It Is Well

I wasn't sure how I would feel watching my dad drive away from my house and toward his home.  I knew I would at some point cry.  I knew I'd be happy for him to move toward his joy.  I knew it would be bittersweet for me.  


Sunday morning, we all woke early.  Just as the sun rose, he announced his departure and hugged us a final time.  Steve, Finn, Sam and I escorted him to his truck and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving and traveling mercies.  He closed the door to his truck.  Laughing, he shouted from his window to me not to cry and pulled out of the driveway.  As he drove off, Steve said, "This is awesome.  This is best case scenario.  He's disease free and he's going home.  This is what we've prayed for."  It was awesome.  It was the exact right thing to say.  The perfect way to end this chapter.  


Within an hour of my dad leaving, I had rearranged the furniture in his room and vacuumed.  I cleaned out the bathroom and put up my kids things again.  It was as if he'd never been here.  It felt like it had all just been a dream.  It was a very surreal day.  Great for all of us.  


Today when I came home from work, I felt like I'd just moved into my own apartment.  Not glad to see him gone, but glad to gain my independence.  And I hope that's what he is feeling right now.  Not glad that he's no longer with me and my family, but glad to gain his independence.


I've enjoyed writing this blog.  It's been fun, intense and extremely cathartic.  Thank you to all who have followed these updates and checked in on me through out my process.  I'm an incredibly blessed human being.  I do not take it for granted.  I love you all so deeply in my heart.  I couldn't have made it without all of you.


I'd like to close this blog, at least for now,  with the lyrics from my favorite hymn.  It was written in 1873 by Horatio Spafford after the death of his four year old son which was followed by the horrific ship wreck in which all of his daughters died while traveling to Europe. His wife survived and sent him a telegram that read 'Saved Alone'.  While traveling to comfort his grieving wife, he wrote these words as the ship passed where his daughters had died.  Knowing this man was able to muster these words while walking in unimaginable grief gave me courage and comfort through my trial. 


Many blessings and all my love - Mel.




It Is Well with My Soul

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Baby Bird

Maria Montessori was an Italian doctor who created the educational approach which bears her name.  She began educating mentally retarded children in order to prove her theory. When tested, these impaired children did not do as well as normal children, they did better.  They scored above average.  If mentally disabled children could be brought to the level of normal children, what then was the potential of 'normal' children? Montessori decided to find out.  And so, the Montessori method was born.

In a nut shell, Montessori is about independence.  It teaches children freedom within limits.  Children become responsible for themselves and their choices.  It's been a very positive experience for my two little coo-coo birds.

So why am I having such a tough time letting my dad go?  He loves his independence.  And this is what the last ten months have been all about.  In a few hours he will be heading home.  Neither of us can sleep.  He's in his room and I'm in the living room watching SNL though very droopy eyes.  Tonight I changed a bandage of his for the last time and I cried.  Tears of fear, sadness and joy.  Friday we had to say goodbye to the staff at the clinic.  It was so bittersweet. One nurse in particular told him she was so happy for him and that when he first came in, she didn't think he would make it.  So great.  So sad to say goodbye.

I'm super tired.  And I'm half worried that he will wake up crazy early and just leave without saying goodbye.  Actually it's time to let the baby bird leave the nest.  Time to fly.

All Things New

In Revelation 21, God showed John a vision how He, "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more, neither shall there be anguish (sorrow and mourning) nor grief nor pain any more, for the old conditions and the former order of things have passed away."  He goes on to say, "See! I make all things new."


I love that thought.  Make all things new.  Fresh.  I think of it often.  It's a phrase I clung to emotionally in my prayers throughout this experience with my dad.  It's what I want for him.  I want him made new.  I want his body fully restored.  I want him to not have to take chemo for the rest of his life.  I want him to be able to eat a burrito full of beans doused in tabasco sauce without horrible side effects beyond what that meal normally brings.  I want him to be able to pee through both ureters.  I want him to be able to ride his horse again.  


But that is my idea of making all things new.  That only addresses my needs; what will make me feel better.  The transformation I have witnessed in my father is far greater than what I could have orchestrated in my own power.  His spirit has been made new.  He is alive, truly alive.  He is down right giddy to go home, see his animals, share this war story with his friends and breath the crisp Northern air deeply into his chest.  Thank you Jesus.  Praise the Lord.  Hallelujah.  My gratitude is immeasurable. 

What Now?

My brother moved out here about a year ago and stayed with us until he got a job and got on his feet.  Three days after he moved into his own apartment, my dad moved in with us.  It's all winding down for me now.  My dad bought a truck, has cleaned out his room and is packing for Idaho.  His mood is light, jovial, kind.  Only a couple of weeks left.  It hasn't hit me.  Might not for a while.  It's going to be weird to not see the nurses at the clinic or the oncologist every two weeks.  To check him into his chemo appointment and then run to McDonalds to pick up his breakfast of two sausage biscuits and a small black coffee.  I have no idea what it will feel like to run nude through my house, cook one dinner for everyone or have normal work week after normal work week again.

This experience has forever changed me and it doesn't seem like anything could possibly feel the same after this.  The world has definitely changed for me.  I've gained 20 lbs., I am emotionally drained and I cannot remember what my face looked like without these black circles under my eyes.  How petty, I know.  But it's true. It's a bummer.  I've officially participated in the 'sandwich generation'; caring for my own small children and elderly parents under the same roof.  It sucks and it's lovely.  I don't know how people do it.  It's damn near impossible to keep everything straight.  I forget everything dad wants from the store, I forget to send show & tell to school for the boys, and I can't sleep at night for the list that is running through my mind of all the things that still must be done.  What will 'normal' life look like?  I have no idea.

