. The distraction worked for a minute.

Then my fears crept in. I wasn't sure whether to share what I thought on D Day Minus for fear of people thinking I was off my rocker. Then I got to thinking, this was your story, my story, and our story. And whether anyone believed it or not was their choice. Because that's the beauty of it all -- you get to choose what you believe. I only needed to start at the beginning, remember the joy and exhilaration of the ride, and relax. Because if I did, you'd make sure it all worked out. You'd guide me to the best moments, the right words, and the perfect sequence of my thoughts.

I think you agreed too. Because a medium sized orange and black butterfly came up and played with me. And we danced — just for a moment. Then I knew "Now What?"

D Day Plus 226: (October 20, 2010): Chain of Pain

2010-11-10T19:43:00.000-08:00

“How’s the pain?” That was the question of the day. And I was a little sick of it. The first time it came up was as soon as Dad got out of bed and nearly tripped over your tan brown recliner. The second time was around eleven when I called Morgan at work to ask her to let your posse of blog followers know I was on sick leave. The third time was a little before noon when Aunt Janiene called to tell me she missed me. After that, it was Aunt Sue around two to tell me she was thinking about me. There were a lot more calls from Dad and Morgan that I’m not bringing up. Well, not in detail. I just wanted to make a point and explain why I had pain on the brain.

“Fine or getting better,” was my usual response. If I felt a little chatty, I’d add, “Memories of your pain were worse.” Then I’d get resituated on your tan brown chair, like it was tied to my response.

All the focus on pain got me to thinking – maybe even pontificating – if you want me to get all fancy. Pontificating about the chain of pain and what sucked worse.

Remember how I’d say that vertigo was by far and away the worse kind of pain. You were there. And you were scared. You’d never seen me so sick and it came on without warning. It was during the snow storm. I was projectile puking on the kitchen floor and couldn’t move. You ran like Chicken Little outside to get Dad, who was shoveling snow.

Vertigo was the front-runner because I was so scared and physically out of control. I couldn’t even walk. After that, I’d say appendicitis and gall bladder attacks were the next worse because I couldn’t fart. But, I got good drugs to dull the pain. And my naughty nine year old to add some bawdy bathroom humor. Then I’d digress to childbirth, strep throat, and broken bones - in that order. This was before my latest link on the chain of pain– the bowel obstruction. Even with nearly dying, I’d put that link somewhere in the middle of the chain of pain.

As I went through each link, it dawned on me, that my entire chain of pain was all physical – but in the big scheme of things it was nothing. It was nothing compared to the emotional pain of watching you go through the physical pain of your cancer.

You said you had it easier than me. You said it in airports, waiting rooms, on elevators, on escalators, in cafeterias, in your room, on the phone, in hospitals, and hotel rooms. I didn’t believe you. Now I do. I know. Especially, after last week’s wild ride: physical pain is easy; emotional pain is not. And the emotional pain of watching someone who you’d die for go through so much physical pain is the ultimate worst on the chain of pain.

I'm just saying physical pain shrinks over time because you forget it. Emotional pain grows over time because you relive it. Think about! You know I wouldn’t lie.

Last week, I knew the physical pain would end because either three things would happen: I’d lose consciousness because my body would not put up with more than I could handle; I’d get some sweet mind altering drugs to dull the pain; or I’d die. And now that I know there’s an eternity that would have been okay with me. But then Morgan and Dad would have to go through the emotional pain that would grow and grow and grow. That would suck big time for them. And I really have so much more I want to do –like tell your story. So it all worked out.

There’s something that’s been bugging me though. Did you feel how lost I was on Lake Philpott kayaking with Dad on that Sunday? It was all about no butterflies, you not getting to kayak or enjoy the beautiful fall colors, some blubbering, empty feelings, a little yadda yadda, and some major woe is me. I think you did. Even if I didn’t think so at the time. But you knew. Right? It was just that I was so wrapped up in my own emotional pain to realize you were there the whole time. I would’ve known that if I would have done a better job at feeling better instead of feeling lost. Don’t you think? Now I sound like our broken record: words don’t teach; life experience does. But honestly, did it have to be so radical? I’m not an idiot. I’m a quick study. I didn’t need to have a near death experience or relive the horrors of your pain to believe.

Or did I?

D Day Plus 225: (October 19, 2010): Parole

2010-11-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

The nurse and my new roommate, who checked in last night after emergency gall bladder surgery, were chatting each other up about the joys and pitfalls of motherhood. Both had daughters in elementary school and were full of room mother stuff and projects. They were all about my daughter is so this and that. Or they have so much homework. And I know daycare is really hard. And I spoke to the teacher. And I don’t know how they expect…..And all that yadda yadda yadda ya.

I didn’t want to play, so I pretended to be sleep. I wasn’t being antisocial. I talked a lot about nothing with them earlier. I just didn’t want to go there with them. And you know what I meant about that – as soon as you mention kids and cancer or death – everything goes south. Either you become the victim they fawn over. Or you get bombarded with their sad story like it’s a contest. Or there is an awkward silence while they're trying to find a way to, as Snagglepuss would say, “Exit stage left.”

Don’t get me wrong, the nurse was really nice. And so was my faceless roommate all hidden behind the privacy curtain. I tried to steal a peek last night every time I got up to pee, but never could see much without looking like a stalker.

