What Cancer Taught Me

DEDICATED WITH SINCERE GRATITUDE TO EVERYONE WHO HELIPED HOLD ME UP. Especially my wife, KELLIE, DAUGHTERS Emma Williams (and son-in-law Jake Wialliams) and Olivia Mueller (and son-in-law Tyler Mueller), granddaughter  Riley Jean Williams, mother, Danna Hernandez, and countless friends, family (especially my baby brother Paul and his awesome crew.) and medical professionals.

I never, thought of myself as possessing any great Life Wisdom. Smart yes, Witty, Thoughtful. Reasonably well read. A leader? Check, check, check. Under the right circumstances. Let’s just say I had a healthy (and hungry) ego.

Not then and certainly not now, did I want to be A SAINT – or think myself as anyone’s behavioral model.

And I never intended to be a martyr or inspire anyone when I tumbled OFF THE BACK edge of the shovel, I WAS standing on in the spring air, just above where I was JUST TRYING TO DO  MY PART to jumpstart spring by digging a few holes for a new shadow garden. Nothing fancy or even silly.

I love to garden, and my wife and I had taken off that Monday to get a head start on the season. And then I fell. Then again and again. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the “ emergency Room,” ordered the only voice I had trusted for nearly 38 years.

”The Emergency Room” is a particular oxymoron for me, yet I trusted the  (maternal/wifely authority behind that voice; rose as best as I could, and my wife gently but firmly took my elbow to steady me. I guess I’d been swaying a bit like someone two servings past their usual limit. 

Yet I was confused –. An enthusiastic gardener, I had planted or transplanted dozens, maybe hundreds of  plants over the 26 years we lived here.

I wasn’t hurt except for a purple bruise to my ballooned self-esteem. Nothing felt broken. I wiped a splotch of dirt from the front of my sweatshirt and the front of my pants. Feebly protested “I am fine. I just tripped over a root or something.”

“Not three times you didn’t,” she said, a note of concern now harmonizing with her commanding tone. A wave of dizziness washed over me .  I took her hand as she guided me to the car. 

We got safely to the hospital, did the requisite paperwork, and waited. Usually “Emergency Room” is one of the great oxymorons in the English language, because there Does not ever seem to be the sense or “URGNCY” that “EMERGENCY Room” implies. But this time, enough medical pros buzzed around me to fill a special episode of “MASH”   followed by a marathon of doctor shows.

Well, in any case, we got more than our money’s worth of medical attention.

I was led away for a CAT scan and the first of two MRIs of my head.

the main doctor returned quickly. I stayed in bed and my wife sat back down.     .(“luckily, no cats!” I love that joke.)  

However, the MRIs showed something even worse a tumor and growth on the right side of my brain. No joke here folks. We learned I had a Level 4 Astrocytoma brain cancer.

Trust me, my wife nearly jumped from the chair, and I would have rolled out of the bed if not for the  safety bars.

This kind of cancer is usually not fatal, but also non-curable – which sounds like the same thing to me, but the doctor said it is treatable – FIRST WITH SUGERY (WHICH I HAD FOUR DAYS LATER, ND WHICH LEFT  a NICE “C” SHAPE SCAR JUST ABOVE  MY RIGHT EAR.

Then with radiation, chemotherapy, and so many other pills that I rattle now when I walk and then some other more experimental methods.

“But how? Where  did it come from there’s no history of cancer in either side of our families.”

 We peppered the doctors, with questions from both barrels. None of this made any sense!

And I otherwise a very healthy, an active middle-aged man (then 56 years old) who enjoys the outdoors and running and walking and had recently lost 65 pounds on purpose not due to illness.)

“We can’t say.”  Sometimes bad things happen in life for no reason. Cancer is one of them. “Don’t waste your time and energy trying to figure it out,” another doctor said.

Good advice, if somewhat impossible.

“This is what I get for taking a day off work,” I teased my wife, who knows  my aversion to taking off work.  Not that she appreciated the attempt at humor.

Since that day in early May, we have been deluged with good wishes,  cars, plants, prayers, good wishes, food, candy, blankets, even money. A group of students from the school district where I work even held a lemonade stand and donated the profits to me, another group held one of those online fundraisers.

But this is where I got a little self-conscious and nervous. It is hard to face up to that much good will, which, although not the case, sometimes feels like it comes with strings attached – “We did our part, now you do yours and get well!” I mean, this wasn’t exactly a cold or even COVID.

Hard as I try, I can’t promise I will ever completely  be cancer free – and the expectation, even the well-intended wishes scares me, as much as I appreciate them. It carries a certain responsibility or implied obligation that I am not strong enough yet) to take up.

So, I am apologizing in advance in case I don’t get well. I am not a perfect man, patient, or even husband or father. I have begged forgiveness at least 500 times to my wife and family and friends these last few months for my selfish behavior.

But the truth is, I need them – all of them on my side to get through this.

My goal is getting to a day again that looks something like the “normal” I remember from before. A day when I can move around freely, not tied down by the notion that every step I take is endangering me. (Our new family motto is “Don’t do anything stupid, “honey, dad, papa.” Yes, even the granddaughter has taken up the charge!)

Or worse, that every time I open my eyes will be the last.

Forgive my shortcomings I am  just a 57-year-old man, son, husband, father and grandfather who is faithful about what is coming, but scared none the less, and angry, and confused and frustrated.

I am so very grateful for all the love, affirmation and positivity. So flattered by the updraft of confidence and encouragement that has floated me to this this martyr’s stage so high above the ground. But I admit I am scared about what will happen when I step off this spotlighted platform into the dark unknown below.

Mind you, I am not afraid of heights, but of falling. “Old joke, I know, but this is the perfect place for it.

I have never felt so alone. Like “Major Tom” floating untethered in empty space. But in reality, I know that is ridiculous because I am surrounded by thousands of angels whose wings are generating he breezes keeping me afloat, and whose tremendous faith in me and courage on my behalf and strength put me up here, and whose arms will catch me if/when I fall.

I am so sorry that I cannot give you a better gift on my way out to help protect you from life’s inevitable pain and continue to earn and deserve your faith.

Especially considering all you’ve given me: 57 blessed years to be your son, brother, nephew, cousin, uncle, husband, father and grandfather.

The best gift I can give is what you’ve already given me:

1. faith, and
2. encouragement to always trust in the power of love.
3. If someone says they love you, trust it. And do your best to return it in equal measure.
4. Learn the difference between listening with your head and hearing with your heart.
5. Please don’t confuse or substitute stubbornness with courage or wisdom. Believe me, I  am much more stubborn than brave.

If you want an example of real strength and courage, look at my darling wife, my rock, the center of everything I am, who has  literally kept me alive.

She keeps telling me:” You’re not a superhero or a martyr (no matter what others think.)

and  “This is not forever, she says, as I away more tears. “It’s just for now.”

Now, that is wisdom.

The Day is coming when all we will have will be our  faith, love, each other’s hands to hold,  and the sweet memories of a life we built together.

And that will be enough. And it will be.

She’s been right about everything else…no reason to not believe her now.

Turns out, what I learned from cancer what I already knew.

The work and the reward come in looking forward, not backward.

