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.