Things I would like to do:

• exercise
• plan healthy meals
• give up coffee
• write a song
• play a show
• take a hot bath
• sleep

I feel a bit selfish.  What does the world feel like for him now?  Nine months ago, he was given three to six months to live.  Is every day a gift?  I don't know.  He weighs 145 lbs now and will most likely struggle indefinitely to keep weight on.  We spoke recently about the quality of life.  A very depressing conversation about pulling plugs and what-not.  I really want him to have a great quality of life.  But now his feet are going numb and he's having a hard time sleeping.  It's killing me to see him deal with these daily challenges.  I know I'm neither God, nor a doctor, but I was really hoping to send him home in better condition than this.  All of that said, I am reminded what a miracle it is that he is alive.  This time I've been afforded with him is a gift.  And really, I am eternally grateful.  Exhausted, but grateful.

Dik-Dik...MOOSE!

So I'm sitting on the back porch talking with my dad the other evening.  The sun is below our tree line, minutes from setting.  It's hot, but no longer unbearable. A breeze blows gently by us when we hear a funny whistling sound.  My dad casually mentions how said sound reminds him of the dik-dik he saw while on safari in East Africa.  I begin nodding my head in cracker barrel agreement just as the actual words penetrate my cranium and permeate my temporal lobes.  "Umm, what the what!? What safari? You went on a safari?"  What else don't I know about this man?  Oh, right, I also didn't know that his trip included a week (or was it two weeks?) in the Seychelles Islands.

Apparently, some time in his thirties, a family friend asked my dad what he wanted for his birthday.  He said he wanted to see the animals of Africa before they were gone.  What he received was a month of vacation that took him to Europe, Africa and Seychelles.  Could this man get more interesting?  He's becoming the Dos Equis man before my eyes.  Hilarious.  He spoke about the people, the incredible animals, sleeping in tents and trees.  As I listened I remember having the conscious thought, "I need to remember this. I don't want to forget this."  But, alas, my personality type does not absorb the details, rather I absorb the vibe, the feeling of the moment.  My husband and I can walk into the same room and leave with two completely different impressions.  He will remember every detail, what was on the table, what color it was, how many there were, etc.  I come out knowing if the room felt inviting, warm, cozy or if it was dark, cold, sterile.

There are only two details I actually took from that moment.  The first is that all of the women of Seychelles walk around topless.  The second is the dik-dik.  I learned that the dik-dik are tiny antelope that only grow about a foot tall and are locally known in Africa for having a hideously shrill whistle which alerts other game when they are about to be pounced on.  Now, I am his dik-dik screaming, "RUN!" at the top of my lungs.  "There's a hunter after you that wants to devour you!  RUN!!!" But the tired, old lion is done with running and just wants to feel the sun on his face.  He is going to do this his way.  Also, I now know the breasts of the topless island women become white noise after a few days.  What a trip.  No pun intended.

The vibe I walked away with is far more valuable than the details I could memorize from his journey.  An experience I could only live vicariously anyway.  God waits for my dad in the wild.  In the animals.  In nature.  Not that God isn't always with my dad.  He is.  He has certainly been with him in Texas, at MD Anderson.  His time with the animals is the closest my dad gets to the garden while here on earth.  It's as close as he can be to actually walking with God, communing with God.  He lights up when he talks about the animals and the beauty of the mountains, trees and fields where he lives.  He even gets quietly excited to watch the large flocks of dove fly by my house every morning and every evening.  It's his already, not yet place.  He is walking with God as much as one possibly can while in the confinement of humanness.  Like Moses, he seeks the face of God, but instead of finding it in a burning bush, it appears to him in the face of the dik-dik and the moose.

Goodbye

I have never been good at goodbyes.  I'm sure there are a number of beautiful people who know me who can attest to that.  When I left San Francisco for Texas, I only said a final goodbye to two people, Brian and Sandra.  That is mostly because they lived down the street from me and Sandra asked me over so she could make me and my husband of a few days dinner since our kitchen was packed and waiting for the movers.  Because my family is so f'd up, I made my own family out of my friends.  People who took me in, laughed at my jokes and loved me, warts and all.  It was so hard to leave them.  I couldn't bear a final goodbye.  A normal person would rationalize that they would see them again and be excited about their new venture.  But every time I look at a menu, I order as if it's the last meal I will ever have.

I think it goes back to the time my papa passed away.  I was thirteen, had just turned thirteen.  We had been staying with my grandparents over the weekend and it was time to go back to our house.  I was so happy to go home and see my friends.  My Granny told me to say goodbye to Papa.  Normally I would go give him a great big hug and say I love you.  But this time was different.  I quickly kissed him on the cheek and ran out the door.  After I kissed him, as I turned to run, something told me to tell him, "I love you".  But I didn't.  I can't remember ever leaving his house before that day without telling him I love him.  He died peacefully in his sleep the next day.  I never saw him or spoke to him again.  He was 69 years old.