Oh I forgot, last night, I got my catheter out. That was good, except they kept pumping with saline. So I had to go every two or three hours. That was a big hassle because I had to call someone to unplug my IV and help me out of bed. After the second trip and no help in sight, I figured it out on my own. Besides, I had a lot of practice with you and my other stints in the pokey. Oh I meant to say hospital. I really was a pro. A PRO---feSSional. And I meant that with a long “s.” I let that IV pole and that little urine hat in the pot know who was the boss.

You know what? Sometimes I didn’t understand why you liked someone to stay all night with you in the hospital. I liked the quiet time and not having to perform for visitors. You know the “oohs” and “ahhs” or “it’s amazing how well you’re doing” when things are going well. Or the “you’ve just had surgery” and the "waddya expect" when they’re not.

But let me tell you, the first time I had to pee last night and didn’t know if anyone was coming to take me, I felt helpless. Now I know why you liked to have family around all the time in the hospital. Just in case you had to pee and you didn’t want to wait. Or if you needed ice chips. Or if your IV was beeping and you thought an air bubble would cause an embolism. Or if you needed more drugs. Or a familiar face to tell you it was going to be all right. I know you told me that. But now I know. Really.

I donned my earbuds and thumbed for my Easy2Sleep track on my iPod in hopes of you finding me. It worked the other night and I thought it would work again. Maybe you’d show me some more or remind what I was supposed to already know about this eternity thing. I cranked up the volume really loud intent on drowning out the chatter behind the curtain and clatter of rolling carts. I started breathing easier, but you didn’t come. And I needed you. How was I supposed to balance reality with eternity? How?

Yesterday was rough, but no one knew how rough. Not Dad. Not Morgan. Each time I swallowed to stop the NG tube from piercing my throat, I thought of you. Each time I asked for ice and savored it as it melted on my tongue, I thought of you. Each time I got Dilaudid, I thought of you and the fists of Dilaudid punching your stomach when the nurse gave it to you full throttle. Each time they took my vitals and asked all the probing questions, I thought of you. Each lap around the nurse’s stations, I thought of you. Each thought made me sadder and sadder.

It hurt to watch you go through it the first time. It hurt even more the second, third, and hundredth time. Morose laced with anxiety. That was me.

When you didn’t come, I broke down and asked the nurse for a hit of Dilaudid. That’s when she asked me if I had children. I said, “A daughter 23 in Roanoke and a son who passed.” I held my breath waiting for her to do one of the usual three. But she didn’t. She patted my hand and gave me Dilaudid really slow and easy. That way it didn’t punch me in the gut.

I drifted off to sleep plotting my escape. I’d walk a few more laps and show everyone that I was ready to go. Then I’d get my NG Tube out. The doctor half promised me that yesterday. Then I could eat solids. Then I’d get my IV out. Then I could take pain meds by mouth. Then I’d walk some more and maybe pass gas. Then they’d know my insides were okay. Then I’d call Dad to come pick me up. Then I could finally get a goodnight’s sleep. That was my plan. And I was sticking to it.

And my plan worked. I got paroled around five in plenty of time to watch the Dancing With the Stars Results Show. Before Dad came, I told the nurse about you and how awesome you were and how the hospital made me relive everything. She listened and didn’t do anything like I expected. She just smiled and made feel like it was all right. And maybe it was. Because, you were back. You hugged my heart. I felt it. Right when the orderly wheeled me to curb, to Dad, and to sweet sweet FREEDOM.

Now how’s that for good behavior?

D Day Plus 224 (October 18, 2010): Bridge to Awakening

2010-11-06T18:17:00.000-07:00

Alone after midnight in my hospital room, I buzzed the nurse’s station for ice chips and pain meds. Since surgery, I’d been in and out of consciousness – thanks to the Dilaudid and sleep deprivation. According to Dad, the surgery went well. They cleaned up the adhesions so my insides weren’t a tangle mess anymore. My surgery was laparoscopic. Not open surgery like yours. So you win when it comes to scars. Remember how you explained your scars away by saying “I was attacked by sharks.” You’d wait for your victim’s reaction to your tall tale – then smile. The real story got old and sometimes you just wanted to lighten things up a bit and play with people. Sort of like a cat playing with a mouse.

Dad got a prize after surgery – a glossy color picture of my bowel all cleaned up and pretty – suitable for framing. Before surgery, I got a prize of my own– a foley catheter. Remember how I teased you about being an octopus with all those tubes coming out of your body? I didn’t tease you right away. It took a little while for me to get over the initial shock of seeing you connected to all the machines at MD Anderson. After a week or so your sense of humor came back. Mine was coming back faster. But in your defense, my bowel surgery paled compared to yours. Anyway, if I would’ve had a chest tube I would've of caught up with you in the tube department. But don’t you think I get a gold octopus star for sporting an IV, NG tube, and catheter?

I shooed Dad out last night around 6:30 or so. He was tired and would’ve stayed. But, I didn’t want to worry about trying to feel better than I felt. That didn’t bother you. You liked someone with you in the hospital all the time – even when you were sleeping. I didn’t mind staying. In fact, I got really good at distracting myself (and not to “Rainman” you) with crocheting, writing, drawing, or reading. You said, “I like to see you happy and relaxed.”

