Living in perfect symmetry

"How we approach death is going to depend upon our fear of life, how much we participated in that life, and how willing we are to let go of this known expression to venture into a new one. Fear and unfinished business are two big factors in determining how much resistance we put in meeting death."

"Fuck me," I said, mainly to myself, as I threw down Gone From My Sight, The Dying Experience, by Barbara Karnes.

Looking at Mom, in that hospital bed in the middle of her living room, with an oxygen machine between us, making a strange Darth Vader-like sound, I wondered if Barbara Karnes was full of shit. Even if she was right, I couldn't get my head around how Mom, with her wasted body, would be able to take care of any unfinished business. Perhaps she was dealing with it internally, down deeper than I could see, or understand. Maybe Barbara Karness was right? I'll never know, just like I'll never be certain Mom wasn't in pain those final days. I won't know if she suffered.

Hospice assured us she was not in pain. That all of her moving, and shifting in bed was part of the process. The dying process. Same as the sounds Mom made. Hospice looked me in the eye and said, "Your Mom isn't doing any of that because she is in pain, it is part of the process." Then, the nurse I'll never forget said something I'll never forget, "This is normal."

This is normal? Fuck normal.

I can't begin to express how much I wanted, how much I needed to believe the nurse. I had my doubts though, mainly because the one person who could honestly tell me whether or not there was pain, well, she could no longer speak. Hell, Mom couldn't even swallow at that point, which made giving her pain medicine very hard. Not that Mom complained, all she could do was make this consistent guttural moan like groan that competed against the oxygen machine's Darth Vader-esque sound. Eyes half open. Reaching out with her arms every so often as she shifted around in her bed. "This is normal," I said, to myself, as I looked around the living room at all of the photographs of the Boy(s). Seeing their pictures, especially in that setting, was like being stuck with a knife. It hurt. Bad. The realization that Mom, who so enjoyed being a Granny, would miss so much in the coming years. "This is normal," I said to Mom this time, wondering if she could hear me, even though she couldn't respond. Hospice said hearing was the last sense the dying lost. So did Barbara Karnes. "Isn't that reassuring."

Looking at the cable box, I saw that it was 2:25am, which meant I had 35 minutes until I could give Mom her next dose of morphine. That I had only massaged the valium cream into her wrists 25 minutes ago. Could that be right? 25 minutes? Time stood still late at night in that living room.

Confused, and afraid that I was going to give Mom more than her prescribed dose of morphine, I decided to recheck my notes. We had this whole medicine timetable that helped us keep up with all the drops, creams, and shots. I'm not sure which was more absurd, the fact that I was worried about giving Mom to much morphine, or the fact that I was watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on Nick @ Nite while I worried about it. Seriously. There was something very wrong with Nick @ Nite playing on TV under those circumstances. So much so, that I muted The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and decided to pick up Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience and re-read it. Hospice had suggested it, and well, Hospice, and the people that work for it were amazing. Noble.

After reading Gone From My Sight for a third time, I have to be honest and say, the book didn't do much for me. In fact the book reminded me of a truncated inverse version of What to Expect When You are Expecting. I'm sure there are many, who in similar circumstances would take great comfort in the book, and the titular poem by Henry Van Dyke. Not me. In truth, the book pissed me off, and made me even more angry at the whole fucking situation.

To be fair, Ms. Karnes did know her shit. The guide in Gone From My Sight. The Dying Experience about the signs, phases, and timetable on dying were correct. Everything that I read, I saw. The thing is, I didn't really need the book. I felt Mom dying.

I'm not sure I can put into words, what I felt, but it was the same feeling I had a few days earlier when I had the urge to call Dad to see if we should move up our trip to see Mom. It was something I felt for a long time, if I'm honest. Nearly a year. I just kept telling myself that I was being negative. That what I felt wasn't real. Real or not, I felt that feeling again, hard, on Wednesday, October 18. I knew that Mom would die that day.

At noon, not really knowing what to do, I went with my gut and drug this old chair over next to Mom's bed. The chair was one Mom had bought at a garage sale a few years in the rear view. Most people couldn't get their ass in that chair, it was so small, but I have no ass, and more importantly the chair meant something to me. To Mom. She had bought it for Ethan. When he visited his Granny he'd always sit in that old chair at the dining table, the same table from my youth, and watch cartoons as Granny watched him.

Sitting in that chair, I took Mom's hand as I thought of The Little Warrior, and felt a palpable sense of loss because I knew he'd never get the same chance. He probably wouldn't even be able to remember his Granny when he got older. That hurt.

