Conversations With My ID

When one is dying of cancer many things fall by the wayside: independence, vitality, alertness. Possibly the most devastating loss to the sufferer is dignity. As of this writing my father is quickly slipping away from us due to something called Small Cell Aggressive Cancer. He was originally diagnosed the week preceding Christmas and now, at the beginning of March, he is living on borrowed time. Living, that is, depending on how you define the word. He is at home with my mother, being made comfortable to the best of her abilities. He is numbed with Morphine 24 hours a day. He now has a catheter and nurse that comes to care for him three times a week. He can no longer perform even the simplest of tasks for himself. In short, to say he is bed-ridden would be to give the situation more hope than is called for.

He was already feeling the effects of the cancer when he was diagnosed. A life-long smoker until five years ago, he had become accustomed to shortness of breath and thought little of it when his breathing became more tedious. It was only at my mother’s insistence that he saw a doctor. After the preliminary screenings it was concluded that he had cancer and that it was localized in his lungs. A more in depth body scan was scheduled soon after the first. This one showed the frightening extent of the illness. What had started in his lungs had quickly spread to other organs in his torso and, most devastatingly, his brain. They began the chemo and radiation as soon as possible. The doctors valiantly did everything they could with the technology at their disposal and my father began to appear frail and weaker.

(It bears pointing out that one thing he never lost during this time was his hope. He knew that as long as he had hope, at least ostensibly, then my mother would not worry. Deep down he knew this was not true. She would worry, but he was not going to give her any reason.)

The end began when my father developed pneumonia in early February. He was admitted to the hospital and put in the ICU. Due to the illness he was unable to receive the radiation and chemo. I cannot say for sure but I think that is what allowed the cancer to multiply and overtake him. I am not a doctor and this may be completely inaccurate medical fact but it seems plausible enough. Aside from that it is impossible for a son to think that his father would simply give up; not with two children, one step-daughter, and three grandchildren, not to mention a wife that will not know what to do without him. How can one give up on a life so worth living?

My father is now laying in a rented hospital bed in the living room of the house I grew up in. It is the house my parents signed the papers for on October 6, 1979, exactly one month before I was born. It may have been a house before they bought it but they made it a home in short order. It is the place I take my daughter and son every weekend to play and feel what a real loving family is. It is a place where I have celebrated thirty Christmases. All of this is all due to my father and everything he had to sacrifice to made sure that my sisters and I got everything and anything we asked for. He knew that money could not buy happiness but without a solid home to live in we were doomed. It was because of this selflessness that I have begun my family with the same values and traditions my father and mother began with my sisters and me.

My father in now laying in a rented hospital bed in the living room of the only home I have ever really known. My wife and I will find our own way and begin our lives and build a solid and loving home for our children. I will take what my father has given me and use it to the best of my ability for the benefit of my family. I doubt that I would have a family if my father had not instilled certain beliefs in me as a young boy. I owe him more than I will ever be able to repay directly. Instead I will have to repay him by living as he taught me: with love for my family, with love for my friends, and always – above all else – with dignity.

I really wish I knew what it meant to be saved. Growing up, the church always told me that if I believed and had faith and all that stuff that I’d get into heaven no problem when I die. I’m still not sure I believe all that but it makes for something interesting to think about.

The reason I’m thinking about all this right now is because of this sign I saw outside the church here in town. For some reason they thought it was alright to put this on it:

The best way up is down on your knees.

Didn’t anyone there notice how sexual that is? I’m only thirteen and I get it. I understand that priests and nuns and all of them are pretty innocent but even they have to see the dirtiness of that saying. Actually, maybe they aren’t all that holy after all, those priests and nuns and such. I mean something must have made them choose the church instead of, I don’t know, real life? I don’t mean that they were all like that at some point, but at least a few of them must have been.

I started asking around about the men and women who work at our church about a week ago. That sign really made me wonder about who made the decision of what goes on there. It also made me wonder if they really know what it meant or not. I asked my parents first, since they were right here in the house. They didn’t help me much but I didn’t think they would be able to. We stopped going to church just after I was baptized. My dad calls himself a ‘free thinker’ (my mom calls him my ‘crazy-ass dad’). He says he couldn’t conform to the rules of the church and all that so he stopped going. My mom stopped going too eventually. We don’t even go on Easter or Christmas. When my grandmother on my dad’s side died a few years ago we only went to the wake held at the funeral home. He said she’d understand and wouldn’t have had it any other way. I just thought that sounded like something a guy who believed in a God would say. I mean how else would he think that she would know if we were there or not?