Fifty and Counting

This and That from a New AARP Member

tomhernandezblog in Essays March 15, 2023 1,542 Words

What Cancer Taught Me

WHAT I LEARNED FROM CANCER final

DEDICATED WITH SINCERE GRATITUDE TO EVERYONE WHO HELIPED HOLD ME UP. Especially my wife, KELLIE, DAUGHTERS Emma Williams (and son-in-law Jake Wialliams) and Olivia Mueller (and son-in-law Tyler Mueller), granddaughter  Riley Jean Williams, mother, Danna Hernandez, and countless friends, family (especially my baby brother Paul and his awesome crew.) and medical professionals.

I never, thought of myself as possessing any great Life Wisdom. Smart yes, Witty, Thoughtful. Reasonably well read. A leader? Check, check, check. Under the right circumstances. Let’s just say I had a healthy (and hungry) ego.

Not then and certainly not now, did I want to be A SAINT – or think myself as anyone’s behavioral model.

And I never intended to be a martyr or inspire anyone when I tumbled OFF THE BACK edge of the shovel, I WAS standing on in the spring air, just above where I was JUST TRYING TO DO  MY PART to jumpstart spring by digging a few holes for a new shadow garden. Nothing fancy or even silly.

I love to garden, and my wife and I had taken off that Monday to get a head start on the season. And then I fell. Then again and again. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the “ emergency Room,” ordered the only voice I had trusted for nearly 38 years.

”The Emergency Room” is a particular oxymoron for me, yet it  I trusted the  (maternal/wifely authority behind that voice; rose as best as I could, and my wife gently but firmly took my elbow to steady me. I guess I’d been swaying a bit like someone two servings past their usual limit. 

Yet I was confused –. An enthusiastic gardener, I had planted or transplanted dozens, maybe hundreds of  plants over the 26 years we lived here.

I wasn’t hurt except for a purple bruise to my ballooned self-esteem. Nothing felt broken. I wiped a splotch of dirt from the front of my sweatshirt and the front of my pants. Feebly protested “I am fine. I just tripped over a root or something.”

“Not three times you didn’t,” she said, a note of concern now harmonizing with her commanding tone. A wave of dizziness washed over me .  I took her hand as she guided me to the car. 

We got safely to the hospital, did the requisite paperwork, and waited. Usually “Emergency Room” is one of the great oxymorons in the English language, because there Does not ever seem to be the sense or “URGNCY” that “EMERGENCY Room” implies. But this time, enough medical pros buzzed around me to fill a special episode of “MASH”   followed by a marathon of doctor shows.

Well, in any case, we got more than our money’s worth of medical attention.

I was led away for a CAT scan and the first of two MRIs of my head.

the main doctor returned quickly. I stayed in bed and my wife sat back down.     .(“luckily, no cats!” I love that joke.)  

However, the MRIs showed something even worse a tumor and growth on the right side of my brain. No joke here folks. We learned I had a Level 4 Astrocytoma brain cancer.

Trust me, my wife nearly jumped from the chair, and I would have rolled out of the bed if not for the  safety bars.

This kind of cancer is usually not fatal, but also non-curable – which sounds like the same thing to me, but the doctor said it is treatable – FIRST WITH SUGERY (WHICH I HAD FOUR DAYS LATER, ND WHICH LEFT  NCE “c” SHAPE SCAR JUST ABOVE  MY RIGHT EAR.

Then with radiation, chemotherapy, and so many other pills that I rattle now when I walk and then some other more experimental methods.

“But how? Where  did it come from there’s no history of cancer in either side of our families.”

 We peppered the doctors, with questions from both barrels. None of this made any sense!

And I otherwise a very healthy, an active middle-aged man (then 56 years old) who enjoys the outdoors and running and walking and had recently lost 65 pounds on purpose not due to illness.)

“We can’t say.”  Sometimes bad things happen in life for no reason. Cancer is one of them. “Don’t waste your time and energy trying to figure it out,” another doctor said.

Good advice, if somewhat impossible.

“This is what I get for taking a day off work,” I teased my wife, who knows  my aversion to taking off work.  Not that she appreciated the attempt at humor.

Since that day in early May, we have been deluged with good wishes,  cars, plants, prayers, good wishes, food, candy, blankets, even money. A group of students from the school district where I work even held a lemonade stand and donated the profits to me, another group held one of those online fundraisers.

But this is where I got a little self-conscious and nervous. It is hard to face up to that much good will, which, although not the case, sometimes feels like it comes with strings attached – “We did our part, now you do yours and get well!” I mean, this wasn’t exactly a cold or even COVID.

Hard as I try, I can’t promise I will ever completely  be cancer free – and the expectation, even the well-intended wishes scares me, as much as I appreciate them. It carries a certain responsibility or implied obligation that I am not strong enough yet) to take up.

So, I am apologizing in advance in case I don’t get well. I am not a perfect man, patient, or even husband or father. I have begged forgiveness at least 500 times to my wife and family and friends these last few months for my selfish behavior.

But the truth is, I need them – all of them on my side to get through this.

My goal is getting to a day again that looks something like the “normal” I remember from before. A day when I can move around freely, not tied down by the notion that every step I take is endangering me. (Our new family motto is “Don’t do anything stupid, “honey, dad, papa.” Yes, even the granddaughter has taken up the charge!)

Or worse, that every time I open my eyes will be the last.

Forgive my shortcomings I am  just a 57-year-old man, son, husband, father and grandfather who is faithful about what is coming, but scared none the less, and angry, and confused and frustrated.

I am so very grateful for all the love, affirmation and positivity. So flattered by the updraft of confidence and encouragement that has floated me to this this martyr’s stage so high above the ground. But I admit I am scared about what will happen when I step off this spotlighted platform into the dark unknown below.

Mind you, I am not afraid of heights, but of falling. “Old joke, I know, but this is the perfect place for it.

I have never felt so alone. Like “Major Tom” floating untethered in empty space. But in reality, I know that breeze is from the wings of the thousands of angels in my life whose tremendous courage and strength put me up here, and whose arms will catch me if/when I fall.

I am so sorry that I cannot give you a better gift on my way out to help protect you from life’s inevitable pain and continue to earn and deserve your faith.

Especially considering all you’ve given me: 57 blessed years to be your son, brother, nephew, cousin, uncle, husband, father and grandfather.

The best gift I can give is what you’ve already given me:

1. faith, and
2. encouragement to always trust in the power of love.
3. If someone says they love you, trust it. And do your best to return it in equal measure.
4. Learn the difference between listening with your head and hearing with your heart.
5. Please don’t confuse or substitute stubbornness with courage or wisdom. Believe me, I  am much more stubborn than brave.

If you want an example of real strength and courage, look at my darling wife, my rock, the center of everything I am, who has  literally kept me alive.

She keeps telling me:” You’re not a superhero or a martyr (no matter what others think.)

and  “This is not forever, she says, as I away more tears. “It’s just for now.”

Now, that is wisdom.

The Day is coming when all we will have will be our  faith, love, each other’s hands to hold,  and the sweet memories of a life we built together.

And that will be enough. And it will be.

She’s been right about everything else…no reason to not believe her now.

Turns out, what I learned from cancer what I already knew.

The work and the reward come in looking forward, not backward.