Holding Mom's hand, I looked into her eyes, and told her I loved her. I'm not sure if she could hear me. Or even see me. Her eyes, although open, were fixed. That didn't matter though, because the one thing the cancer had not ravaged was Mom's eyes. They looked the same as they always had. They looked like my eyes. They looked like the Boy(s) eyes. Staring into her eyes I quietly, and I'm ashamed to say, awkwardly told my Mom all the things I felt I needed to tell her. If Hospice and Barbara Karnes were correct, and the ability to hear is the last sense to go, Mom heard me. I'd like to think she did. The same way I'd like to believe she wasn't in pain those final days. That she knew I was with her, helping take care of her. Helping my Dad. Most important, I hope Mom knew that I sat holding her hand when she died at 1:26pm on Wednesday, October 18. Only 8 days past her 65 birthday.

I had never seen anyone die. Not in real life anyway. I'm amazed and sad that the first person I saw enter into death was the person who gave me life.

Still, nearly two weeks later, I can't get my head around the fact that Mom is gone. That she is no longer around. That I live in a world where I cannot call her, or go see her. I saw her take her last breath. I saw her body shudder and then watched it get, well it got lighter. If you are religious or spiritual, you can say that was when Mom's soul left her body. If you are not, you could say it was simply her muscles relaxing upon physical death. In the end, we all believe what we want or need to believe.

As for me, I simply cannot believe my Mom is dead.

Until I BLOG again...Nothing is as down or up as us.

I have got to leave to find my way

Anger is easy. If anyone knows that, it is me. That is why, although hurt by his words, I understood when E said, "I'm going to get a new Daddy!" I knew where the Boy was coming from, and what he was fighting against. His Granny was dying. That was hard enough in and of itself. But the fact that I was turning around and going back to Houston, well, he was pissed.

"You aren't going to read me books. Ever!" He raged. "You're coming back...you're going to be gone a day!"

"Son," I said, "I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. I know you are angry, it is ok. Daddy loves you."

"YOU AREN'T MY DADDY!!!"

"Bub," I said, "When you are mad-or sad-or happy. Daddy and Mommy always love you. No matter what. You can't do anything to ever change that. I love you forever. Always."

Sweet mother of all that is good, it was as if I poked a stick into a nest of hornets.

"DON'T SAY THAT! DON'T TALK TO ME!!!!"

"Son, Daddy, has to go. I need to be there. For Pops. For Granny. I know it is hard to understand, but, well, I wouldn't be a very good Daddy if I didn't go, not the kind of Daddy you would want anyway. To be honest, I don't want to go, I'm scared, but I need to be there. I hope you..."

"ONLY GONE FOR A DAY!!!"

"Son, I don't know how long I'm going to be gone. I can't promise you that."

"Daddy..."

"Yes, baby?"

"Don't go."

"Son, I want to be there..."

"YOU'RE NOT MY DADDY!"

But I am, Dear Reader. I am. That is why I left Dallas and went back to Houston.

I know I have issues. That I'm far from perfect. Still, I'd like to think, or maybe I need to believe that I'm a good Dad. A good Husband. A good Son. And whatever it is, that trait that makes me these things, it is the same thing that drove me back to Houston. The thing that gave me the strength, or the courage to do, and see such horrible things. That thing that had me at my Mom's side, holding her hand, when she died.

Until I BLOG again...Strength and courage overrides, The privileged and weary eyes.

Am I too late

I called my Dad a week ago today. Intuition? I had a feeling, that if the Boy(s) were going to see their Granny before she died, we should move up our trip to see her. After speaking to Dad, and learning my gut was right, we made arrangements to come down to see Mom on Saturday, October 14. To make things easier, for the Boy(s), and Mom, we decided to stay in a hotel.

We arrived at her home at 3pm. We only stayed until 5pm. 2 hours. That wrecked my Mom. All the strength she had left, she expended for that visit. I thought, maybe the Boy(s) would be able to come over the next morning, or that night, but that was not to be.

During our time together on Saturday, my Mom was lucid with the Boy(s). She was able to interact with them. The Elder Boy was hesistant, bless his heart, based on her diminished appearance. No hair. Loss of weight. Absolutely ravaged by the fucking cancer. For him to see that. Fuck me. It was horrible.

This here BLOG entry, isn't about E though. I love him. My first born. More than I can ever type. Him and his Granny had a special bond. I hope he'll always remember that, and her. Today's entry is about The Little Warrior. What he did on the visit. I'll never forget his moment. It was magical.

Wy is 2 1/2, still young enough to be protected from the harsh realities of life. He wasn't aware that his Granny was dying. That it was probably going to be the last time he'd see her alive. He also wasn't bothered by her appearance, or the oxygen machine she was hooked up to that helped her breathe. He didn't care that she was in a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. Not Wy. Our Little Warrior. He walked right up to that bed, and pulled himself up, and then crawled toward his Granny, who smiling, leaned forward to meet him, as he said, I shit you not, I love you.