I fumbled to find the right button on the remote. The one that turned on the light at the head of the bed so I wouldn’t spill ice chips. Before I got it right, the foot of my bed started rising. Once I got that under control, I found the right button. In an instant, the pale green walls and wall locker came into focus. Don’t you think all hospitals look the same – they have the same muted color pallet, same blue recliner chair that folds out into a bed, same IV poles, same bedside table, same window blinds, same whiteboard with the name and number of the nurse, tech, and doctor?

A tech came in with my ice chips and a promise – the nurse would be here soon with pain meds. It didn’t really matter, my throat from the NG tube hurt more than the surgery. I only wanted to stay ahead of the pain. I wanted ice chips more. I had some around 9:00, the first thing by mouth, in two days. It was the only thing that soothed the fire in my throat.

Right after the tech left, I spooned in a couple of ice chips, let them melt, savored the sweet relief, and really appreciated how good it tasted – just like you did, when you finally graduated to ice chips. You said, “This tastes so good.” I thought it was funny too see you in ice chip ecstasy. I get it now.

The nurse came along with the drill, “What’s your name? What’s your date of birth?” I got the answer right and got my hit of Dilaudid. This nurse didn’t inject it as fast as the other nurse. So I didn’t feel like I was getting slugged in the gut before the pain dulled.

I wanted to drift back to sleep. But the muffled voices of nurses and the random squeaky cart outside my room annoyed me. So I turned on the Easy2Sleep track on my iPod to drown out it out. The track sounds like heavy rainfall on a tin roof. Sort of like when it rains in Bassett. About five minutes into it, my mind wandered and relaxed enough for me to appreciate all that was right in the world. I was thankful to be alive. Thankful for Dad. For Morgan. For You. For Katie. And all my extended family and friends.

That’s when things got fuzzy. You took me back to the beginning and reminded me. Reminded me that it all worked out fine and the way it was supposed to. It wasn’t about cancer and beating it. It was about the journey – the highs and lows. The highs for the exhilaration and the thrill. The lows for the growth and to reach new highs. It was knowing unconditional love. It was about you and me and everyone keeping up with who we really are – perfection. It was knowing we are eternal and there is an eternity.

As soon as it happened, I turned off my iPoD and tried to get you to come back. But the harder I tried, the further away you seemed. For now, the connection was lost. But, by now you'd think I'd know, inspiration never comes when you're trying. It comes when you're not.

D Day Plus 223: (October 17, 2010): The Call

2010-11-05T19:02:00.000-07:00

At 8:30 in the morning it was my turn. My turn to make the call –the kind you never forget. It was to Dad. “They’re going to operate within the hour. Come now.” Each syllable hugged the NG tube tighter and tighter like a boa constrictor. Sand paper on strep throat would have felt better. You got it right. NG tubes really suck – on so many levels.

Because of you, I knew calls like this, were better to give than receive. Mostly because I wasn’t there going through the experience with you. The distance – physical and emotional – catapulted me into a frenzy of fear. I needed to see the whites of your eyes to know where your emotions had taken you.Where you afraid? Had you given up? Were you lonely even though you weren’t alone? Did my proxies make you feel better? Did they understand that you weren’t depressed when you were quiet? You were only trying to get reenergized. Could they sit with you in silence? Did they know how to send you unfettered love, like me?

You didn’t make the worst call. Dad did. Both of you were in Houston trying to get you enrolled in the TIL Clinical Trial. You were in so much pain. Pain I knew now from my bowel obstruction. Pain you knew from the cancer. It had perforated your bowel and made you septic. Dad called my cell after you went into surgery. I was driving home to be alone and hold my private vigil for you. That’s when he told me you probably wouldn’t make it out of surgery. And if you made it out of surgery, then you probably wouldn’t make it beyond the first week.

I threw the phone on the passenger floor and started screaming “NO” as I drove down Algonkian Parkway. I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore. That’s when the tears flowed and didn’t stop for an hour. I held my private vigil waiting for Dad’s next call. The one where you defied the odds, but weren’t ‘out of the woods’ yet. That day, I got my worst and my best phone call. Thanks to Dad.

Nurses, doctors, and techs paraded through my hospital room prepping me for surgery with the same round of questions – What is your name? When is your birthday? What type of surgery? What's your pain level? It wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t have the NG tube. But, I did.

Dad still wasn’t there and the pace was picking up. They were almost ready for me in surgery. I wanted Dad –just in case. I wanted to say goodbye—just in case. I wasn’t afraid, really. I knew relief was on its way. Either way I’d win. I’d be with you. Or stay with Dad and Morgan. I’d never tell Dad that, because he’d say I was morbid or giving up. You can’t help not think about death. Or what it feels like whenever they put you under. You can’t. Right?

Dad finally showed up – looking a little disheveled and uncaffeinated. Five minutes later the surgeon’s nurse came to take me back to surgery. Dad stayed until they told me to count back from ten. Then, he kissed my forehead and said, “I love you.” The way he did when you went to surgery. On that day when I rode the wave of my best and worst phone call – ever. Then I was out like a light. I only made it to nine.

D Day Plus 222: (October 16, 2010): Morning

2010-11-02T17:32:00.000-07:00

I’d made it to morning - barely. Now I was ready for the “fine” you promised last night. Sun streamed through the slats of the wooden blinds that covered my bedroom windows for nearly twenty years. I knew the abstract designs painted by the sun by heart -- ladders to sky or down to the tan carpet. It just depended on my perspective. This morning, the ladder climbed to sky across deacon's bench covered in a grenade heap of clothes.