Today my dad, at 65 years old, is in the hands of MD Anderson having the nephrostomy bag on his right side removed.  I'm sitting in The Park at the main campus in the Houston Medical Center.  The place where I like to sip my hot white chocolate mocha while cruising the world wide web and people watching.  It's a lovely little faux outdoor environment space with skylights, greenery and metal patio tables; each complete with a large umbrella.  I am watching a toddler screaming as her mother with a freshly shorn head weeps because her little girl is too afraid to let her mommy hold her.  It's devastating.  The dad holds the mom.  The aunt holds the toddler.  Just as gravity wins over the enormous tears filling up my eyes, a table of young doctors next to me erupts with laughter.  They are oblivious to the scene unfolding before me.  My instinct is to be perturbed, but in the very next heartbeat I realize these are the saints who never fail to smile while caring for us, patients and loved ones alike, here at MD Anderson.  They are due a little levity.

I think of my dad.  I think of my own children.  I think of my husband.  I hate goodbyes.

Breaking Bad

About a week ago, my dad and I sat across from his oncologist, Dr. Patel and heard the results from his most recent set of scans.  Bear in mind that his last scans were good, but not terribly promising.  The last scans showed that all of the little tumors that were scattered across his entire abdomen were gone.  Great.  Wonderful.  However, the large mass, the two hands choking his ureters, had barely been effected.  We were told at that point not to get too hopeful because often when a tumor is this large it will remain in the body as scar tissue.  Even if the cancer has died.  Being an inoperable tumor, this meant my dad would have to use nephrostomy tubes to empty his kidneys for the rest of his life.  Crap.  Bullshit even.  My dad seemed to take it pretty well, but over the two weeks before hearing the results of his new scans, I saw him grow tense, frightened even.  I knew these results would determine whether he followed through with his treatment or just went home to Idaho to check into hospice.  I too was growing tense and scared.

So we were finally sitting in our moment of truth.  The doctor read the report to us.  I remember him saying all of the lymph nodes measured normal, the abdomen remained clear and there was no sign of disease.  I was trying to follow his words.  Nodding in my mind, almost saying, "uh-huh, uh-huh".  Yeah, yeah, but what about the main mass? Was it effected at all? Turns out that's what I needed to hear.  But it didn't come.  So when the doctor moved on to discuss cutting back chemo I interrupted him and said, "I'm sorry, can we go back to the scans?  What about the main mass?  Was it effected at all?"  God bless this man, this doctor.  He is so kind and patient.  Without a single twinge of annoyance.  He said to me gladly, "Well that's just it.  They don't mention it at all.  It was part of a lymph node and all of the lymph nodes are measuring normal."  So I sat there trying to grasp the words.  Trying to digest what I'd heard.  I responded, "So, it's gone?"  The doctor said he wanted to double check the scans himself, but that it appears the tumor is gone.  GONE!

I never really even let myself imagine how I would respond to that news.  One of the few big moments in my life that I hadn't rehearsed a thousand times in my head.  My dad and I had such a reserved reaction.  We were glad, but it was as if the news couldn't penetrate the lining of the bubble we've been living in.  I recently watched an episode of Breaking Bad where the main character goes into remission and the whole family is there and they all burst with relief and tears at the implausible news.  I would have thought that to be my reaction at the news I'd just received.  But it wasn't.  My dad and I responded more like, "Hmm.  Okay.  Okay."  It was neither belief nor disbelief.  We'd been in this hunkered down phase, pushing through treatment/bumps in the road for so long.  We simply couldn't absorb it that quickly.

I saw him lighten as he went to the room for his first maintenance phase chemo infusion.  It appeared to be much easier on him than the full on treatments have been.  He joked with nurses.  Helped himself to juice in the fridge for patients.  This news was exactly what he needed to hear.  The last six months of waves of agony paid off.

When we got home, I started cleaning his bathroom and he started making phone calls.  It wasn't until I heard him share the news with his sister that I felt relief myself.  Hearing the words from his mouth and the cry of joy from his sister.  As I wiped the spray cleaner from the mirror, I felt my heart open up and the elation flow.  I realized we are in the home stretch.  For real.

Right now we are sitting in the main building at MD Anderson, waiting to have the nephrostomy tubes pulled out of his body.  Praise God.  It's becoming bitter sweet for me.  I am so glad to see my dad regain his independence and his health.  But I know soon I will have to pass the baton to another sister.  My leg in this race will be complete.  The experience will be only a memory.

Preserve your memories.  They're all that's left you.

Good Friday

I've been told per ca pita, Houston has the most churches, restaurants and strip clubs.  I don't know how true that really is, but drive a few miles down I-10 and one can be convinced this is fact rather quickly.  This week I've heard a bit about all of the different services planned to reflect on Christ's sacrifice.  As romantic as they sound, and I mean no disrespect (whatever makes one feel close to God is not for me to judge), but it all feels a bit empty to me.  I've witnessed a lot of cooler than thou Christians, a lot of man made liturgy and basically a real lack of the Holy Spirit.  I'm not exactly sure why, but this morning I felt a lot of anger over this.  I had a real urge to go table flipping as Christ did in the synagogue.  But I am just as guilty and full of sin as the next guy.  I have no right to flip anyone's table.  I think these reverent services can be beautiful and that as Christians we should not forget the importance of the days leading up to the resurrection.  Instead of washing each others feet and eating a last supper meal on Maundy Thursday, how about making sandwiches and passing them out to hungry people?  Washing the feet of someone you don't like or don't know?  With all of the pomp and circumstance of our modern day services, I'm not sure we could actually even recognize Him?  Would he be cool enough to invite to your table for supper?  Would you wash his feet?  Would I?  I don't know.  I hope so.  For some reason it feels good in our flesh to be still and reflective on Good Friday so we can really cut loose and party on Sunday.  I'm just not feeling that's what we're supposed to do.  It seems modern church caters to what makes its people feel good.