Our Little Warrior. My sweet Wy Wy, has told me he loves me, a handful of times. He usually will say I like you instead. I find that funny. My point, I love you isn't something the Younger Boy says often. In fact, I don't think that he'd ever said it to his Granny, unprompted at least. Why, on that day, at that time, the last he'd ever see his Granny, Wy said that? I don't know. All I can tell you is this: it was beautiful.

Until I BLOG again...Never thought that you'd stop bein' 'round.

Lights will guide you home

The fact that it stormed the day before the Boy(s) first day of school was apropos of my emotional state. You see, Dear Reader, I had returned from a hard trip to Houston the night before. The storm was bad enough that the power went out, and stayed out, long after the weather had passed our little piece of the Messoplex. As time passed, it became clear that TX(Screw)U was not going to fix the problem before night time. That was a problem. Imagine bathing a 4 1/2 and 2 1/2 year old by candlelight. Trying to get them ready and to bed early for their first day of school with no electricity. Trying to explain why they couldn't watch TV. Why it was so hot in the house. Why we couldn't turn on their night lights.

My Lovely Bride, much smarter in real time, than I, suggested we divide and conquer. Thus, she took the Little Warrior as I wrangled the Elder Boy.

After I had E bathed and ready for bed, I decided to preserve some sense of normalcy by reading books. Easier said than done with a flashlight. After one book, I decided to change my course and promised the Boy I would lay with him until he fell asleep. He was cool with that, so I turned the flash light off and watched the votive candle on his dresser as we laid together in silence. I actually became so mesmerized by the flickering of the flame and the strange shadows it cast that I didn't quite get what the Boy meant when he asked, "Where was his crib?"

"In Wy Wy's room. You know that. We gave it to Wy when you..."
"No," he said, "Where was it in my room when I was a baby?"
"Oh..." I, (king of the dipshits) said, "It was over there, where your dresser is, right under the shelf on the wall that has the ship."

Sweet mother of all that is good. The ship reference caused a torrent of questions from the Boy. Seriously, full-on Five Ws! Who, What, Why,Where, When and How!

Outside the sky turned black, as I answered his questions. I explained that the ship was made by his Great Papa, the late Roe Jarman, who made many scale model ships, like the one in his room. That his Great Papa, who was his Mom's Papa, and his Mimi's Daddy, made the ship when he was 80 years old. How it was hard to make a scale model ship no matter how old you are, because of the time and the intricate work it required. That someone doing it at 80 was very impressive. I told him that the ship was actually made for his Mom, that she got it before he was born, but that Ethan (and the ship) meant so much to her, she decided to decorate his room around a nautical theme using the ship as the centerpiece. I finished by telling him, that the ship was a scale model of an actual ship from olden times. The H.M.S. Rattlesnake. That we could actually look it up on the computer if he wanted to learn more about it.

"Can we take it down?"
"Sure," I said, "We have to be careful, it is not a toy. But I don't see why we can't take it down so you can have a closer look in the morning."

Looking at the ship, and the strange shadows cast by the votive candle, we fell asleep.

Fast forward. Crick of the crack next morning. I was up, on the computer trying to do something for my Mom. I had promised her, upon my return from Houston, to email Dad some links to stuff for the Boy(s). Since my parents live in Houston, they haven't had the chance to see the Boy(s) as much as they would like. To make their visits extra special, Mom has always bought the Boy(s) a prize for when she does get to see them. The Boy(s) are like Pavlo's dog when it comes to their prize. They expect it. Ever the Granny, Mom was concerned that the cancer and the treatments would trip her up and she would not be able to get the Boy(s) something for our trip that weekend. That she would disappoint them. Before I had returned to Dallas she had me promise to send them some links on some toys that they wanted so they could get them after one of her chemo sessions. To be honest, I already felt impotent in regard to being able to help my Mom. Thus I was hellbent on accomplishing this simple task before I had to go to work. In fact, I would have done it the night before, but, TX(Screw)U and Mother Nature thwarted that.

It was in the middle of this search, when E awoke, and yelled, "Daddy! I need you!!!" Now it was my turn to play Pavlo's dog, as my first reaction to his call was to go to his room. I fought that impulse though, as I knew if I didn't send the info to my Mom that morning, I would have a hard time getting it done. I'm obsessed with doing what I say I will do anytime, but considering this task, even more so. I ignored E' calls, and continued my task, growing more and more agitated each time he called out for me.