After my parents, I went straight to someone I knew would know something: my uncle Manny. He’s been a member of the church longer than I’ve been alive and sometimes he ushers and serves the little pieces of bread to the people who line up. There’s a name for those people but I don’t know it. Anyway, I went to his house on Thatcher Street. It’s almost out of town but not quite. He gets his mail delivered to a post office box because no mailman was willing to drive that far out. I don’t mind the bike ride as long it’s not raining or, God forbid, snowing. Pun not intended.

I leaned my bike against the short picket fence that outlined my uncle’s property. It used to be white, like the kind you hear about in songs and see on Leave It To Beaver reruns but it’s been gray and brown for as long as I can remember. He didn’t really care about the way his lawn looked, or the outside of his house. Well, I call it a house but really it wasn’t. There are wheels on the four corners and a hitch where you can attach it to a truck, but he lives there and where ever you live is your home. That’s what I was taught by my mom, and she learned it in church. There’s another reason I couldn’t understand why anyone there would want to put those words on that sign. I walked quickly to the silver bubble of a home and knocked on the door. The sound my knuckles made was like when you tap on a pop can. There was a loud crash from inside and I jumped back. I wasn’t really afraid but the noise wasn’t expected. The door swung open toward me and my uncle Manny almost fell out.

“Hey uncle Manny!” I squealed, “Do you need some help?”

“Oh, hey, how you been Jackie? How’s your mom?”

“She’s fine.” I wondered why he hadn’t answered my question, so I asked him again. “Do you need some help?”

“What? No. Not me. I’m fine. Thanks though.”

He smelled like my dad did after his cousin’s bachelor party. He didn’t invite me in and I found out why almost immediately.

“Hey, you alright? Come back here and tell whoever is at the door to go —- themselves!” The voice that came from the left of the, well, trailer, was rough but it was a woman, a familiar woman. I could tell. I looked at my uncle and nodded toward his friend.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, kiddo. What did you need?” He wasn’t wearing a shirt and the sweatpants he had pulled on were starting to fall.

“Um, okay. Look, I was just wondering if you knew anything about the church. Like, really, anything you could tell me would be great.” He looked at me for what felt like a long time, his mouth open just enough so he could breathe through it. The smell on his breath was like cigarettes and car exhaust. I locked my jaw so I didn’t throw up.

“Well, kiddo, I don’t think I’ll be too good of help for you.” He was honest at least. “Tell you what I do know, though. What I know is that anyone who chooses to live in Rebel better be going to church. Rebel is as close to Hell as a person can get without standing before God and getting sent there by the Man Himself.” He seemed happy and sure of what he had just said and smiled, showing his crooked and yellow teeth. “Does that help you at all?”

“Um, yeah,” I hesitated, “thanks uncle Manny.” I smiled a fake smile and turned away. He said something but I didn’t care. He slammed the door and I heard a woman laugh and then a slap and the same woman’s voice yell something that sounded like ‘harder’. I can’t be sure what they were doing but I can guess.

After talking to my uncle and thinking a little more about the sign I realized that he was right. This town is tiny and the people are smaller. I swore to stop caring about the sign as I got on my bike and peddled away. I haven’t seen my uncle since that day but he still lives in the same tin bubble. The woman probably left when her time was up or my uncle’s gin was gone, and she probably went home to her own tin bubble. Her name is Tina Nobel. She’s my English teacher. I just didn’t know she liked my uncle. Or gin. Or money.

But that’s Rebel for you.

I guess I should lay down a caveat before I begin: This is not the topic that I’ve been working on for days now, nor is it even in the same vein. That vein is still fresh and raw and I’m not too sure when I’ll post that one. For now you’re going to have to read this one.

There has been something of a storm going on in my mind for the last few weeks. I can’t seem to focus on any one thing for any length of time. This alone wouldn’t normally worry me but it’s been more of a problem as of late. There hasn’t been a night I’ve been able to simply lay my head down and rest without my thoughts taking control of my body and forcing my mind into action. I cannot sit and listen to music without worrying that certain songs will set me to crying for seemingly no reason.

Why am I telling you this?

I know that the only way I can get past my present feelings is to expel them on a page. This is my personal way of screaming at the top of my lungs into a pillow or punching a wall. Like Asimov said, “I write for the same reason I breathe: if I didn’t I would die.” Truer words were never spoken.

I may add to this post in the near future, but for now I am done. I feel better already and will hopefully be able to focus on my novel tonight…I have a few people clamoring to read more which means that I should probably write more at some point.