Turns out what I thought I learned, I already knew. Just needed a reminder.

And boy am I getting one.

Fifty and Counting

This and That from a New AARP Member

tomhernandezblog in Essays March 15, 2023 1,542 Words

What Cancer Taught Me

WHAT I LEARNED FROM CANCER final

DEDICATED WITH SINCERE GRATITUDE TO EVERYONE WHO HELIPED HOLD ME UP. Especially my wife, KELLIE, DAUGHTERS Emma Williams (and son-in-law Jake Wialliams) and Olivia Mueller (and son-in-law Tyler Mueller), granddaughter  Riley Jean Williams, mother, Danna Hernandez, and countless friends, family (especially my baby brother Paul and his awesome crew.) and medical professionals.

I never, thought of myself as possessing any great Life Wisdom. Smart yes, Witty, Thoughtful. Reasonably well read. A leader? Check, check, check. Under the right circumstances. Let’s just say I had a healthy (and hungry) ego.

Not then and certainly not now, did I want to be A SAINT – or think myself as anyone’s behavioral model.

And I never intended to be a martyr or inspire anyone when I tumbled OFF THE BACK edge of the shovel, I WAS standing on in the spring air, just above where I was JUST TRYING TO DO  MY PART to jumpstart spring by digging a few holes for a new shadow garden. Nothing fancy or even silly.

I love to garden, and my wife and I had taken off that Monday to get a head start on the season. And then I fell. Then again and again. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the “ emergency Room,” ordered the only voice I had trusted for nearly 38 years.

”The Emergency Room” is a particular oxymoron for me, yet it  I trusted the  (maternal/wifely authority behind that voice; rose as best as I could, and my wife gently but firmly took my elbow to steady me. I guess I’d been swaying a bit like someone two servings past their usual limit. 

Yet I was confused –. An enthusiastic gardener, I had planted or transplanted dozens, maybe hundreds of  plants over the 26 years we lived here.

I wasn’t hurt except for a purple bruise to my ballooned self-esteem. Nothing felt broken. I wiped a splotch of dirt from the front of my sweatshirt and the front of my pants. Feebly protested “I am fine. I just tripped over a root or something.”

“Not three times you didn’t,” she said, a note of concern now harmonizing with her commanding tone. A wave of dizziness washed over me .  I took her hand as she guided me to the car. 

We got safely to the hospital, did the requisite paperwork, and waited. Usually “Emergency Room” is one of the great oxymorons in the English language, because there Does not ever seem to be the sense or “URGNCY” that “EMERGENCY Room” implies. But this time, enough medical pros buzzed around me to fill a special episode of “MASH”   followed by a marathon of doctor shows.

Well, in any case, we got more than our money’s worth of medical attention.

I was led away for a CAT scan and the first of two MRIs of my head.

the main doctor returned quickly. I stayed in bed and my wife sat back down.     .(“luckily, no cats!” I love that joke.)  

However, the MRIs showed something even worse a tumor and growth on the right side of my brain. No joke here folks. We learned I had a Level 4 Astrocytoma brain cancer.

Trust me, my wife nearly jumped from the chair, and I would have rolled out of the bed if not for the  safety bars.

This kind of cancer is usually not fatal, but also non-curable – which sounds like the same thing to me, but the doctor said it is treatable – FIRST WITH SUGERY (WHICH I HAD FOUR DAYS LATER, ND WHICH LEFT  NCE “c” SHAPE SCAR JUST ABOVE  MY RIGHT EAR.

Then with radiation, chemotherapy, and so many other pills that I rattle now when I walk and then some other more experimental methods.

“But how? Where  did it come from there’s no history of cancer in either side of our families.”

 We peppered the doctors, with questions from both barrels. None of this made any sense!

And I otherwise a very healthy, an active middle-aged man (then 56 years old) who enjoys the outdoors and running and walking and had recently lost 65 pounds on purpose not due to illness.)

“We can’t say.”  Sometimes bad things happen in life for no reason. Cancer is one of them. “Don’t waste your time and energy trying to figure it out,” another doctor said.

Good advice, if somewhat impossible.

“This is what I get for taking a day off work,” I teased my wife, who knows  my aversion to taking off work.  Not that she appreciated the attempt at humor.

Since that day in early May, we have been deluged with good wishes,  cars, plants, prayers, good wishes, food, candy, blankets, even money. A group of students from the school district where I work even held a lemonade stand and donated the profits to me, another group held one of those online fundraisers.

But this is where I got a little self-conscious and nervous. It is hard to face up to that much good will, which, although not the case, sometimes feels like it comes with strings attached – “We did our part, now you do yours and get well!” I mean, this wasn’t exactly a cold or even COVID.

Hard as I try, I can’t promise I will ever completely  be cancer free – and the expectation, even the well-intended wishes scares me, as much as I appreciate them. It carries a certain responsibility or implied obligation that I am not strong enough yet) to take up.

So, I am apologizing in advance in case I don’t get well. I am not a perfect man, patient, or even husband or father. I have begged forgiveness at least 500 times to my wife and family and friends these last few months for my selfish behavior.

But the truth is, I need them – all of them on my side to get through this.

My goal is getting to a day again that looks something like the “normal” I remember from before. A day when I can move around freely, not tied down by the notion that every step I take is endangering me. (Our new family motto is “Don’t do anything stupid, “honey, dad, papa.” Yes, even the granddaughter has taken up the charge!)

Or worse, that every time I open my eyes will be the last.

Forgive my shortcomings I am  just a 57-year-old man, son, husband, father and grandfather who is faithful about what is coming, but scared none the less, and angry, and confused and frustrated.

I am so very grateful for all the love, affirmation and positivity. So flattered by the updraft of confidence and encouragement that has floated me to this this martyr’s stage so high above the ground. But I admit I am scared about what will happen when I step off this spotlighted platform into the dark unknown below.

Mind you, I am not afraid of heights, but of falling. “Old joke, I know, but this is the perfect place for it.

I have never felt so alone. Like “Major Tom” floating untethered in empty space. But in reality, I know that breeze is from the wings of the thousands of angels in my life whose tremendous courage and strength put me up here, and whose arms will catch me if/when I fall.

I am so sorry that I cannot give you a better gift on my way out to help protect you from life’s inevitable pain and continue to earn and deserve your faith.

Especially considering all you’ve given me: 57 blessed years to be your son, brother, nephew, cousin, uncle, husband, father and grandfather.

The best gift I can give is what you’ve already given me:

1. faith, and
2. encouragement to always trust in the power of love.
3. If someone says they love you, trust it. And do your best to return it in equal measure.
4. Learn the difference between listening with your head and hearing with your heart.
5. Please don’t confuse or substitute stubbornness with courage or wisdom. Believe me, I  am much more stubborn than brave.

If you want an example of real strength and courage, look at my darling wife, my rock, the center of everything I am, who has  literally kept me alive.

She keeps telling me:” You’re not a superhero or a martyr (no matter what others think.)

and  “This is not forever, she says, as I away more tears. “It’s just for now.”

Now, that is wisdom.

The Day is coming when all we will have will be our  faith, love, each other’s hands to hold,  and the sweet memories of a life we built together.

And that will be enough. And it will be.