Enter my Lovely Bride. I heard her go into E's room. Usually, being a Daddy's Boy, E will cruelly reject my Lovely Bride and ask for me. Thankfully not this morning. All he could think about was the ship on the shelf, which I heard My Lovely Bride take down for him. I could sort of hear them talking in his room, more murmurs really, as I drifted back to what I was doing on the computer.

Upon completion of the email, as I sort of half ass spell checked it, I spaced out staring at the screen. Sad thoughts. I wondered if this upcoming trip to Houston, would be the last time the Boy(s) saw their Granny alive? Was it the last time they'd get a prize from her? Those thoughts snowballed as I realized all the things we would lose when Mom died. That made me cry. That is what I was doing, in front of the computer when E startled me as he said, "Here Dad." I Turned from the screen and saw that he was handing me a sailboat picture frame. This picture frame was on the shelf next to the ship his Great Papa made. The photo was from June 2002. The six month old version of the Boy is in the surf on the beach at Galveston Island. His first time at the beach. I'm proudly holding him, as my Mom, his Granny stands behind us. We're smiling.

"I know you are sad about Granny - Because she's sick. Here."

As I took the frame from his hand, he gave me a hug. I was stunned. I sat there, as tears streamed down my face, looking into his brown eyes. My Mom's eyes. He smiled and said, "This will make you feel better." Then, he turned and ran back to his room to see his ship.

Until I BLOG again...And I will try to fix you.

Everyday is like Sunday

One of my favorite movies is The Shawshank Redemption. In a movie with many great lines, the most famous is probably this: "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'."

I used to love that line. Now, I'm troubled by it. How do you get busy living when someone you love is dying? When you are faced with their slow decline to the inevitable? I have absolutely no idea. Truly.

It is strange how consumed by sorrow you can become, when dealing with a protracted death. The conflict you face. You know you should enjoy every moment of life. Hug your kids. Kiss your wife. Enjoy the ride. But, let's be honest, we all forget that, and get wrapped up in our own dramas. You could say that I'm wrapped up in this drama. The drama of my Mom dying. Alas, I'm not the first guy to lose a parent to cancer. Sadly, I won't be the last. I get that even as that gets me. I realize that when I succumb to the anger, and the sorrow, I'm ultimately doing a disservice to my Mom. That hurts. Bad. My Mom wants nothing more than for me to be happy. To enjoy my life. Yet, I'm so stuck inside my head with her dying, that I often fail to carry out her simple wish.

Maybe these feelings change as time passes. Or, I'm being to hard on myself. I really don't know.

What I do know is that life doesn't stop for the dying. Bills need to be paid. You have to work. Take out your trash. Give the kids a bath. Empty the dishwasher. Mundane things you often take for granted when things are normal. Things that the dying person would relish doing, if only they were able. "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'" Is easier said on the big screen, than done in real life, when faced with this circle jerk of anger and sorrow, that often leads to bitterness.

Fuck cancer.

Until I BLOG again...How I dearly wish I was not here

Becoming who we are

I heart irony. Really. I love that, unbeknownst to me, my recent trip to Houston by way of Oklahoma with my Grandma (a.k.a. Old Granny) fell on homecoming week at my home town high school. Go Sandites! I was even considering sticking around upon my return and going to the Friday homecoming parade, for old times sake, that is, until the dog died.

Seriously. Gypsy, a wonderful mix of a mutt that we found abandoned on the beach at Galveston Island in 1996 died when I was in Houston with Old Granny. She had a stroke a few days before and at first, Mom and Dad feared that they would have to put her to sleep. A few days later, the Vets were positive about her recovery. Then, on Wednesday, Dad and I went to the Vet and brought Gypsy home. We all thought she was on the mend. Good news in a house that hasn't had much in a long time.

Then she died.

Gypsy woke my Dad up early the next morning, fighting for her life. This struggle to survive went on, painfully, for an hour, until she eventually expired on the floor next to my Mom and Dad's bed.

Which is where I found Gypsy the next morning. Covered with a black sheet. Urine, feces, and blood pooling out from her rigid body.

I'll never forget Dad coming into the office were I slept on a pull out sofa, asking me for help. At first, I thought something had happened to my Mom or Grandma, before he told me it was Gypsy. The look on his face is seared in my brain, as is the image of my frail and newly bald Mom, sitting in her wheelchair by the dining room table, watching Dad and I carry Gypsy out of the house in that black sheet. That sheet has been on the bed of my childhood on one of my recent visits to their house. Now it was Gypsy's body bag. That's what I was thinking as we carried her out of the house, as my poor dying Mother, thanked me, for being there to help my Dad.

I heart irony, honest, because if I didn't, I think might lose my mind.

Until I BLOG again...Wake me up when September ends