Thanks for lending me your eyes.

I’m watching my son sleep and listening to Billie Holiday. My wife is asleep in the next room. If my daughter was here this would be a perfect night.

I don’t normally post something this short, but I felt that I needed to note this evening – near perfect nights don’t come along too often and should be acknowledged when they do. So thank you to whoever is in charge up above for all the joy in my life right now. Thank you also for the lessons I’ve learned and those I will learn when my father passes. For now I will enjoy my family and continue to make new and everlasting memories with them.

Life is short and I’ve been taking it for granted. No more. It won’t be easy but I will try to live each day, not merely survive it. For now, today is over and tomorrow has already started…perhaps I should get some sleep in order to fully and rightfully attack the morning!

Have you ever felt as though you were running in one direction but your shadow was going the opposite way? That’s exactly where I am. I can’t think of the last time everything in my life made perfect sense – but that’s something I’ve grown accustomed to. The reason I’m feeling this way at this moment is because I just got off the phone with my mother. The call was in regards to the final requests of both of my parents.

Final requests. As in what to do for them after they depart this world and go on to the next. My mother and father are only 62 and 66 respectively, though not in the best of health. Mom has breathing problems as a result of years – well, decades really – of smoking. Dad has cancer but seems to be combating it well, and quite gracefully I might add. Regardless of health concerns or what actually prompted the call what is most worrisome to me is the fact that I was the one who got the call.

A little background: I am the youngest of three. My oldest sister is 39, my other sister is 32 and I am 30. I understand the 32 year-old not getting the call because she has always been a very emotional person who will, by her own admission, be useless in such a situation. If I were to venture a guess she will be something akin to a Meryl Streep character when my parents pass. I don’t mean to make light of the situation but the reality is that she will be beyond rational thought at that point and will continue as such for a period after. My oldest sister would only be able to carry out my mother’s wishes because she has a different father. She too would be distraught but she has a way of keeping this more stable, ostensibly at any rate. Because of these reasons alone I suppose I’m the most apt to see to these requests.

But where does that leave me? Will I be able to mourn in my own way? Will I be allowed to process the events as they are happening or will I be forced to put them off until everything is seen to? I have no answers nor will I until everything actually happens. Simply put, this scares the hell out me. I’m alright not having the answers I just wish there weren’t so many questions. (Side note: I’m listening to a random set of music and “Sunday Morning Coming Down” just came on. It will be played at my funeral.) Questions are seemingly simple things. Some are comforting in that there are no answers to them. Some can be small and meaningless. The questions I have are none of the above. They are serious. They are possibly the most important questions I will ever answer. And, perhaps most frighteningly, they are questions that only I can answer. Best to answer them now I suppose, if for no other reason than to exorcise my inner fear.

Will I be able to mourn in my own way?

Yes. That said, this is a much deeper question than you would think. I am a writer by calling and have always considered myself a classic-type writer; read: I stuff my true feelings down until I can find a way of imparting them to paper. Even when this happens there are no promises that the true feelings will find their way to the surface. Case in point would be a character I’m currently working with named Casey. He began as a composite of all my traits and a rough outline of my physical attributes. What he became was – is – me. He became a vessel through which I can be honest with myself and those who read my work, even if it is in a somewhat abstract way. Perhaps I will mourn through Casey. I can write a story about his parents dying and have hum react the way I would if I could, or the way I will after everything is attended to. No matter, I’ll mourn. I mean, really, how could a son not?

Will I be allowed to process the events as they are happening or will I be forced to put them off until everything is seen to?

At first I suppose I will be able to express everything as I feel it. I have no clue as to what my reactions will be but I can say with certainty that I will be slow to respond. This point alone leads me to assume that it will be easy to put off the emotions until after all of the celebrations of my parent’s lives have concluded. Admittedly, this is not a healthy way to cope but I fear that it is the only way if I choose to do as my parents wish. So will I cope? Yes. Will I cope in real time? Possibly, but not probably.
There are more questions, to be sure. The fact is my mother has asked me to perform a very important task. She has asked me because, I assume, she thinks I am capable of holding myself together in what will surely be a hectic and combustable time. If I can figure out a plan of action that will not only allow me to express the requisite feelings but also those I may not be expecting, I will handle everything with the strength that my mother sees in me, even if I don’t see it myself.

The phone call was unexpected and the question asked made me wonder about my parents, family, and myself. In the end I will do what my parents have asked of me. I can only hope I meet their expectations as they have already surpassed mine.