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.