Dad

Tuesday, July 7, 2009 at 11:36pm

Feeling good from our first diabetic support group, we went to my parents to pick up Shelby, our 1 year old. While waiting in the car, I saw my dad walk out to say hello to the kids. As he eagerly peered into the car windows, I was struck by how gaunt my dad was, especially his thin toneless arms. I remember as a child, standing by the side of our club pool in Taiwan, wrapped in a winter coat, watching my dad swim with the rest of the polar bear club, his thick arms cutting through the water with ease. He could open a bottle of beer with his teeth. That was my dad, a strong man.

I didn't notice his muscles atrophy until tonight. I asked my husband if his dad's muscles atrophied the same way when he was going through the last stage of cancer. But his dad's cancer was different. Patrick suggested that instead of feeling anxious about not doing enough for my dad, I should ask him if there's anything I could do. I dropped my head, feeling ashamed, realizing that I've been avoiding asking my dad just that question for the past few weeks. The truth is that I haven't asked him because I'm afraid of his answer. That there is more that I can do. And then I have to face the fact that there's nothing left in me to do what needs to be done. Drive him to his radiation treatments. Research studies and treatments for prostate cancer. Convince him to get chemo instead of radiation.

I went to my room looking for a tissue. Crying doesn't flatter anyone, especially with all that snot business. As I blow my nose, Shelby walks pass me, like a drunk with a bad case of hemorrhoids. Just a few days ago, taking a couple of steps took herculean effort for her. As I watch her make her way down the whole length of the dark hallway, towards the light shining from her older siblings' room, I could hear Spencer and Sydney singing,

thank you father

thank you father

for our food

for our food

many many blessings

many many blessings

amen

amen

Suffering

Monday, July 6, 2009 at 10:46pm

Patrick just brought Sydney back from Quest. She had to give a urine sample (which went well) and a blood sample. The first phlebotomist was awful. She couldn't find the vein and kept using the same hole. She kept moving the needle in different angles in the hole, trying to find the vein. I've had blood drawn by bad phlebotomists before, without the wiggling of the needles and found the experience extremely painful. I can't imagine the pain Sydney endured. But she was such a good little girl. She never pulled her arm away. But she cried and cried. Finally, the bad phlebotomist gave up and got someone more experienced. And the second person succeeded. Afterwards, Sydney got down from her chair and looked around and asked Patrick, "don't I get a treat? Where's my treat?" Patrick called me for me to prepared her treat. She was due for her 15 grams of carbs anyway. I went to the kitchen and carefully measured out her treat. I had it ready for her when they came home.

When Patrick was opening the car door for her I asked him, "when is she going to stop suffering? When is this going to end?" Patrick just sighed. Sydney was so exhausted by the experience, she fell asleep in the car. We couldn't wake her up for her treat. She didn't even get her treat. After carrying her to bed, Patrick marveled anew how Sydney never pulled her arm away during the blood draw and I told him, she's accepting the pain. She's understanding suffering is an inevitable part of her life now. When is my daughter going to stop suffering? These tests are for her surgery on the 16th to fix her ureters. She hasn't even had her surgery yet and already it's been this rough.

Query from the back seat

"Mommy, why are you in daddy's seat?"

"In case I have the move the car while we're waiting for daddy."

"Mommy, where's daddy?"

"He's in court and he'll be right back."

"Is daddy coming back?"

"Yes, as soon as he's finished with his case, he'll be right back."

"Mommy, why are you in daddy's seat?"

"We're parked in a 3 minute park zone, if the police comes up and tells us to move the car, I have to move the car.  I can't move the car without being in daddy's seat because that's the driver's seat."

"Mommy, is that a police car?"

"No."

"Mommy, what's daddy doing?"

"In court."

"Mommy, is daddy in court?"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah," says my 1 year old.

"Mommy, are you happy?"

"Yes" through gritted teeth sounds like "Yeesh."

"I love you mommy."

"I love you too."

I look into the rear view mirror at my 4 year old.  I see a big head perched precariously atop a small frail frame.  My heart crumbles. 

A homeless man solomnly pushes his shopping cart across the street.  I know he reeks of urine because I've passed him by, hundreds of times on the way to court.  My children remain in the safe confines of our air conditioned car. Blissfully ignorant of his somber presence.

June 13, 2007