This is definitely a rant so apologies if this feels pointed, it's not.  Questions I have mostly for me.  I just don't think this is what Christ would want from us.  It feels exclusive and self praising.  I don't think that's why he did what he did.  I believe his motive was to free us.  Would you want your children mourning your sacrifice year after year after 2000 years?  This entire week should be a lively celebration!  And it will.  On Sunday.  Everyday of our lives should be lived as a celebration of love and gratitude.  Isaiah said the best we have to offer God are filthy rags.  I think of that a lot.  I think of standing in Heaven next to Mother Teresa and all either of us have in works are filthy rags.  Hard to imagine.  I know we are not saved by works, we are saved by grace.  Paul told us not to judge one another whether or not we choose to keep a day so long as we keep it in the name of the Lord.  It's not for me to say or judge and no one is better than the other for doing/not doing something on these days.  But if we are striving to be Christ like, shouldn't our love be radical?  Why are we instead drawn to flogging ourselves over this special week?  I prefer the party.  The joy.  Love.  Free love.  His love.

Survey Says!

What a week.  Dad had scans on Monday and got results on Wednesday.  It appears all of the thickening on his abdomen seen in surgery is gone!  The main mass doesn't appear to have shrunk very much, but he does have evidence that it is responding.  HE CAN PEE! Who knew that could be such exciting news?  His doctors are so encouraged by his progress and how well he is handling the chemo.  I'm convinced they are actually surprised.  I truly believe they underestimated his spirit.  Something we cannot measure by science.  He bought an exercise bike last week and rode five miles his first day.  I doubt I could (or maybe would) go five miles.  And I am a 'healthy' person.  Five miles!  I think a triathlon sprint is a twelve mile bike ride.  What's he gonna do when my community pool opens next month?  Spirit.  Will.  If you want something bad enough, you will give it everything you have.  And he is fighting this hard while dealing with some of the horrible side effects of chemotherapy.  He will not go gentle into that good night.  This experience has not only affirmed, but deepened my respect for him.

The good news for me is that I more than survived the audit, my team came through it favorably.  What an intense month.  The toughest two rounds of chemo and the most intense time I've had at work so far.  The noticeable lack of tension in my body last night was amazing. Good news for dad on Wednesday and good news for me on Thursday.  Huge sigh.  Now I just need a week at a resort full of sleep, booze and massages!  Then I might be back to normal.  HA!  Normal.  Hmm.

Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

Another great U2 song I heard driving home.  Being such a geek for Bono, I know that he wrote it about his dad when he father became ill.

Please to enjoy...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuDqHtAR6L8

Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enough

You don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go in alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

We fight all the time
You and I... that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need... I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot more

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

(This is it)
I know that we don't talk
I'm sick of it all
Can, you, hear, me, when, I, sing
You're the reason I sing
You're the reason why the opera is in me

Well hey now, still gotta let ya know
A house doesn't make a home
Don't leave me here alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you that makes it hard to let go
Sometimes you can't make it on your own
Sometimes you can't make it
Best you can do is to fake it
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

Do Over

Shortly after my tenth birthday, I saw my dad for what would be our last visit for the following fourteen years.  My birthday is on January 19th, his on the 25th.  I always felt a little special for being born so close to my dad's birthday.  Like I owe one to God for the honor.  Ridiculous and awesome, I know.  But I truly adored my dad.  That year my granny took us to surprise him at his office.  We brought a cake and some goofy gifts, like a Miss Piggy dress up cardboard doll.  We loved watching the Muppet Show as a family.  Which I guess explains why I thought that was the perfect thing to give him.  My sisters and I were so excited to see him and he received us with a kind, but worn out love.  Too say my mother and father had irreconcilable differences would be an enormous understatement.  There were deep, deep wounds that we, as children, could not possibly fathom.  About a week after his birthday, I got a birthday card and a gold starfish necklace in the mail.  A belated birthday gift.  I still have it.

Over those lost years, no one told us what had actually happened to my dad.  His family acted like they knew, but wouldn't tell.  My sisters and I didn't know for sure if he was dead or alive.  We would imagine what might have happened to him.  Maybe he was a spy.  Maybe he made a bunch of money and split.  Maybe he was homeless.  We just didn't know.  It was awful.  Hopeless.  The more years that passed, the more normal it felt.  A terrible reality.  A girl needs a dad to look after her when she's dating.  Especially when her mom is not available either.  My legally blind granny was the only one fending for us.  Time's got really tough, lean, embarrassing.

I was so ashamed that my parents never showed up to my school or sports events.  I made excuses for them to save face.  As a senior in high school, I made it into the top 5 finalists for Homecoming Queen.  My mom came out for the rally where they announced the winner for queen.  I was shocked.  There was a parade and a half time special for the homecoming court at the football game that night.  After the rally when another girl was named queen, I overheard my mom tell my granny that she was going home. When my granny asked her about the evening events, my mom replied, "It'd be different if she was queen."  I was crushed.

I did have a couple of families that adopted me and looked out for me.  I still feel so incredibly blessed to have been taken in by them.  It was in this era that I met my best friend Shay.  Someone who has always been there for me and loved me as I am.

One month shy of fourteen years, I got a phone call from my sister telling me my paternal grandfather had died.  Time froze.  It was the week of Christmas.  We all knew what this could mean.  Were we about to see our dad?  The funeral was postponed until after Christmas.  Christmas day was rather placid.  We quietly opened our gifts and ate our food and wondered what was going to happen.