The heap had been building since since Monday. I know. I know. I know what you'd say, "Nobody needs that many clothes and I should take care of my stuff." My self-correction was a small part of your legacy.

I played dead on your recliner. Actually, I didn't dare to move because I would lose it on so many levels.

Your white furry blanket, covered me all catawampus-like. It was the one that you'd thrown off and on to keep pace with the chills and fevers last winter. Last night, it’d been my pillow, my cocoon, and my friend – a little something to hold on to as I moved like a vagrant from destination to destination begging for relief. But, you already knew that. You were there too.

Wouldn’t have it been funny if the blanket was light blue like the one Linus from Peanuts carried around? I know how much you liked Charlie Brown and his friends. Remember how I helped you find the right Charlie Brown book for Katie last Christmas? You "rainmanned" me a little about getting the perfect present for your Katie. Just so you know, I didn’t mind. I loved that you cared so much.

Dad was more awake than asleep. I knew that because he wasn’t serenading me with his damn snores. The quiet was nice and necessary. When I feel better, I’m going to record him so he knows the unequivocal truth. He snores like a freight train. They’ll be no denying it. That's when the waves of pain from both ends and in-between started up again. Almost as if they were defending Dad from my smart-a**ed thoughts.

“Ohh, Ohh.” I groaned loud enough to get Dad’s attention.

“How’s my Amenal?” Dad turned to his left to make sure there were still signs of life on your recliner. He even almost tore off the blankets on my side of the bed.

“We need to go to the ER. NOW.” I yelled (in what I thought was agony, but it was actually a whimper). I really wanted to cry, but was afraid I’d hurl without warning. I didn't want go there, like you did.

You know and I know that it’s bad when I’m throwing up. Because I hardly ever do that unless it's serious. I hated losing control. I know you did too. I won’t forget. I won’t forget what it was like for you. We don’t like to lose control. We don’t like to lose control of our body. We hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

"Are you ready?" Dad asked as he pulled a clean tee shirt over his head.

I sighed loud and hard. I didn’t want to change into clothes. I didn’t want to comb my hair. I didn’t want to take a bath. I didn’t want to brush my teeth.

He knew I was miserable so he said, “Just wear yoga pants.”

“I’m not going to do anything else. I can’t. I don’t care if I look like s*it and smell like a**. I don’t care.”

I changed into my yoga pants and tee shirt in slow, slow motion while Dad did something I'm not sure of in the kitchen. I know he didn’t bother with coffee, a shower, or breakfast.

I laid on the guest bed and tried not be to afraid. I wasn’t sure I could be fixed. I thought about what it could be: my liver; my ovaries; my bowels; cancer; all of the above. You and I played that game a lot over the past couple of years. Well everything except the ovaries. But you get the picture.

If they said I was constipated again, I was going to scream or go crazy. I wasn’t full of s*hit. You weren’t either. That is was what they said – only nicer. Then you’d get more pain meds that would make everything worse. Now I know it was the cancer getting worse, but nobody would admit.

I didn’t know what the hell was up with me. I didn’t care if my sailor potty mouth was on stage. I was at the brink. They could take me to crazy town – I didn’t care. I would have undergone a psychiatric evaluation – if they gave me drugs to stop the pain. I meant it.

You and the brink collided quite a few times too: both times at the ER at Loudoun Hospital when you started having pain after the first trial didn’t work; the hospital in Roanoke when they took out your appendix; and four or five times at MD Anderson while they figured out what they could or could not do to help. It's when the doctor's flinch. It's all in the look or their emotional distance. They don't know what to do or don’t believe they can help. Don’t get me wrong, doctors do and did their best, but they really don’t know a lot of times. I hope they find out what is wrong with me.

Dad would say I was an "angry individual" right now if he could read my mind, which I was glad he could not. I wasn’t angry. Just scared. And a little panicky. The only thing that stopped me from really getting panicky were your words from last night, “It’ll be fine in the morning.” You wouldn’t lie to me now, even to be nice. You couldn’t. You had a special vantage. You had eternity at your back.

I put on the gray fuzzy clog-like slippers with fake fur. The ones I bought at Target just after you got discharged from the MD Anderson last New Year’s Day. You helped pick them out. You said they were cool because Katie had something like them.

I used them for shoes and walked the Sky Bridge at MD Anderson a lot – mostly by myself because you were too sick. You said they were awesome and Katie did too when she came to see you. Dad said they looked stupid and should not be seen in public.

Keys dangled and the front door slammed. Dad was warming up the SUV. And I waited. My fuzzy feet dangled off the side of the guest bed because I didn’t want to get the comforter dirty. The rest of me was curled into the letter O. My slippers fell off about thirty seconds later. I didn’t care. I was desperate for relief. Child's pose was your favorite position when nothing else worked. Remember how the pain management doctor smiled when she caught you doing it at your appointment? We both decided, we liked her a lot. She had a good spirit. She cared about you. She cared about us.

Dad led me to the car like a little old lady who needed some serious protection. He helped me get situated, then started the drive to the ER. It was only five minutes, but it seemed like an hour. He managed to hit every pothole and it hurt. I don’t think he did it on purpose, but he did. He did it when I went to the hospital to have you and Morgan at Tripler Hospital in Hawaii too. I seriously think he had a GPS to find all the potholes.

