Grateful

He came up to me, sobbing, arms in the universal please-pick-me-up position, and so I picked him up.  Slamming your finger in a drawer is heavy stuff when you’re two, and I did my best to soothe Elliot’s pain.  While I was holding him, rocking him, tears came to my own eyes, thinking about how much I wished I could protect him from all the pain he would feel in his lifetime, or at the very least, be there to comfort him.  It had been a long day.

Noah and Elliot were up early that morning, and I had gotten big hugs from both as I left for work, and yells of “goodbye” out the window as I drove off.  I got to work, and was immediately buried - the story of my work life lately.  I wasn’t really thinking about the call I missed from Dr. Emmott yesterday, but Mandy left a message on my voice mail saying she had called his office back, and told them to give him my work and cell phone number.  I was thinking about a lot of other stuff that day. Colorado. Climbing Everest. Taking a motorcycle trip. I was getting ready to grab something to eat for lunch when my cell phone rang.  I saw an unfamiliar number and got up to shut the door, knowing it was the doctor’s office.  

As soon as he started talking, I knew it wasn’t going to be good news.  He sounded nervous, which surprised me, and was talking faster than usual.  “Well, this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but there is a problem with your prostate.” For a split second, I was hopeful, maybe “problem” meant it was abnormally robust or something.  Then he told me what I knew I knew he would tell me when the phone rang.  I listened, asked him to backup a few times to repeat and simplify some of the things he was saying and after he started rambling a little, thanked him for calling.  He told me, “Let me leave you with something to think about before all the other things that will soon fill your head.  We won’t let this thing kill you.  We will beat it.”  I didn’t know what else to say, but “Thanks.”  I was pretty calm up to that point, and I’m glad he was ending the call because my voice was getting a little unsteady.  Prostate cancer.  At 43.  

I hung up, and sat there for a few minutes staring out the window, not seeing.  It’s a jarring feeling, when your priorities are suddenly shifted involuntarily, and perspective is thrust upon you.  The phone rang again, and it was another number I didn’t recognize.  It was the new mayor of Kansas City, asking me to consider relocating one of our offices.  We had about a 10-minute conversation, all the while I was thinking about my previous phone call.  I hung up, and after another phone call, I just turned the phone off and shut the door. I didn’t want to face anyone right then.  

It wasn’t life flashing in front of my eyes, it was like watching two movies, rolling forwards and backwards at the same time, gaining speed and mass as my brain worked through both the things I wished I’d done, or not put so much thought into, and the things I still wanted to do.  Every time I thought about my kids, my eyes brimmed with tears.   I struggled for an hour, trying to figure out how I should break the news to Mandy, not knowing how to even begin.  About an hour later, Mandy emailed me to ask me if I’d heard anything and, unable to voice it, I sent her an email about my conversation with the doctor.  She called me a little bit later, and we had a brief, factual discussion.  I was holding it all together until she was getting ready to hang up, and asked me one more question.  Tears suddenly welled up in my eyes and I couldn’t speak, even to say goodbye.  I felt like I would have broken completely if I even started to talk.  After a few seconds, I wiped my eyes, managed to say goodbye and got back to work.

I turned and stared at my inbox, where I had at least a hundred emails waiting for a response, and a hundred more that I intended to think about.  Looking over them now, many of them looked ridiculously unimportant.  I briefly debated whether to just up and leave, and go for a drive and think this thing through.  There was clearly no compelling reason to continue working as if nothing had happened.  I decided that I did want to think about things, but I couldn’t do it with a bunch of obligations staring me in the face.  

I turned to my email again, and if it didn’t require a response, or or an urgent answer in the next few hours, I simply deleted them.  I answered several I should have probably made a decision on days ago.  Feeling the sand running through the hourglass gives you new urgency.  Frankly it was liberating. There are times when I agonize way too much on the perfect decision, and making a few as best I could, with a what-difference-does-it-make attitude was probably long overdue.  

I spent most of the afternoon with my door closed, suddenly unable to deal with any of the petty bullshit my job had so much of lately.  I kept thinking of what my wife and kids were going to face if I was gone, and how little I had in place to anticipate that scenario.  While I felt for my wife, my heart was really with my kids, and how this could impact them.

Noah called me late afternoon, and asked me if I wanted to come home and taste the pineapple souffle he and Mandy had made together, cobbled together using hot dog buns and whole wheat bread.  They’re nothing if not resourceful.  I told him I would, and Mandy later told me he and Elliot immediately went to the back door to wait for me.  

I felt bad, but I had to clear my desk a little first.  On the drive home, I had the radio tuned to the BBC, listening to stories about war, deaths in different countries, and thinking that maybe cancer wasn’t so bad.  Maybe I should feel lucky.  I was torn between feeling bad for myself, and feeling guilty for how light I had gotten off, thinking my feelings were a little dramatic considering the people who’d received much more immediately terminal diagnoses.  I started thinking about God, and if it praying more now wouldn’t be a little obvious.  I thought about my mom and dad, and wondered what they would think as parents.  If it got bad, would I sit around and wait to die in a hospital, or go out with a bang doing something fun and dangerous?  I just renewed an online subscription for three years yesterday.  Should’ve waited.  A million incongruous thoughts ran through my head.  