The morning of grandpa's funeral, three of us got ready at granny's house.  We were down right giddy and anxious.  It was in the air.  We had no idea what was about to take place, but we knew.  It's so hard to describe.  We were hurried as if we actually had an appointment with dad.  Veronica drove us to Edy's apartment.  She drove like a bat outta hell.  Lynn and I laughed and joked that if she didn't slow down there would be more than one funeral that day.  We were so nervous.  But we also had a giant chip on our shoulder.  We were hurt.  We brought a real fuck off, you can't hurt us anymore attitude with us.  We had all of our armor on, ready for battle.  We waited for Edy for what felt like an eternity.  We didn't want to be the first people there, but we certainly didn't want to walk in late either. Finally the four of us were together in the car.  Going into whatever lay ahead together, united.  Four good Irish sisters ready to kick any and all ass necessary.  The timing of the impending events could not have been scripted better if it were for a movie.

Edy lived about three turns away from the funeral home.  Veronica just about put her car on two wheels for each of them.  She parked right in front.  As we pulled in, we could see our uncle standing outside of the door with some of the other mourners.  We immediately began making sarcastic jokes and laughing as we got out of the car.  From that moment everything actually went into a fog.  I remember getting out of the car, turning to close the door, when we spotted the white Lincoln Towncar driving toward us.  One of us quipped, "who the hell is that?" To which we all laughed.  As the car passed by us to park, I experienced one of the strangest moments of my life to this day.  I don't know if I said it or not, but I think I said it.  All I can remember with certainty is hearing the words, "That's our dad."  We were in absolute shock.  He parked the car next to us and got out with the others that rode with him.  The four of us girls stood in unity in the street, looking at him.  We were speechless and just stood there in disbelief.  The day we had waited so long for had actually arrived and we were breathing in its moment.  No one knew what to do.  Would he accept us?  Should we forgive him?  I can only imagine what he was experiencing.  I finally said simply, "Hi dad."  I moved toward him and before I knew it the five of us were in an embrace.  It felt as though a curse had been broken.  Something had been supernaturally mended.  Forgiveness that needed no words.  Love.  When our hug ended, he said to us through a cracked voice, "Let's go see my dad."  It was really something indescribably powerful to walk into that funeral home together.

After the funeral, we went back to my grandpa's house for the reception.  My dad gathered the four of us girls, told us why he did what he did and apologized.  It was the first time in fourteen years that someone spoke straight with us and told us what actually happened.

Too Tired to Blog

Seriously.  Too tired.  With all that is going on in my life, the last thing I needed was a major audit.  And guess what.  That's exactly what I got.  For that last two weeks I've been buried at work.  In some way it's a great distraction.  It's kind of nice to have something else to stress, worry and freak out over.  At least this will pass.  Two more weeks.  I'm so exhausted and I still have two weeks more of this pressure.

In these next two weeks, dad has an appointment for a scan which will show us if the tumors are responding to the treatment.  I pray they have.  He has such an awesome outlook.  He's getting his taste buds back.  And he is learning to play guitar.  Crazy.  Gotta love it.

THE WALZ FAMILY FUNDRAISER

THE WALZ FAMILY FUNDRAISER

Recently tragedy struck the family of Joe Walz. Joe was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer in January and passed away March 6th. Joe was self employed and his wife, Jerri, was unable to keep her job while caring for him.

Please join me in supporting the Walz family. Shop Willow House with Little Bees, at http://littlebees.willowhouse.com, and 15% of your product purchase will be donated to the family of Joe Walz. When you check out, PLEASE select “Walz Family” as the host. Pass it on! Please share this via Facebook and/or email.

Please note that the Walz Family fundraiser and the donations are done solely by Melody Tagliere, and is not supported by Willow House or other Willow House design consultants.

Thanks for your help...in spreading the word and for your support!

The Biggest Loser

Almost immediately upon his arrival, it became obvious to me that dad does not like my cooking.  My pasta is too al dente, I over season meat, my coffee is too strong.  If he could eat cereal, I'm sure I would find a way to make it inedible as well.

While dad was in the hospital recovering from surgery, I purchased about a million dollars worth of cookbooks.  Gluten free, cancer fighting, how to not eat the way we eat books.  I even bought miso soup from a local restaurant and took it into his hospital room when he was able to eat again.  Wasn't having it.  I bought an 'authentic' wok from Williams Sonoma with expectations of a mostly fresh, stir fried diet. Nope.

Now, with everything he is going through, which is mostly a constant state of discomfort, I don't take anything personally.  But it was rather ego deflating when all he wanted to eat were Hungry Man frozen dinners.  Imagine my horror.  When I cooked meals for my family he wanted Salisbury steak.  And with the frozen meals, the chicken would not cook right in the microwave or the potatoes would be frozen in the middle.  Awful.  Night after night, I would have to serve these nasty meals in their plastic sectioned trays on a beautiful dark wooden Asian inspired tray my dear friends Peter and Laura gave me as a birthday gift years ago.  He finally hit the wall yesterday and told me he couldn't eat another frozen meal.  THANK YOU GOD! OH!  I'm so excited to go to the store and buy a week's worth of fresh ingredients!  Ahhh...