I hope I didn’t hit a lot of potholes when I drove you to the ER in Virginia or around Houston. I’m sure I did in Houston because there was always some road that looked like a battle-ground around MD Anderson. I’m sorry for the bumps. But I did my best. I know Dad was doing his best too. But that doesn’t help when you seriously think you’re going to pass out. You weren’t a drama mama when you were going back and forth. I wasn’t one either. When you had cancer, I thought I got how much it could hurt since I’d had so many abdominal surgeries. Right know there is no thinking. I knew it - for sure.

The start of Round 2 at the ER played out differently. I had to wait and go to triage. Not long, but I had to wait. I thought about spewing right there in triage. That would get my point across. But, I behaved. Besides, I’d be embarrassed if I did. It wasn’t their fault I felt so bad. It was mine. I just wanted the pain to stop. I knew you knew what it was like. I just wanted the pain to stop. I prayed they didn’t treat and street me again without knowing what was wrong.

Dad did most of the talking for me. At least I got our beloved Dilaudid fast. First there was a little Dilaudid punch followed by sweet relief. Then I got an X-ray to check my abdomen. According the the ER doctor, "sometimes the CT scan doesn’t pick up everything."

“Great” is what I thought. That along with a few expletives that I didn’t say. But you can imagine. I was so loopy I could barely stand for the X-ray, but at least I didn’t hurt anymore.

Within five minutes after coming back from my X-ray, the ER Doctor said, I had a bowel obstruction. And it was no wonder the pain meds they gave me didn’t work or anything from the last ER visit for the matter. A**hole came to mind. Not directed at anyone. Just in general.

Bowel obstructions can kill! The doctor suspected mine was from adhesions from the appendectomy I had five or six years ago. Your bowel obstruction from cancer perforated at MD Anderson. You were septic. You almost died then, but the surgeons gave me an extra year with you.

Bottom-line bowel obstructions are serious and deadly. Oh and I needed another CT scan along with a surgeon consult to determine the best treatment for mine.

Next, I’m a guinea pig for demonstration purposes on how to insert an NG tube. Now I know why you hated NGs so much. It felt like a pipe being thread through my nose with a valve in my throat – all the way to my stomach. It hurt to swallow. Remember how you wanted the NG tube out after the big bowel perforation surgery. You complained that it hurt, which was a big deal – you didn’t complain much.

And that was my morning. It wasn't perfect, but it was getting finer. At least I knew I wasn't crazy and Dilaudid would take the pain away. At least for awhile.

D Day Plus 221: (October 15, 2010): Take Me with You

2010-10-31T10:51:00.000-07:00

Last night reminded me of the movie “Ground Hog Day” wrapped up in a reprisal of our hit show “Sleepless in Sterling.”

I considered another trip to the ER, but decided to tough it out. Remember how you’d say you “tough it out.” You rubbed off on me. Besides, I didn’t want to go through the embarrassment again of being told it was “mild constipation” and “this too shall pass” without making some progress on that front. So I went for the big guns – Exlax.

Dad snored loudly. So I thought I was safe. I didn’t want to wake him. I tried to be extra extra quiet. I jumped a little when I heard the blanket tidal waves across the mattress when I closed the bathroom door and turned on the light. I willed the medicine cabinet door to be quiet. It wasn’t. It cried out for WD40. I thought for sure I woke him, but I didn’t. Remember how quiet you’d try to be late at night so you wouldn’t wake up Dad?

I snuck off to our Inspiration Room to sleep on your tan brown recliner. The last time I’d done that was the wee hours of the morning, the day your body caught up with your soul. I took over the night shift from Dad, who stayed up all night with you. I kissed your forehead and told you how much I loved you. You smiled a little and said, “Me, too.”

Dad checked on me in our Inspiration Room after he got up. He said he’d stay home. I said, “Go to work. I’ll call if I need anything.”

I called in to work again. It was the same old story, but a different day. I was glad I sounded pathetic and tired – that way I didn’t have waste any energy explaining.

I dosed off while Dad clanked and clanged in the kitchen making breakfast. Dad woke me with a big tall glass of Miralax. And he stood there like I was a naughty child so I’d drink the last drop. This time, I only thought about the funny face you made after you finished your glass. Oh and maybe I thought of a soft rain shower of flashbacks instead of the tumultuous thunderstorms.

By mid-morning, the Exlax and Miralax combo had met its mission. The waves of pain had subsided to ripples. I even ventured downstairs – the first time since I got back from the ER. I ate a banana and a half a bagel. It was the first time I’d eaten since my date with popcorn and DWTS.

Most of the day was a lot like yesterday in our Inspiration Room – TV, audible books, and phone calls from Dad, Morgan, and Aunt Janiene. The first time Aunt Janiene called I bragged about my earlier success in the bathroom. She asked, “Did it have a face?” (Remember all the times I harassed you to watch “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant?”) Anyway I laughed and said, “You're so stupid.”

Aunt Janiene and I talked a lot about nothing until I got really tired and couldn’t talk anymore. I stayed put on the recliner until the angry fists pounded my gut in waves again. I figured I’d walk it off. Remember what the pain management doctor told you and me at MD Anderson – walking was the best thing to help relieve gas and keep things in check.