She’s been right about everything else…no reason to not believe her now.

Turns out, what I learned from cancer what I already knew.

The work and the reward come in looking forward, not backward.

Turns out what I thought I learned, I already knew. Just needed a reminder.And boy am I getting one.

The Heaviest Burden

 
A few kind hearted and well-meaning people have asked me some variation of “What’s the worst part about having cancer?” since I was diagnosed with incurable brain cancer in May.
I do not doubt the sincerity of their curiosity and hearts.
Was it the exhaustion? The hair loss? The occasional metallic taste? Not being able to drive or drink adult drinks? My skin itching from the radiation treatments? The feeling like a walking pharmacy from all the pills I now take?
Yet the question was still strange.
First, because the answer is clearly right there in the question:
“What’s the worst part about having cancer?”
Having cancer is the worst part of having cancer.
Also, how does one quantify, or qualify, or weigh or measure the impact of such a thing? Especially someone who was extremely healthy before cancer leaped shockingly and unexplainably, into my life.
For the sake of my own mental health, I have tried (but admittedly failed a few times) to follow the sage advice from everyone from my doctors to my wife, our children, dear friends, family near and far, coworkers and even general acquaintances:
Do not dwell on how or why I got cancer. There is no answer. Sometimes crap – including cancer – just happens.
For a guy like me, the worst part is the weight of this burden on those around me. But even that is a hard measure since everyone, out of kindness and love, keeps telling me that there is no burden. They want to be part of my healing journey.
Then, like the cancer itself, a fairly accurate gauge suddenly and unexpectedly appeared.
My 4-year-old granddaughter, Riley Jean Williams.
Please understand this is not common parental or grand-parental pride speaking when I say, Riley is particularly astute, aware, and intuitive. I make my living around children and adolescents. What’s more, I have two sharp, successful young adult daughters. So, I know from whence I speak.
From the start of this adventure, Riley has asked questions.
First, it was about the humongous black eye (actually it was a beautiful shade of purple!) I had after surgery to remove a lemon-sized tumor and growth from my head “Papa, how is you eye?”
Then it was about the Frankenstein’s Monster-like scar on the side of my head. “Papa, how’s you boo-boo?”
Then, about my general health. “Papa, you feel better today?”
Recently, our daughter, Emma, warned us that she and her husband, Jake (two fantastic young parents) had been talking to Riley about my condition.
They were purposely avoiding certain words like “cancer,” “radiation,” and “chemo” so as to not scare or confuse her. They wanted us to all be on the same page since Riley spends a lot of time with my wife and me. Very smart.
Then, most recently, Riley asked me if the medicine I was taking was making my hair fall out. Emma said Riley was very concerned because she was also taking medicine for the effects of a minor bout of Covid.
I have to say: that one conversation broke my heart.
I quickly explained that Papa is taking a different kind of medicine, and she didn’t have to worry about her beautiful hair.
Then I handed the phone to my wife as tears welled and my throat tightened.
I admit, having been raised Catholic, I have a terrible case of Catholic Guilt. I feel horrible that I have put yet another potato on anyone’s plate – emotional, physical, financial, psychological.
My rational mind knows I did nothing to “cause” or “deserve” brain cancer. Still, my whole personal and professional life has been about easing the burdens in other people’s lives, not adding to them.
It’s one thing to know that adults are upset about the many ways cancer has (and may yet) change my life, and theirs by association. And to know you have somehow caused (or at least contributed to) the emotional burden of people you love and respect and care for.
But it is quite another to hear such thoughts from innocent children.
Still, the adults at least typically have enough Life under their belts to reasonably expect them to know what this all means.
I know this is a forced equation. So, I respectfully ask any mathematicians who may be reading this to go easy on me. Here goes:
Riley weighs 41 delightful, joy-filled, smiling, laughing, bossy pounds (“Papa, you come play hide and seek with me!”)
So, I guess we can say that her confusion, concern, and potential for grief may be 41 times worse than most anyone else beside my wonderful wife and equally amazing daughters. At least for now.
But I hope and plan to emerge victorious from these dark woods.  
Then, Riley’s joy may be proportionately 41 (or more) times greater.
To everyone who has held my hand, prayed for me, sent wonderful messages of love, gifts, etc. – and to my beautiful granddaughter, the center of my world – I promise to do everything I can to win.
After all, there’s a lot more hide-and-seek to play.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

An Empty Win

Thanks to you

I may die a death unexpected

But before, I will also

Cry tears of joy uncried

Dance dances undanced

Spread my arms wider than ever

Seek and welcome new voices

Ride a train with new passengers

Sing songs unsung

To celebrate a new love

That will last a lifetime

Death will not be your victory

But rather a chance to mark a life well lived

Filled with love and passion

Beauty and blessings

Gratitude and grace

I do not welcome you

But neither do I fear

Because I entrust my Tomorrow

My soul

My being

To those who have carried me

Past your dark doorstep

You may get my body

But I keep my spirit

The Power of a Smile

I am a big one for smiles.

I love their surprising, disproportionate power to raise sunken spirits.

One Sunday morning years ago, I was picking up a few things at a local grocery store.

A former newspaper reporter and son of a police officer, I routinely and instinctively scan my surroundings and people watch. Coming toward me I saw an elderly African American woman moving very slowly behind a cart way too full for her tiny frame.

I smiled at her just before she turned down another aisle.

About 20 minutes later, I stood in the checkout line and felt a light tapping on my shoulder. It was the African American woman. I turned, ready to help lift something out of her cart.

“No, no, I can get it, honey,” she said softly. “I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated your smile.” I nodded. “It made me feel better. It’s been a rough morning already!” We chuckled in friendly commiseration.

Then she said:

“Today, you were the Jesus in my life.”

Now, I’d heard the phrase before, but not in such an informal context. It floored me like a boxer who didn’t raise his hands fast enough to counter his opponent’s right hook.

It was the first time (but not the last) that I really thought about, understood, and appreciated the power of small acts of unexpected kindness; the miracle of grace (unrequested, unrequited and sometimes undeserved love); and what Jesus meant when He said that heaven is already here – in the space between us.

It was also one of the first times I truly appreciated the reciprocal nature of prayer.

When one prays for someone else, the person praying benefits from the act of conjuring positive energy and directing it outward, as much as the recipient benefits.

That sweet woman changed my life that morning.

I share this nugget to illustrate something that happened just recently.

Many know that I was diagnosed in early May with astrocytoma, an aggressive and incurable brain cancer.

To say the diagnosis was “shocking” to a 56-year-old otherwise-very healthy, active, physically fit man robs the word of its weight.

I admit I am angry, frustrated, confused, and yes, scared. I have learned that I cannot dwell on the Past because no one knows what caused this to happen.

And the only way to achieve the Future (which includes our youngest daughter’s wedding) is to focus on the present. Do everything I am told to do. Walk step by step, stone by stone. And so that’s what I am doing.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I learned that a group of elementary school students planned to host a lemonade stand as a benefit to raise funds for me and my family. (In my “real life” I am the community relations director for Plainfield Community Consolidated School District #202, which has 26,000 students in grades PreK-12.)

As one might expect, I was flattered and humbled. But a smidge concerned about perception.

My job makes me the “liaison to the world” – good, bad, and ugly.