As I rounded the corner to my house, I thought about my kids again.  The one thing I didn’t want to do was walk through the door with a sad face, and I managed to pull it together long enough to walk in like it was any other day.  Noah was waiting for me to try his souffle, and I laughed at the proud look of anticipation on his face; he could barely wait for me to try it and tell him how good it was.  After tasting it, I walked into the living room to see Elliot.  “Daddy!!!!” - my favorite words, and he’s in that stage now.  I said “Hi buddy”, and he said “Hi buddy!” right back. “I’m watching ‘Wonda Pets’, and the penguin”.  

It was Friday night, and our regular “date night”, so I didn’t get much time with the kids. After calming Elliot down after shutting his finger in the drawer, Mandy and I went to Cafe Trio near the Plaza and talked through some of our next moves.  I was sad, she was anxious.  As I tried to explain all the stuff going through my mind at the news, it was clear that there was a huge component of me thinking about the past, where she was simply thinking about the future.  

When we got home, the kids were already asleep. I had missed them more than I normally do.  I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes, then stood in Elliot’s room and stared at him.  There is nothing more promising and hopeful than watching a child sleep.  He was laying on his side, with both his stuffed penguin and his teddy bear clutched in his hands, with the most relaxed, peaceful look on his face. I walked into Noah’s room, and got the same sight. I immediately regretted not being there when they were being put to bed, but I didn’t think I could have done it. Not on this night.    

I woke up early, as usual - around 4:15.  But it was harder this morning, because I hadn’t gotten to sleep until midnight, unable to turn my brain off.  Laying there thinking, I want nothing more at the moment than to wake my kids and play with them. I listened to Noah on the monitor; with a cold, he was breathing just as loudly as he did when he was a baby.   My mind starts recalling the litany of friends I’ve had, and let drift away over the years.  I ponder the speed at which the 25 years since high school has passed, and the time - years, really - that I’ve wasted on worrying about unimportant shit.  A few days earlier, I was thinking about how best to give my kids advice on how not to worry about the little stuff.  I suppose everyone has to find out for themselves. I start thinking about my mom and dad, and my brother and sisters, and how little attention we pay each other until something happens.

I finally got up, with all of this running through my mind.  I started cleaning up the kitchen, including Noah’s “crafts” table, which usually involves just gathering crayons, paint brushes and other detritus from the days’ activities when I came upon a folded piece of paper.  As I unfolded it, and read it, I just lost it.  The tears came again, hard this time, and I just pictured him writing it - “DAD I MISS YOU CAN YOU COME TO MY HOUSE”.  I was still thinking about the possibility of me not being there for him as he grew up.  A few minutes later, I heard him waking up on the monitor.   I went up to his bed and laid down with him, trying to get him back to sleep.  He said, “Dad, is it time to get up yet?”  “No, why?” “Because playing is more fun than sleeping.”  What else could I say - I couldn’t sleep either.  OK, let’s get up.

The rub of this is, I was changing. Back in December, towards New Year’s, I started thinking about this hamster wheel I’d been on.  I started thinking about the last couple of years, when some stunning setbacks and tragedies had taken place all around me, yet leaving me unscathed.  I started really appreciating how grateful I should be.  I wrote out some things to remind me of this, put it in my wallet, read them everyday, and really lived it.  The surprising thing about it was, it really worked. It brought peace. It released the stress.  Not only did it make my life more enjoyable, but those I dealt with.  I wasn’t sweating the little shit.  I had a whole list of people I wanted to write, to tell them how much they meant to me, and why.

What I didn’t prepare for was, what happens when one of things happens to me that I can no longer say, “Thank goodness, that wasn’t me.  I’m grateful”.  I was changing, but I did so with the status quo in mind, not thinking about how I would continue to be grateful if that changed.  I knew it was a process, and I wasn’t perfect everyday, but I was getting there. What I didn’t count on was this wrinkle.  It was a blow to me, and my wife.

That was the first couple of days, before I knew much about the disease, the treatment and the outlook.   At my age, chemo and radiation therapy weren’t really options.  I couldn’t wait this out, or minimize it, and so surgery is the only viable option.  The good news - and it is good - is that it’s likely only Stage II, and surgery should take care of it.  

Unbelievably, at first I spent a little time in sort of denial, just ignoring it, and Mandy has been instrumental in getting us educated on it, doing research and reading, and prompting some of the next steps.  This isn’t easy for her either - this is just as much her fight to deal with as it is mine. Among other things, the finality of not having any more kids was a bigger issue than either of us had thought.  

There have been some light moments: Mandy picked up copies of my medical file, and laughed as she read part of the doctor’s notes on the phone:  “He could not tolerate an exam well.  If he needs a biopsy, it will need to be done under anesthesia because of his inability to tolerate rectal examination” - the technical medical terminology, I guess, for the patient’s discomfort in having a finger jammed up his ass.  I eventually did the biopsy, sans anesthesia, which was no picnic.  If you’ve ever been bent over, had a staple gun stuck up your ass and fired off about ten times, then you know what I’m talking about.  

A few weeks in, Mandy expressed her concern about how I was dealing, then booked a hotel on the Plaza for a night away, a night to talk it through, regroup, and reassess our game plan. It couldn’t have been more perfectly timed.  I hate dealing with health issues, and I was at a low, not sure of how to proceed, and she reminded me again how lucky I was to have married such a strong and loving woman.  This is a long post, but it’s my way of letting her in on my thoughts of these past few weeks, giving her some sense of where I was on those days when I just walked around looking glum, but not really talking.  

So, we’re finally in a position, mentally, to fight this thing. We’ve been to a couple of surgeons, with one other left to visit, and then we’ll decide who, and when.  The outlook is fantastic, and in light of the possibilities and alternatives, I have nothing to complain about. I’m grateful.