I did laps around the kitchen, foyer, family room, and dining room. Every so often I’d hold my belly, notice it was swelling, think about how your belly swelled. Then I’d touch one of the pictures of you on the dining room wall, and kiss my fingers, then touch the picture again. I kept the laps and picture kisses up until I couldn’t do it anymore. By then, I was cowered over like the letter C. And I wasn’t getting any relief. I was in pain with a capital P.

I landed on the floor of our Inspiration Room and managed to sleep off and on – at least for awhile. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat. I thought about a taking a bath for something like thirty seconds then put my head back down on the carpet. That was the first time I said, “Take me with you.”

I didn’t call Dad. I didn’t call Morgan. I didn’t call Aunt Janiene. I just wanted to be. Besides, I’d already told Dad to work late. I didn’t want to go to the ER either. I didn't want them to tell me, it was just mild constipation.

Two hours later, I felt a little better. In fact I asked Dad to pick up some chicken over rice from the Pho place on his way home from work. I figured that would be safe to eat since I hadn’t been eating much.

Dad delivered the chicken over rice to me in bed around 7:30. I took one bite and felt really sick.

“Take it away.” I said.

Dad asked if I needed to go to the ER. I asked him what he thought. He said, “I don’t know.” The rest of the night went like that. Dad asked me, and then I’d asked him. I wanted him to tell me to go. He wanted me to tell him to take me. He did his best to help. He’d check on me a lot. He moved your tan brown recliner to the master bedroom so I could sleep on it. He’d bring me water. He'd do anything I wanted. I only had to ask.

By midnight we got into a fight because I tore off his head. But you know and I know that we normally are calm and rationale. If we’re yelling and cranky, we’re in PAIN. We’re not mad. We don’t hate them. We just hurt.

I hurt so much. I even broke down and took the heavy duty narcotics. I did that even though I was afraid they’d stop things up more and make it worse. I was desperate. It didn’t make a difference. The pain meds didn’t help at all.

After my blow up with Dad, things calmed down between us. They didn’t calm down in my body. That’s when I started throwing up violently. After the first round, I tried laps downstairs, thinking that would help. I dropped to the floor in pain and delirium the exact same spot you did – on the hardwood floor in the living room, right next to the foyer. The pain had really gotten to you too.

Dad asked if I was okay. I didn’t or couldn’t answer. I just laid there thinking of you in a cold sweat. I didn’t feel your pain anymore. I knew it – unequivocally. I knew it!

The rest of the night was a blur of projectile vomiting, dry heaving, and diarrhea. I crawled from my bedroom floor to my bathroom from my bathroom to your tan brown recliner, from your tan brown recliner to the guest bed, from the guest bed to your bathroom, from your bathroom to the hallway, from the hallway to the guest bed, from the guest bed to your recliner.

Dad checked on me alot, but I didn’t let him know how bad I was. Only you knew.

I was back in your bathroom lying on the floor, cool tiles cradling my face, when I said it again.

“Take me with you.”

I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to know what it was like where you were. Were you happy? Is there something more? I know you’ve shown me signs, but I didn’t know if I was making them up. I didn’t think so. I had faith. But, I really wanted to know.

“Take me with you.” I said it again.

Then I was transported to scenes from my childhood, people from my past, and places I’ve never been before. It went on forever. Waves of pain were replaced with waves of experiences and feelings of love and tranquility.

The last thing I remember were your whispers, “It’ll be fine in the morning.”

D Day Plus 220: (October 14, 2010): Alone in the Inspiration Room

2010-10-30T11:48:00.000-07:00

First thing I did was call in to work. It was short and to the point. I didn’t have the energy for my normal yammering and storytelling. Last night, I’d bounced between the bed and the floor and every place in between. All the while being serenaded by a snoring symphony courtesy of Dad. Needless to say, I didn't sleep much. Once I even woke up choking on bile, which was gross. That was no stranger to you. In fact, it happened to you a lot – especially when the cancer went on a rant.

Between the bile and bouncing, I got a taste of what you knew too well – Sleepless in Sterling. It was nothing about a crazy love story with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. It was all about the crazy things to do for relief so you can SLEEP – arranging the pillows to body contours, taking drugs for a moticum of relief, firing up the heating pad to help with the pain, walking in circles to help move things along, sleeping on the bathroom floor, or soaking in the tub again and again when nothing else worked.

When you were SLEEPLESS, I would have done anything to take it away. Anything! In fact, it's been the single thing that still haunted me. Your frantic search for relief, while the peanut gallery stood by helplessly. I wasn't sure what it was like or what you were going through. But, I was starting to have a pretty good idea. I do know, you never left me last night – not even for a minute.

I cowered like the letter C, walking in slow motion, to our Inspiration Room. I thought of you cowering like the letter C, too. You did it a lot. I always wanted to straighten your back because it looked like it hurt. But I didn’t say anything. You couldn’t help it. Neither could I.

Dad asked if he needed to stay home, but I shooed him to work. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get things moving.” I said with my naughty nine year old bathroom humor smile. “Just fix me up with Miralax and let 'er rip.”

Actually, the thought of going downstairs and fixing Miralax myself almost gave me a panic attack – navigating the stairs, measuring Miralax, drinking it downstairs, then walking all the way upstairs and getting re-situated on the recliner. How could I do all that now? The thought of it put me into a tail spin.