My dad is just about through his first round of chemo.  Tomorrow he begins his second treatment.  He made it through for the most part with minimal side affects.  I have been very pleased.  But recently he can't sleep well.  His stomach is too upset to eat.  This morning I had the realization that my dad and I are just about the same weight.  I am 5'2" and my dad is pushing 6'.  I am once again horrified.  Horrified because, selfishly, I already have enough self esteem issues around my weight, having weighed 115 lbs when I got engaged to my husband not quite six years ago and horrified that my tall, bad ass dad is now so frail.  I believe in this instance I am the biggest loser

The Wall

As unbelievable as it may be for those who know me now, I was not the crying type before I had babies.  I was tough.  I absolutely hated showing weakness in myself and truth be told, I had difficulty believing/tolerating it in others.  Crying in public was completely out of the question for me. Not unlike Pink, the central character from the eleventh studio album by Pink Floyd, I too had brick by brick experiences from which I built myself a resilient, protective wall.  A wall which safeguarded me from the disappointment and sorrow that can only come from emotionally investing in others.  A wall that began with the emotional and then physical abandonment of my parents and was fully realized just before the dissolution of my first marriage.  Although I gained some awareness around it, I could not comprehend the wall in its entirety.

And then came my first born.  My beautiful baby boy.  I was rather anxious about the idea of giving birth.  The baby could only come out one of two ways and I wasn't crazy about either option.  I prayed to God that I would laugh through the whole experience.  I did not want to be a bawling idiot in the delivery room.  Little did I know I was about to have an emergency C-section.  Nothing funny about that.  However, I did laugh.  I laughed because my family gives birth to Gerber babies.  Plump, bald, beautiful babies.  So that's what I expected when first meeting my son.  Instead, the baby they held up over the tent for me to adore looked like an Okinawan centenarian with a head full of black hair.  So I began laughing. I was so amused.  He was so unexpected!  And then they laid him across my chest.  I patted his soft, foreign head with my heart sensor restrained hand.  I was struck with an awareness that my son was a complete stranger to me and yet I would do anything to protect him because instantly I loved him so freely.  The wall I'd built up over the majority of my years was crumbling so subtly.  Like water dissolving a sugar cube dam.  All the hurt poured into joy. Disappointment became hope and faith.  Fear converted to love.  My heart now a river with a current on an amazing journey.

Motherhood has changed me in ways both terrible and beautiful.  I used to feel cool, confident and sexy.  Now I feel like, well, a mom.  Not that I don't have moments and glimpses of those old feelings, I do.  It's just that what defines me as a person has broadened tremendously.  No longer in my mind am I simply a chick musician with a cool guitar.  Part of that still exists, but I'm also responsible for keeping two adorable, energetic, and hilarious monkeys alive!  My greatest ambition now is to release good, kind, loving men out into what seems to be an ever darkening world.  Or in the very least keep them from becoming complete jerks.  A task that can be quite overwhelming and daunting when viewing the big picture. 

I look at my boys and I see so much of the people I love in them.  Their daddy's chin, hands and feet.  My dad's sandy blond hair on the baby and their Papa's thick dark mane on the oldest.  Both paternal and maternal grandmothers' eyes.  Granny's slight drawl in the word 'house', pronounced, ha-yous.  My sisters and brother when we were little kids.  Their aunts and uncles on their father's side.  My nieces and nephews.  I think of Peter when the baby plays drums and I see Shay's competitive athletic spirit when he picks up a ball. I hear Sandra's infectious laugh when they amuse each other. Brian's artistic approach to life in my oldest and Laura's wit in his well chosen words.

So much of what I love in life, I see in my boys.  It just begs the question in my mind, what does my dad sees in me and my sisters? Are we bricks or have we helped break down his wall? Do I really want to know the answer to that question?

Driving Miss Daisy

Before my dad arrived in Texas, my sister Veronica warned me that he has become a horrible back seat driver.  He absolutely hates not being in control and has no problem admitting so.  What is that saying?  Forewarned is forearmed?  Maybe that is helpful in some cases, like the American Revolution, but there is nothing that can prepare you for taking care of a parent.

Returning to work after the initial doctor visits with my dad, a friend asked me what it was like having him around.  My immediate response was that it's like being a fifteen year old with a driver's permit.  Everything I do in front of him feels unsure and clumsy. My former bandmates from The Bellyachers are among the few who have actually witnessed the anomaly of my dad leaving me absolutely witless.  When he is not around I have been known to adoringly identify myself as his 'mini-me'.  A smaller, perhaps less evil version of his lightning fast wit and humor.

The dynamic between my dad and I now is not unlike that between Miss Daisy and Hoke.  I, of course, the gentle, patient, tall, black man, and my dad, the frail, angry, fussy jewish woman.  He doesn't want to go anywhere with me, tells me how badly I am driving and reluctantly accepts my help.  And while I think that is hilarious, I do not want to give the impression that our time together is a negative experience.  Far from it.  What is also parallel to Miss Daisy and Hoke's journey, is that dad and I are on our own trip to the deep South.  Instead of bonding over discrimination, we are finding that we are more than just father and daughter.  On our road we are two flawed individuals who love people deeply. We are people who want to look out for those we love.  People who are tough on the outside and terribly fragile on the inside. Two people dealing with the scars of failed marriages.  People who have overcome adverse childhoods.  People who like Big Macs.

Even while feeding Daisy pumpkin pie when she could no longer feed herself, Hoke managed to respect and even preserve her dignity.  I don't know how far I will chauffeur my dad down this road, but I am grateful for every mile. And I pray I can serve him with the consistent grace and humility with which Hoke served Miss Daisy.