So I am often the first one angry parents, students and taxpayers call with any complaints or at the hint of any controversy.

In our highly divided and politicized world, I didn’t want it to look like I was getting special treatment. Nor, especially, did I want these wonderful children to come under fire for any reason. (Sad to say, but today, both outcomes were possible.)

I called the organizer’s mom, who I knew through other charitable functions work and shared my thoughts.

She understood.

Then she said something I will never forget:

“This is not being done by a bunch of parents, Tom,” she clarified. “This is being done by students that you have helped over the years. When you go into their classrooms and read to them, or talk about your life and your work, or give them advice or awards.”

Suddenly I couldn’t breath.

“Well, OK then,” I said once I gathered my wits. “As long as it’s about the kids, then it’s ok.”

The very best moment came when my four-year-old granddaughter, Riley, about whom I have written so much that people at the fundraiser knew who she was, announced to my wife that she wanted to help.

My wife directed her to the organizer’s mom, who promptly gave Riley a little apron and sat her down at the lemonade stand. Riley was a natural – probably from all those hours playing “grocery store” with me and my wife!

The students raised a significant amount. Another little girl held her own lemonade stand and gave her proceeds to the pot. A gaggle of high schoolers (not your typical lemonade stand customers) stopped by especially to say hello. Parents of children I’ve never met came out.

To be clear, this is not a moment of false humility.

I am aware and proud of my place in the community and how people perceive me and the work I do (both good and bad.)

Yet I have been overwhelmed by the tremendous outpouring of kindness, love, support, generosity and heavenly connection.

No matter how much you want people to like and love and appreciate you, it is sometimes like facing an incoming wave at the beach when you actually see it manifested in every Get Well card, plant, gift, kind thought, prayer, phone call and text message.

The best though, was the lemonade stand.

It was those students’ smile that beautiful, sunny, warm Saturday afternoon.

Winter Camping

 
Early February. Nine inches of snow on the ground. Freezing temps. Slate gray skies with little or no sunlight breaking through.

Yet, our four-year-old granddaughter wanted to go camping.

Being a good Papa, I agreed.

Having gone camping for real with her mom, great aunt, and great grandparents last summer, Riley Jean has been on a “camping kick” the last few months. Which means, on our weekend visits, she drags every pillow and blanket and her toy grocery cart full of food into our downstairs powder room.

Our dog, Daize, follows us in, we close the door, turn off the lights, and sleep (one or both of us snoring very dramatically) until “morning” comes a few minutes later. We turn on the lights, throw open the door, and have “breakfast,” or ask the “coffee lady” (Nana Kellie, who tends to keep a safe distance from our shenanigans) to serve us.

That is, unless Riley hears a “monster” outside the tent. Then we must chase the monster away, naturally, to protect all the other campers.

Keep in mind, the “tent” is about three feet by three feet. I am a short adult male – 5 feet 6 inches tall on my best days. But I am also very claustrophobic, so camping in such a tiny, cramped space isn’t the most comfortable thing either physically or psychologically.

Then, on this particular Saturday, Riley switched it up.

We camped in the upstairs bathroom. “Yay! More room,” thought I, until she ordered me into our tent – more commonly known as the bathtub.

Later, she picked a new “tent” – the floor of Nana’s closet. Under all her clothes, squeezed in between the small dresser, dozens of shoes, a spare fan, and other closet accoutrement. But at least there we also had a small toy lantern to keep the monsters away.

We were still on monster patrol – who knew there were so many monsters in the woods? Yet now we also had to invite her “best friends,” Claire and Hannah, to camp with us.

Claire and Hannah are real people in real life, but only pretend for our winter camping purposes. Thank goodness!

After more than an hour of this, I struggled to de-pretzelize myself, every bone and muscle and sinew feeling every millisecond of my 56 years on earth. I rose from the closet floor, accompanied by my own crickling, crackling concert, and exited back to Reality.

Not for the first time since Riley has learned to walk and talk (which is to say, boss me around) – I thought, “this kid is going to be the death of me!”

But later, my tight back and bum knee having recovered, aided by a glass or two of Chianti, another thought occurred:

“This kid is the Life of me!”

You want the truth? With apologies to Jack Nicholson, you can’t handle the truth! But it’s my truth, and I don’t mind sharing.

Truth is, my spirit and brain and body have all felt extremely heavy lately.

The unbelievable, incalculable weight of two years of politicizing a pandemic and the resulting anger and ignorance, fear and frustration, disrespect and discord, have laid thick on my heart.

This, on top of the fact that I loathe winter anyway.

I struggled to keep above the fray. I relied on the lift of grace and wings of love from family and friends to convey me over the moats filled with crocodiles of stress and anxiety.

I mostly succeeded until recently when it all got to be too much. Like the proverbial albatross around my neck or, more appropriately, stones around my ankles, pulling me down into the muck.

Then, Saturday rolls around.

And my very favorite wacky-doodle visits.

And her four-year-old brain fires like a jet engine, creating and leading us through adventures real and imaginary.

Her growing vocabulary tumbles out of her mouth so fast that I sometimes need an interpreter to capture all the words and ideas.

Her energy and enthusiasm ignite the room with more fireworks than a KISS concert (and faithful readers know I know of which I speak!)

And suddenly, the weight on my chest lightens to a level I can handle and sometimes even ignore. Because I know, having been reminded yet again by a child, that there’s more goodness than we think or understand. We just must choose to see it.

So, go ahead World, give me your worst. Unleash every monster you’ve got. I don’t sweat you. No matter what you do, I am shielded by a four-year-old’s magic.

And I can always go camping.

In the powder room, or bathtub, or Nana’s closet.
 
 
 
 
 
 

The First Time…

“Oh my god,” Louie Jackson said. “I am so embarrassed, and so sorry, Mrs. Anderson!”

            Jackson’s head dropped, his chin nearly touching his neck which now blossomed in fiery, red-hot shame. He seemed to fold into himself as his chest and abdomen deflated like a popped balloon.

            “It’s Ms. Anderson. I am divorced. And no need to apologize, Mr. Jackson. It happens all the time.”

Louie lifted his eyes only high enough to see the look on the nurse’s face. Attractive in the mature, slightly wrinkled way of experienced, middle-aged women confident in their authority and knowledge, she smiled a toothy grin of reassurance.

“Ok, but…I mean…” Louie couldn’t control his stammer. “At his age? I mean…Jesus…he’s ninety-seven years old. I didn’t think those parts even work anymore.” He shifted in his chair, trying to relieve some of the ache now creeping up his lower back. “And with the dementia and all?”

Again, she smiled. Louie caught himself staring at her eyes which seemed to sparkle. They were violet, like…like Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes! Wow, he thought, if she weren’t taking care of my grandfather, I might just…Her honeyed voice, practiced in soothing confused patients and their anxious family members, snapped him out of his temporary fugue.

“Absolutely! Sexual urges and thoughts are usually one of the last things to go. But let’s be clear. Your grandpa didn’t actually try to have sex with anyone – although that has happened, too. ” She lowered her eyes and grinned, almost coy, and tittered. “Usually though, it’s the women who try to initiate sex. I know you wouldn’t think so, but it’s true. One time, I walked into a patient’s room only to find her on her knees between a male patient’s legs doing…well, let’s just say he may not have understood what was happening at that moment, but that’s a memory he won’t forget!”