Dutiful Dad delivered the goods and made sure I drank every last drop. By the third gulp, a thunderstorm of flashbacks of you bombarded my brain again. It was all the times you had to drink Miralax and the wavelength of pain and relief your rode. Each image was synthesized with the other. There were layers of you and Miralax in Sterling, in Hospitals, and Houston Hotel Rooms. It was so vivid and real.

Dad asked, “You okay Amenal?” I played it off and said something about hating to drink the last drop of anything and checking for my iPoD, cell phone, and the remote. I also said something about not wanting my computer because it would be too hard to check the mail.

Dad kissed my forehead and said, “Rest.” He added, “Call if you need anything.”

I got caught up with some of the shows I liked but stopped watching last year when everything with your stupid cancer went to hell. First it was Grey’s Anatomy. Then it was Private Practice. I got distracted every so often by other distractions like an unwelcome solicitor and check-up calls from Aunt Janiene, Dad, or Morgan.

I noticed that I always tried to sound better than I felt during the check-up call. I’m sure you did that too. Even with me. I told you not to. But then again – we are what we are – kindred spirits. We didn’t want anyone to worry about anything – especially us.

I faded in and out of sleep for the rest of the day. Food was the last thing on my mind. I thought about the upside of being sick - losing a couple of pounds. My belly was getting just wee bit pudgy no matter how much I Zumbad or P90xd. I didn't ever dare say it out loud, because then Dad would go on about me getting too skinny. And that I was crazy. But, I was only trying to find something positive about feeling so awful. Maybe a couple of days without food would do the trick. A flat belly could be an upside.

Another upside was getting the chance to reconnect with you without the fear, loss, or forced okayedness. I was on a journey of discovery – not about you – about me. You were only along for the ride.

D Day Plus 219: (October 13, 2010): Part 2: Déjà vu

2010-10-29T14:59:00.000-07:00

From 10:30 to 11:30, I did whatever I could to get some relief. But nothing worked. Flashbacks of your pain kept bombarding my brain like a thunderstorm. The more I tried to stop thinking about you, the worse it got. Every stab of my pain was a reminder of yours.

Déjà vu! My pain came on as suddenly as yours. Yours started suddenly the day after you came back from Houston. It was after you found out the trial wasn’t working. Then, I thought your pain was brought on by stress and if you were more positive or relaxed, you’d get better. Now I know better. Sometimes, it just happens.

Around 11:30, I broke down and called Dad. “Take me to the ER.” I said. “I can’t fart or anything. It hurts. Something is really wrong.” Dad laughed because I was so blunt, but promised to get home ASAP. He knew from appendicitis, when I couldn’t break wind, something was really wrong. You knew that too.

I waited in my Inspiration Room. Actually, it was your room that I repurposed. I was in the tan brown recliner doing whatever I could for relief. But nothing worked. I thought about listening to a healing meditation, but bagged the idea. The thought of walking down a healing path with Kelly Howell only made me mad.

Remember, how I’d beg you to meditate to allow the healing. Now I know it wasn’t the time or place when I suggested it. I was only trying to help. But it wasn’t mine to give. While I apologized to you, sweat beaded down my neck. Even though I was sweating, I couldn't get warm. Wrapping myself in the zebra blanket didn't help. Was this how you felt?

Around 12:20, Dad opened the front door, so I forced myself to get ready. I hobbled to the master bath to brush my teeth. I worried I had butt breath and other superfluous crap like how my makeup looked and whether my hair was combed. Dad came upstairs. He told me not to worry about how I looked and that I looked just fine. I did listen. I stopped fussing.

Around 1:00, Dad helped me walk to the ER from the parking lot. I was really glad I didn’t have to wait too long. Not like I did when I had appendicitis a few years back. Then I rocked in the chair in the waiting room for what seemed an eternity, like we did waiting for all of those tests and ER visits. Remember how I’d breathe with you through the pain and imagine that I was taking all it from you. I even called Morgan and Katie to do it with us. And it did work. We got through it when we didn’t think we would or could.

This time I didn’t have to go to Triage. I guess the tears flowing down my face and having me doubled over in pain on floor beneath the check-in window helped. I was admitted within five minutes. Dad was in firefighting mode and made sure I got what I needed. I was so glad Dad was there for me. Now I know you really meant it. It was enough that I was there for you – just having someone to help you over the humps made all the difference. I wanted to do more. You said it was enough. I get what you meant now. I’m a slow learner.

My heart stopped when I saw the ER Doctor. Déjà vu! She was the same one you had for the first ER to the Loudoun Hospital last December. I told myself, just breathe and that it wasn’t such a big coincidence. That helped a little. Dad didn’t even notice. He was too focused on me and rattling off my litany of surgeries: appendectomy, cholecystectomy, partial hysterectomy and dealing with the administrative guy and all the details about insurance and co-pays.

Meanwhile the tech finished with my IV prep. I knew serious pain meds were coming. So I relaxed just a little between the waves of pain that permeated through my lower right abdomen. I even joked I didn’t have anything else to take out. The dark humor reminded me of you teasing about everything being okay except for the cancer -- the cancer choking your lower bowels.

I tried not to think about you and how watching you in pain took my breath away. You wouldn’t have known, because I did a really good job hiding it. I didn’t want you to see how afraid I was. Was this was the beginning of the end? What if we don’t find a treatment? What if your bowels are perforated again? What if????