The Big Bad Wolff, Part II

One of Veronica's seemingly endless tasks was to request, collect and overnight all of dad's medical records, which included a disc with PET scan images. For a PET scan, you are injected with what is called a tracer which produces radioactive positrons. And after a bunch more snooze-ville jargon, you can tell where cancer cells/tumors exist in a body.  I had to copy these records and images to take to MD Anderson for my dad's initial appointment.  When I put the disc into my computer, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to open the images.  But the images did indeed open.  Working specifically in oncology research, I can tell on paper the difference between a small, large and gi-nourmous tumor. I was devastated by what I saw. It was like a pair of weathered, angry hands, clasped together, literally choking off his ureters.  I was horrified by their size.  It was right there in front of me in black and white and bright yellow/orange. These nasty, evil, bastard hands strangling the life out of him from the inside. What a nightmare. I was humbled by the reminder of how fragile it all really is.  I couldn't believe I was looking at an image of my dad.

The day of his first appointment will go down in my personal history as one of the worst day's of my life.  For many reasons.  For starters, I am not a morning person.  And we had to get up at, as my mom says, (and please forgive me for the corny reference), O'dark hundred.  (What the what?!? O'dark hundred?)  Anyway, we had to get up crazy early to be sure we did not get stuck in rush hour traffic.  You have to understand that my dad would rather sleep on the sidewalk in front of the hospital overnight, as if he were camping out to buy Springsteen tickets for the Tunnel of Love tour, instead of being five minutes late for an appointment that will make you wait at least an hour no matter how early you get there.  So O'dark hundred it was.  The second snag in my plans is because I am addicted to caffeine.  There.  I said it.  My name is Mel and I'm a caffeine-oholic.  So much so that I actually consider coffee to be a food group and needless to say, it's my favorite.  So much do I love coffee, that if I don't drink a cup early enough in the morning, say by 11:00 am, my head feels like I'm wearing a racoon skull cap and the varmint is eating my brains out from behind my eyeballs.  My error with coffee on that morning was that I assumed MD Anderson would be like all doctor's offices, if not worse, and that I would have PLENTY of time to grab a cup of coffee.  But I was wrong.  That place is a well oiled, finely tuned machine.  You walk through the doors and hit the ground running.  We checked in, we registered, and before I knew it, my dad and I were in the examination room waiting for Dr. Wolff.

Dr. Wolff appeared, spoke to the gravity of the situation and was gone.  His words affirming the devastation conjured up from the images and reports I had reviewed only days before.

From there we were sent to the lab where my dad gave blood.  My sisters were anxious to hear what the oncologist had to say.  As my dad walked toward the nurse who had just called his name, their questioning began.  I held up one finger to them, watched my dad walk behind a door, turned to my sisters and completely fell apart.  All I could say was, "It's so bad.  It's so bad." I felt as though I'd been holding my breath for hours.  I had never felt sick like this before.  I wanted to throw up, but couldn't.  By the time I got coffee it was way too late.  I couldn't even drink more than a couple of sips.

The valet brought the car around and we headed back home.  Everyone starving and emotionally exhausted.  We decided on Mexican food, but by the time my plate was placed in front of me, I couldn't eat more than a bite.  I took my lunch to go in the hopes I would one day be able to eat again.  I unlocked the door to my house.  We entered.  I went straight to my bedroom, called my mother-in-law and fell apart once again.  My entire being was in denial and all I could do was take Tylenol, put a cold wash cloth on my forehead and pray for sleep.

All That You Can't Leave Behind

Driving home today the song Walk On began playing on my iPod.  It reminded me what comfort food U2's music is for my soul.  The lyrics and melodies of Bono always feel sung directly to me and for me.  And that voice.  That voice! Mmmm...  The longing in the echo/effects driven guitars of The Edge are ever heartbreaking.  And the enormous rhythms from Larry Mullen, Jr. and Adam Clayton never fail to make me want to take up arms (which is hilariously ironic), march for the people or in the very least shake my ass.

As a teenager, their posters wallpapered my bedroom.  I collected black felt hats, most of which I rarely had the courage to leave the house in.  I bought second hand old man suit coats to wear with my ripped up jeans and black boots.  I was hilarious/ridiculous.  The first songs I learned to play on guitar were from Joshua Tree; Where the Streets Have No Name was the very first one.  At sixteen I would imagine becoming famous, meeting Bono, falling in love and living happily ever after in rock star bliss.  (Sorry Ali! LOL) Identifying with my Irish roots didn't hurt either.  I felt cool. Confident. Understood.

I remember the first time I heard this particular song.  I got the CD as a Christmas gift.  The bridge always brings my dad to mind and tears to my eyes.
   
     Oh to say what it is if you've never had one
     Oh I can't say where it is, but I know I'm going home  


To echo the opinion of my dear friend, Shae Cottar, Bono is perhaps the greatest worship leader ever born.  I feel so spiritually connected, bare and free when listening to U2.

I'd like to post the lyrics, but I think the song should be experienced audibly.  Listen via the following link:

     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwKEdFoUB0o

Turn up your speakers, close your eyes and let it take you where it will.