Louie guffawed like a mule that’d been kicked in the hind quarters. “Really?”

“One hundred percent true,” she insisted. “But anyway, back to your grandfather. He wasn’t doing anything. Rather, he is telling stories about his sexual exploits to anyone who will listen. The nurses don’t mind so much. Like I said, we’ve all heard and seen it all before. But he’s upset some of the other staff – especially the dining room attendants who are mostly young girls,” Nurse Anderson said. “Funny thing is, these girls today, they think they know everything. But to see the looks in their eyes when your granddad gets going, it’s pretty clear that they don’t know what they don’t know.”

Now they both laughed, enjoying a joke as can only two AARP members who know that Youth is a flimsy house of cards in desperate need of a foundation that comes only with age.

“Well, I certainly appreciate your candor and understanding, Ms. Anderson. I will go talk to my grandpa right now.” He rose, extending his hand to the nurse, excited to feel the soft touch gloved in her firm grip. Louie offered a smile of his own. He strategically extended the handshake to hold her hand as long as possible. “I hope to see you again, but under less…risqué?…circumstances,” he said as he turned toward the hallway to the patients’ rooms.

Nurse Anderson gently pulled her hand back – subtly enough to not offend, yet slowly enough to still suggest she might like to hold hands again sometime. “Yes, that would be nice, Mr. Jackson,” she said.

**************************************

Louie checked each door as he passed until he came to the one bearing his grandfather’s name on a postcard-sized label hanging at eye level: “Ronald Gates.” He knocked, turned the knob, and announced himself in one swift motion.

“Pop-Pop, it’s Louie,” he called into the room. “Are you up?”

Ronald Gates emerged from the bathroom trailed by a toilet flush. “Of course, I’m up! It’s almost lunchtime, isn’t it?” He moved surprisingly fast and smoothly for a man three years shy of a century, a testament to his youthful love for any kind of athletic competition. Louie had watched his maternal grandfather play – and win – many a game of baseball, basketball, tennis, even paintball when Louie had taken up the then-trendy activity in the 1980s. Mr. Gates closed the gap quickly and wrapped his still-strong arms around his oldest grandchild.

“To what do I owe the pleasure today, Louis?” He’d always called Louie by his full name.

“Oh, nothing special.” Louie looked out the window, hoping his grandfather wouldn’t see the lie on his face. “Just thought I’d stop by, check in on you, make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Gates said. “Maybe that’s why you’re my favorite grandson!” He smiled and flicked a light jab into Louie’s ribs.

“I’m your only grandson, Pop-Pop!”

“Ok, but still, you should never refuse a compliment, young man. You never know if you’ll ever get any more.”

Or, if I might ever get a date with that hot nurse…the thought was incongruous, but Louie used it as a springboard to leap to the real purpose for his visit.

“Pop-Pop when I came in, I happened to see your nurse, Ms. Anderson –“

“Oh, she’s attractive, isn’t she? If I weren’t old enough to be her father…”

“Well, grandfather, actually, I think…” Louie said. “But in any case, yes, her. And she mentioned something that concerns me just a bit.” Louie shuffled over to the overstuffed, plush, Brady Bunch green couch along the wall facing the television. Ratty along the arms, the start of a tear in one cushion, it was nothing that he’d ever buy, but it came with the room. “Come sit down.”

The old man joined his fifty-two-year-old grandson on the couch. “What can I do you for, Louis?”

Louie chuckled. His grandfather’s witticisms anchored and defined an irrefutable charm that endeared him to nearly everyone.

“Well, to be honest, the nurse, Ms. Anderson, told me that you’ve been talking a lot recently about your sex life to the patients and staff, and it’s upsetting some of them.”

“Really?” Gates said. “I can honestly say I don’t remember doing that, but if you say so…what exactly have I been telling them?”

“Lots of things, but the one that came up the most, I guess, is about your first time making love – I assume with Grandma.”

Ronald’s right hand cupped his chin, rubbing the stubble of unshaven beard. “No, that can’t be right, because your grandmother wasn’t my first.”

Louie inhaled sharply at this revelation.

“Oh, Louis, don’t act so surprised,” Ronald tut-tutted. “Your generation didn’t invent pre-marital sex. I had two partners before your grandmother. The first, like most ‘Firsts’ of just about anything, wasn’t very good. I was no expert either if I’m honest. But the experience itself changed my world.”

Louie flopped back into the giant couch cushion. He felt like he would never stop sinking, so he grabbed the arm of the couch with his left hand to stabilize himself.

“You know what the best part was?” Ronald smiled at the memory forming where memories were now so very scarce.

“I don’t really want to…”

“It wasn’t the act itself. No, that went very quickly and didn’t do much for either of us, truth be told,” Ronald said. “No sir, it was when she raised her hips from her parent’s bed – they were out for the night and never thought twice about leaving her alone with me – she raised her hips and let me pull down her underwear. I mean to tell you, there is absolutely nothing more meaningful or sacred to a man as when the woman he loves, or at least, lusts for, willingly gives herself over. The intimacy of that act, the faith, the commitment, the trust, the confidence, the air of control, that’s what makes it so sexy and powerful.” Ronald paused, drew a deep breath. “And magical. I’ll remember that forever, dementia or not.”

Louie’s heart raced like a stallion out of the gate. The air crashed out of his lungs as if he’d just been hit with a medicine ball. “Pop-Pop!”

“What?” Ronald said, voicing a mixture of sincere exasperation and surprise. “You mean to tell me that’s never happened to you? I mean, I know you’ve been single your whole life, but I assume you’ve been with a woman or two?”

Of course, his grandfather was right. Louie’d never been especially lucky in the love department, but he’d been around the sexual block a few times. Enough to know the exact thrill of which his ninety-seven-year-old Pop-Pop spoke.

“Well, the first time for me was actually kind of similar,” he confessed. “I was a freshman in high school, on a band trip to Canada for a competition and sitting on the seat next to one of the flag girls. We’d been kinda-sorta flirting for a while, nothing too serious. But it was a long, long, loooonnngg drive. It was night. There was a blanket covering our laps. We were holding hands under the blanket when she suddenly guided my hand down the inside of the front of her pants which, somehow, she’d unbuttoned and unzipped. My fingers touched her, you know, down there. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough, and I did what I knew. She didn’t stop me from touching her, but she refused to touch me for some reason.”

Louie laughed at a sudden “Aha!” moment. “I guess I was just her love slave for that night!” He paused, eyes closed, savoring the movie running through his brain, then snapped back to attention. “But Pop-Pop, that’s not the point.”

“Oh? Pleasuring someone is not the point?”

“Well, I mean, it was the point at that time, but not right now. The point now, is, you can’t be sharing your memories and stories with people here. It’s shocking to hear that kind of stuff from a man of your…”

“My what? My age?”

“Well, yes.”

Ronald stood again and paced toward the television then back to the couch. He extended his right hand to his grandson. “Louis Jackson, I love you, but I am terribly disappointed in you.”

“What?” Louie was both confused and surprised. “Disappointed in me? What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did, but what you didn’t do. You didn’t defend me.”