I did a pretty good job distracting myself. At least until the doctor said they’d give me dilaudid for the pain. More déjà vu! It was the exact same thing they gave you. Then even more déjà vu! I had to get the same CT scan with contrast too. I was a little freaked. But by then, the pain distracted me from everything. I just wanted the dilaudid so I couldn’t feel anything. I wanted to be numb. I just wanted it to stop.

The pain finally stopped when the nurse pumped the dilaudid into my IV almost with a vengeance. She forced the dilaudid through my veins. And it hit the wall of my stomach with its angry fists. Then I was finally numb. You used to say the dilaudid hurts for a few seconds, then “it was good” each time you got a hit. Now I know.

The nurse barked some orders for me to drink the big a**ed container of crap for the CT scan over the next forty-five minutes. I just wanted to sleep. Dad made sure I took a sip every five minutes or so. Just like I did for you.

Some tech wheeled me off to CT scan just like you. I remember the clicking of CT scan and that’s about it. I really wanted to sleep. I barely remember getting wheeled back to the room.

The pain meds were wearing off and I wanted another hit of dilaudid. By then, the results had come back. Nothing significant. No bowel obstruction. Mild constipation. Prescription: Miralax and pain meds. Follow-up with doctor within 48 hours. Return if pain worsens.

This was the basic diagnosis you had for your first visit too. It was the beginning of your chain of pain. And my understanding of the power of poop. And how pain meds only perpetuate the constipation. And how Miralax helps keep it in check.

By then I felt stupid even though I knew it was something more than mild constipation. I’d give Miralax a try and only use pain meds as a last resort. I knew the havoc they can wreak.

By 6:00, I was home safe in my Inspiration Room, in embarrassed pain, taking root in the tan brown recliner. The one you insisted on (so you could get some relief) last February. Dad left for Wegmans to pick up my drugs. He asked if I wanted to eat. I told him no. And I remembered how you didn’t want to eat so many times. I didn’t understand. But I do now.

Around 9:00, I forced Miralax down. It didn’t taste bad. It only made me sad. It just made me think of all the times you had to force it down. And how I kept nagging you to drink it to help counteract the pain meds -- like you didn’t already know that.

For the rest of the night, I did my best not to think of you and your pain. I was even a little glad when I hurt. Because it was nothing compared to reliving your pain through my eyes. I hated déjà vu.

D Day Plus 219: (October 13, 2010): Part 1: Losing my Zebra

2010-10-28T17:51:00.000-07:00

At 6:30 in the morning, I was somewhere between a memory and a dream, ala Tom Petty from You Don’t Know How it Feels. I was imprinting the feelings from getting the highest score on DWTS in dreamland. It was so real. I was dancing the Tango with some hottie. Dad doesn't have to worry. It was strictly professional. I wouldn’t have embarrassed you, Dad, or Morgan either. I was that good. Nothing like the way I really am. Sort of like Elaine from Seinfeld. Remember the episode where she danced at the office party where she looked like a spaz case. That’s how I really dance. But in my dream, I was so good.

At 7:30, I was almost ready to hit the road. I only had to put on my zebra necklace and that was it. It had been a fixture around my neck since Morgan and I bought it at Dulles Town Center. It was right after we said goodbye to you at the Funeral home. Your sentimental sister wanted something to bond the three of us. We decided on zebra pendants engraved with the date 3/8/2010. I thought it was fastened after I put it on. I even tugged it for good measure. Just to be sure.

At 8:15, I was driving to the office, guzzling a Diet Mountain Dew, and chewing Dentyne. Autumn leaves were falling from the trees. I slowed down a couple of times on Fairfax County Parkway because I thought the leaves were butterflies, but they weren’t. I frowned but soothed myself by saying “they’ll be back next Spring.” I decided to appreciate the leaves and how beautiful they were with the sun streaming through the trees -- almost like it was casting a magical spell on all those who noticed. That’s when I wrote the first draft of the next D Day Minus blog post in my head. It’s when I dropped you and Katie off at Dulles when you started the first trial. It was bittersweet for me, because I wanted to go, but knew it wasn’t my turn. I promised to finalize the entry after work and my date with Beto for Zumba. I was a little hungry and debated whether to pick up an Egg McMuffin from Mickey Dees. I decided, not! I felt fat and my stomach kept flicking my innards like a rubberband. It sort of hurt, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Besides, I was excited to get into work so I could be distracted figuring out how to tame Excel to my latest whim. First on my list was thermometer charts.

At 9:10, I was doubled over in pain and couldn’t move. Repositioning myself at my computer and attempting the bathroom route only made it worse. Ten minutes before I was instant messaging and emailing with a distracted vengeance and having fun doing it. I called Dad on his cell and told him I was going home. "Something isn’t right. But, I think I'll be fine. Go, go to work. I think I'll be able to drive. I'll call if things get worse." That's what I said.

At 10:10, I changed from work clothes to yoga pants. The chain that anchored my zebra pendant fell to the carpet. I panicked because I lost my zebra. Between the waves of pain, I searched for my zebra--distracting myself, with the R.E.M.’s song, Losing my Religion. Flashbacks to you and your chain of pain through your cancer journey started bombarded my brain. And I wondered what it all meant.