The Big Bad Wolff, Part I

Once my sisters and I grasped the concept of what was happening to our dad, we unspokenly became an army of four.  Collectively and without hesitation we decided he must come to Houston to be seen at MD Anderson, arguably the best cancer hospital on the entire planet.  That meant dad would be with me.  A prospect which both thrilled and terrified me.  My sisters and I called on every favor, pulled every string, whatever it took we were going to get him here.  Now, MD Anderson is not known as a hospital you just walk into and be seen.  It's a process which takes time.  The very thing we did not have.  Working in clinical research, I asked around for references.  I thought for sure that would be an easy in.  My sister Lynn, a nationally certified EMT, had arranged for a medical flight to be on standby in the event that my dad could not fly commercially.  She even had a friend/co-worker ready to fly with her and my dad from Idaho to Texas.  She also got references from a friend at the VA for potential contacts in Houston.  Meanwhile in Idaho, my sister Veronica, mother of six, got my dad's affairs, and medical records/bills in order.  Which meant moving two horses, a dog, his important belongings from his place to hers.  A two and a half hour drive one way.  She was also responsible for making all of the travel arrangements for my dad and two other sisters. No small feat. My sister Edy was on standby in California.  I needed her here the day before so she could help me get the spare room ready and receive our dad.  Turns out of all of our contacts, the one that paid off came through my husband, from our pastor.  He was friends with the administrative director of the unit my dad needed to get into.  Amazing how God works.  The golden egg was right in front of us where we least expected it.  The director was amazing.  So kind and thoughtful and caring.  One of those etheral souls who seem to be made of something other than flesh and blood.  She gave me her cell # and told me to call anytime day or night if I needed anything.  Even to simply talk.  An absolute miracle was blossoming.  All of the pieces to the bigger picture were falling into place.  All signs pointed to H-Town.

Only one problem. He didn't want to come.  He did not want to get on a plane.  His doctor (and his daughters) wouldn't let him drive.  At one point in trying to sway him, he said to me, "Shut up, shut up, you talk too much.  Just listen.  I don't want to live in Texas and I don't want to die in Texas."  At that point I sank down into the gravity of our new reality and realized I have to accept whatever he decides.  This is his cancer.  We are all along for the ride, but it is his illness.  He needed to be heard and he needed to be respected.  I let go.  I accepted his decision to stay in Idaho. 

That afternoon I got a call from Veronica.  Dad was being released from the hospital and he would be in Houston in two days.  I was to pick him up from the airport on Sunday. Everything went into warp speed from there.  Lynn flew to Idaho only to miss her flight in Denver due to inclement weather.  Dad had to fly the first leg of his trip alone, meet Lynn in Denver and fly to Houston together. Edy flew in the night before from Oakland. MD Anderson called with a Monday morning appointment for dad.  At 8:00 am he would meet his oncologist, Dr. Wolff.

What a Difference a Day Makes

So he took the anti-depressant!  He slept all night and then several very deep catnaps through the day.  We went to an appointment to have his incision looked at this afternoon where he asked his surgeon about prescribing the two dancing girls and the bottle of whiskey.  Yet another kind doctor with a gracious sense of humor.

I was hanging out with my dad tonight.  Not 'the patient'.  What a blessing.  He enjoyed things, laughed at funny stuff.  It was great.  All the difference.

Now if I could get that kind of sleep...

Two Dancing Girls and a Bottle of Whiskey

This experience is proving to be a lesson in patience, anxiety and a complete lack of control.  Going into the doctor pre-chemo visit, check-in, whatever you call it, my dad tells the nurse that last night his incision has opened up again and is oozing some fairly nasty stuff.  So pretty much, I know right away that we are NOT gonna start chemo today.  The good news is that dad has gained 6 lbs since his last visit and his nutrition counts are getting better.  When I bring up the possibility of an anti-depressant, my dad asks the doctor if he would prescribe two dancing girls and a bottle of whiskey.  Thank the Lord his oncologist is a good humored man who can roll with my dad's embarrassing/brilliant sense of humor.  I cannot believe it, but my dad has agreed to take the anti-depressant.  Maybe now he will rest.

FMLA papers are filled out finally and I'm worried about surviving this myself. That sounds ridiculous and perhaps even selfish, but I'm serious.  I've got so much stress and anxiety running wild through my body.  With every set back, minor and major, every prescription that needs filling, chasing down every food that might possibly be tolerable (I don't dare hope for actually tasting good or being satisfying), with every one appointment leading to three more appointments, I grow more uptight and tired.  Not to mention spending my every free moment holding down a high stress, full time job, mother my two toddlers and lastly, but God knows is not the least of these, be a wife to one amazing man.  I'm so wiped out right now and all I want to do is curl up on the couch and sleep.  But I can't.  I have to go to my dad's doctors office to pick up FMLA papers and then get my boys and come home to start dinner.  I don't know how any one does this without the support that I have. God bless them.  A support group would be great.  But when? After chemo starts? Next week?

Two dancing girls and a bottle of whiskey.  Yeah.  I get it dad.

So my dad has cancer...again...

Late December 2010 my dad called me from Idaho to tell me that the colon cancer had returned and this time it was inoperable.  Shock and horror. My body began to tingle starting at the top of my head as my entire being attempted to reject the words.  The words seemed to float down a long, dark tunnel, barely making it into my ear.  So simple.  So matter of fact. So devastating.

Trying to sleep that night was ridiculous.  My heart pounded.  I kept doing that startled awake thing each time my mind screamed, "My dad is gonna die!" This is the biggest tragedy of my life so far.  And I am no stranger to adversity.  My dad is one of the last real cowboys.  He is recluse and independent.  He is kind, generous, hilarious. He is also stubborn, crotchety,  and a bad ass.  I remember as a little kid watching how he did things, simple things, like walking, talking and smoking.  I would try to mimic his every move.  He was the epitome of cool. I've never looked at my dad without thinking he could absolutely kick anyone's ass.  Until now. He has lost about 50 lbs since December.  Nothing tastes good and we ('we', hilarious!) he hasn't even started chemo.

Dad starts chemo tomorrow.