“Pop-Pop, I don’t understand.”

“No, apparently not. So let me help.” Ronald said. He pulled his grandson close, rubbed his left cheek, then put both hands on either side of Louie’s head.

“I am here because I have dementia. I know this as well as anyone. I know that every day I have one less joke to tell, one less bit of wisdom to teach, one less story to share. I lose one more part of me.”

Louie raised his right hand to his face and wiped away the start of a tear. “I know that Pop-Pop, I know, but…”

“No but’s!” Ronald barked loudly. He released Louie’s face and waved his right hand in the air. “God forbid you should ever know this pain, but in the meantime, I need you to know about it, so you can at least explain. I don’t mean to offend or hurt anyone’s feelings. I am just trying to be Me as long as I can.”

Ronald grabbed his grandson again and kissed him on the cheek and forehead as if Louie was a baby. “Who I am, is who I was. And I am losing who I was. So, I am sharing whatever is left of me while I still can. If that happens to be a dirty story, well, I am truly sorry if I accidentally offend someone, but if I do, you just tell them: it could be worse.”

“How could it be worse, Pop-Pop?” Louie knew the second the question cleared his lips – and from the wide grin on Ronald’s face – that his grandfather, ever the jokester, ever the performer, had set him up, dementia be damned.

“I could have crapped in the potted plants, like Old Man Carbondale!”

Love In a Dog Bag

What does true love look like?

Not the new, immature, infatuation/hormone-infused, fleeting kind. That variety, you can see on television or the Internet (for better or worse) any time.

Rather, the veteran, settled, mature, self-sustaining kind.

Well…

On a recent weeknight, just before she headed up to bed, my wife of nearly 33 years, Kellie, told me to expect an Amazon delivery around 9 p.m. It was, she said, an early gift for my upcoming 56^th birthday.

Sure enough, just after 9 p.m. the Amazon truck pulled into our cul-de-sac and parked in front of our house.

Being in my PJ’s, I waited a few minutes, then retrieved the package from our porch. The standard brown cardboard box gave no clue as to the contents. I shook it. Nothing sloshed or rattled, near as my middle-age ears could hear (over the constant tinnitus, that is.)

I carefully opened the box, removed the plastic balloon stuffing, and pulled out a medium-sized canvas bag containing two collapsible rubberized bowls and a plastic-covered mat about the size of the bottom of the bag.  

My brain teetered on the fine line between intrigue and confusion. I had no idea what this was and how it served as an early birthday gift.

The next morning around 5:30 a.m., Kellie was getting ready for work as I was feeding our dog, Daize.

“Did that package come last night?” She slipped on her shoes and coat.

A lightbulb flashed in my tired brain. “Yes!” I confirmed. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

“Do you like it?” she asked, offering no clarification or explanation of the mystery gift.

This was one of those delicate moments that come with long-term relationships. Answer rightly, affirm the very foundation of the life we’ve built together. Answer wrongly, completely screw up everything for who knows how long.

“Yes,” I said plainly, as honest as my continuing bafflement would allow.

As a veteran mother and now grandmother, Kellie is immensely skilled at ferreting out nuggets of candor from piles of crap. “Do you know what it is?” She probably knew I had no idea what it was.

“Well…” I said, noncommittal.

“It’s a bag to carry all of Daize’s stuff when we go on our trips,” she explained. In our new Empty Nester stage of life, we like to go on what we call “adventures,” or short trips and vacations.

“Since we want to travel more, and you’re the one who takes care of her, I saw it online and figured it would be a perfect gift.”

Unspoken was the fact that we cannot leave our dumb dog with anyone because she has psychologically and spiritually attached herself to me.

Faithful readers know, I did not want this dog. We adopted her as an act of kindness (Kellie’s, not mine) from a man who was dying and had no one else to take her. We had another dog who was old, sick, and dying and I didn’t want to rob him of any time he had left in our world.

But Kellie and our girls tag-teamed me. Now, Daize is my shadow’s shadow. She is constantly (and sometimes literally) under foot. She gets me up at 4 a.m. every day to go potty (both of us), and stares at me with longing in her big, brown eyes.

She is further proof of God’s wicked sense of humor, mocking our human arrogance.

Twice we took short adventures and left her with our youngest daughter. Twice we had to come home early because she had worked herself into  psychosomatic sickness that magically disappeared when I appeared.

Suddenly, I got it.

“Oh, wow! That is so thoughtful!” Once again, I found myself bathed equally in sincere awe of Kellie’s intuitive thoughtfulness and Catholic shame and guilt for my lack thereof.

She had gone well beyond the obvious and easy options for an avid reader (more books that likely will never be read); and music and movie enthusiast (why buy anything when everything is on one stream or another, most of which we already subscribe to.)

She had dived deep, layers and layers beneath the surface, to think of me as only someone can who truly knows me. Truly cares about me. Truly understands where I am on Life’s Road.

All joking aside, I don’t really hate Daize.

Yes, it is irritating sometimes not being able to take a step or a bite of food without a furry, four-footed pal at my side. But it is also a blessing to have something (or someone) love you so much. So, she is mine whether I like it or not.

Kellie knows that (and reminds me of it constantly.) She also knows how much I do really enjoy our little adventures, which now must, of necessity, include Daize. So, she got me a gift reflecting the intimacy of a relationship 37 years old and counting.

More importantly, the dog bag truly embodies her loving heart, her generous spirit, and her sense of humor. All which still amaze me after more than three decades.

Some of that amazement comes from the fact – no hyperbole, no joke – that my brain doesn’t work that way. (This was not the first time she has given me such an unexpected gift, which only multiplied my astonishment and embarrassment.)

Now, don’t think I am some kind of emotional miser.

I give. However, my offerings usually come in more traditional forms: volunteering time, donating money, sending flowers for no reason, buying Girl Scout cookies I don’t want or need.

Kellie herself credits me for doing all the things she doesn’t like to do: ironing, cleaning, emptying the dishwasher, filling her bird feeders.

I do indeed do all those things.

However, truth be told, I do them partly to take them off my wife’s already overfull plate, and partly because I am a bit anal about such things and want them done a certain way. The right way. My way. So, don’t nominate me for sainthood just yet…

I could iron a million shirts, or put away dishes for eternity, or feed the birds until they’re too fat to fly away. 

But to my eyes, true love looks like a dog bag filled with new adventures with my soulmate.

Dark Light

We are mere sparks in the night sky

Our true light twisted

By pollution, philosophy, religion, politics, greed

Lies cloud, sliver, amplify

Until our fire is something

Unseen, unknown, fake

Smothered, choked into submission

Yielding only the picture

Expected by the world’s eyes,

Blinded by ambition, ignorance, arrogance

Deceived by the irony of dark light

So, we hide,

Understanding you don’t want to see us truly

But only through the certainty of your contempt

Rather, we gather

Collecting, creating flames

Invisible, but no less hot

Capable of burning all you don’t see

And everything only you see

When we radiate the universe’s glow

When your eyes blaze with our light

When your heart burns with our love

That’s when Us, you’ll know

That’s when Us, you’ll see

Dark, no more

Hard Times

War, Civil and Cold and World (both I and II)

Red ribboned black flesh

chained to trees

Spirits destroyed one step at a time

Along a never-ending trail of tears

A legacy of land stolen by

Loud guns and quiet disease

Death by religion

Begging a deaf god

Hiding in ghettos, unknown to all

but the gas

Ash-covered souls rising through the chimney

Accepting a bullet in trade for freedom

Long promised, hard earned

Only to wait

And wait,

And wait

Listening to Crow songs for another 100 years

Vomiting from the smell of Strange Fruit

Sex, the only currency of real value

Taken at the end of a fist

Purple bruises the lasting receipt

Nail-pierced skin

Bones smashed

For daring to proclaim peace

For trying to break through walls

For putting heaven at our fingertips

And love in our hearts

A want-to-be king

Who blames the wood he cut

The kindling he laid

The gas he poured

The match he struck

For the flames consuming the castle

But if you think that was bad,

Oh my God!

Try having to wear a thin, cloth mask

How’s Your Sandwich?

Alan gingerly lifted the lettuce leaf on his sandwich, moving beneath and around each layer of condiment between the bottom of the bun and the top of the sliced turkey.

            “Hmmm,” he muttered, his tone clearly voicing his disappointment.

            “What?” His best friend, David smiled and chuckled. The light laugh was equal parts amusement and irritation.

            “Oh, nothing…I guess.” Alan’s eyes continued to explore the plate as he slowly reassembled the sandwich. “It’s just that…I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but…” Alan bit and chewed a hunk of the sandwich without lifting his eyes.

            “C’mon dude, spit it out. No! I mean, don’t spit it out. Swallow that bite but then tell me what is wrong?” David said. “It can’t be that sandwich, it looks fantastic. Look at that thing. It’s a Thanksgiving dinner disguised as a panini. Turkey, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes. I mean, really, what’s not to like?”

            Alan finally looked up and slurped a mouthful of coffee.

            “No, you’re right, of course. It’s delicious.”

            “Well then?”

            “I don’t know,” Alan stammered, another mouthful of turkey mixing with his words. “I guess I was just expecting more.”

            David sighed so loudly the people at a nearby table peered over. He waved at them and smiled to warn them off. The warning was fake, but the sigh – and the frustration behind it – was real.

“Look man, we’ve known each other, what, thirty years now? And every single time you eat something, or read something, or watch something, or listen to something, you act like this.”

Alan’s eyes opened wide with sincere confusion. “Like what?”

“Like you’re disappointed that this sandwich isn’t perfect. Or that movie moved too slow. Or that song wasn’t creative enough. Or the band was too loud. Or that book petered out before the end. Or, whatever. It’s like you can never just be happy with the way things are.”

“No, that’s not true,” Alan weakly protested.

“Yes, it is true!” David insisted, again loud enough to draw attention from nearby diners. “And honestly, it pisses me off. Most of the time you’re a terrific guy, funny, smart, thoughtful…”

“Thank you,” Alan started to reply. “I feel the…”

“I’m not finished!” David said firmly, but in a more controlled voice. He lowered his head, leaned in over the table towards the man with whom he’d grown up. The man who stood up at his wedding. The godfather to all three of his children.

“We’ve been friends long enough that I feel I can speak honestly, hopefully without hurting your feelings too much. So, I’m gonna just lay it all out there.”

“Well go ahead,” Alan said. “Who’s stopping you?”

Hearing the clear ring of defensiveness in Alan’s voice, David leaned back, sat up straight and took a deep breath. “The truth of the matter is, you act like nothing is ever good enough, no matter how good it is. Including people. You’re especially hard on people. And it is irritating as all get-out! I mean, really man, what are you looking for? What in the world are you expecting to find? A golden ticket?”

Alan sat up as still and straight as if duct taped to the back of his chair. Hands flat on the table, eyes wide as if propped open with toothpicks, not a single facial muscle twitched. If not for the fact that he wasn’t turning blue, it would have been hard to know if he was even breathing. Finally, his lips cracked. Words crept out slowly, like a dog that’d been called but afraid of being kicked.

“So…wow…I’m not quite sure…how to take…I mean…I didn’t know I…didn’t mean to…not complaining…just, wow.”

“Listen man, the same friend brave enough to speak truth from the heart also loves you enough to give grace from the heart,” David said. He spoke quietly across the table that now seemed to hold a slightly larger divide than it had only moments before.

“I tell you this only because I don’t want you to expect so much from life – or at least, from this life. It’s not that you can’t find perfection or joy, or whatever it is you think you’re looking for, it’s just that you set the bar so high that it’s impossible for anyone, or anything, to meet your standard. And it kills me to see your disappointment and the frustration and the anger,” David said, plaintively. “And over what? A sandwich?”

Alan leaned back, still clearly shellshocked by his best friend’s grenade of candor.

“If I had known I was coming off that way, I would have never…” Alan shook his head. “Have others seen it too? Please tell me I haven’t hurt anyone…”

Now, David leaned back over the table until he and Alan were nearly nose-to-nose. “Of course, others have noticed, but we all love you. We love you when you bitch about books. We love you when you complain about records. We love you when you criticize movies. The common thread here is, we love you. So, we look past your bad behavior!”

David’s right hand darted to Alan’s plate and quickly hoisted the turkey sandwich before Alan knew what was happening. David took a huge bite and chewed it only inches from Alan’s face like it was the first – or maybe the last – turkey sandwich of his life. He laid the remnants back on the plate, sat back, and made a show of licking his fingers. “Mmmm, that is one delicious sandwich!”

Now Alan could only laugh in relief, his guilt rushing out of him like air out of a balloon.

“This is my whole point,” David said. “It may not be the best sandwich ever – although this one is pretty darned tasty. And that, my friend, is the meaning of life.”

“Wait a minute,” Alan said, his face swapping out guilt for confusion. “You’re saying a ‘pretty darned tasty’ turkey sandwich is the meaning of life?”

“No. And yes!” David said.

“What I mean is, you waste all this time being disappointed about something that isn’t there instead of appreciating what’s right in front of you. The artistry, the effort, the vision, the passion, the music, the magic of everyday life. Even the sweet tang of turkey and mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, mixing together juuuuussst right!” He licked a few more imaginary crumbs from his index finger.

“Not everything is going to be perfect. In fact, most things aren’t. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t good, or even great,” David said.

“Finding the good in the bad, the joy in the sorrow, the love in the hatred, the light in the darkness, the exceptional in the average,” he continued. “It’s hard, man. It takes a lot of dedication and faith and patience and time and courage and effort,” David said.

“That challenge, that’s what makes this life worth something,” he said. “Our work to seek and see and create ‘good’ in a world that doesn’t give up its ‘good’ easily. That’s the meaning of life.”

David’s fingers snuck toward Alan’s plate, closing in on what was now a sandwich in name only: a crust of bread, a sliver of turkey, a hint of tomato, and the tiniest green blanket of lettuce.

Alan smacked David’s hand. “Hey, that hurt!” David protested melodramatically, waving his hand in the air like he’d been shot. Another nosy diner turned toward them. David chuckled.   

“Leave that alone,” Alan said. He quickly reassembled the morsels and deposited them into his mouth. “That’s the best turkey sandwich I’ve had…well, today anyway!”