How Sweet It Is - The News

THE NEWS

We arrived at the restaurant, one of my father’s favorites because being thrifty, he always felt that he saved money on the buffet, especially if my brother was there.  This was a seafood buffet, a typical Maryland tradition, full of different fresh catch of fish, crab cakes and your usual buffet fare - macaroni and cheese, salads, ribs, chicken, the whole nine yards.

“Do you have a reservation?” The host asked us.

“No.” My father answered.

“Then the wait is 45 minutes.” He said looking down his glasses at us.

We put our name in, milling in the front of the restaurant with a million other people, the air warm from so much body heat.  Sweating because we were dressed for winter and hanging inside a restaurant.

A different host went walking through the milling crowd yelling. “The Smith Party!  Smith Party of 6?”

My Dad waited watching for any sign of the Smith party.  Finally after several attempts, he raised his hand.  “We are the Smiths.”

My sisters and I, raised as good Catholics were shocked.  Has he lost his mind?  We are not the Smith party.  He looked at us and winked.  We followed him to a table in the back, large and roomy for all six of us.

The waiter came up addressing the table.  “Good morning!  My name is Phillip Yu.”

My Dad looked around the table, especially at my brother, the “bottomless pit.”  “Yes, you fill up me.”

He started explaining the procedures of the buffet, when a hostess walked up to us.  “Are you the Smith party?”

My Dad looked around the table, then back to the girl.  “Never heard of them in my life.”

She looked at her clipboard, back at the table, walking away.

We all looked at him, and a few minutes of silence he looked back at us.  “What?”

It was a delicious family dinner.

THE NEWS

“The doctor is schedule to meet with us between 12 and 1 today.  Have you gotten your plane ticket?” My sister’s voice sounds stressed.

“Yeah, I’ve got a ticket on order, so I can be there on Friday if you need me to be.”

“Let’s keep praying.  The important thing is that it hasn’t gotten to his internal organs, if it’s gotten to his internal organs than it is bad.” I hear papers rustling over the phone.  Knowing my sister, she’s already all over the internet, researching and printing out different options, treatments.

“How bad?” I really don’t want to hear the news, but I have to know.  If I am coming to see him, I’m not going to be blind sided.

“Four to six months.  If he’s lucky.” It sits between us on that phone connection, like the cancer sitting in my father.

I’m not going to believe it. “OK, let’s just wait and see what the tests have to say.  And let’s get everyone to pray.” We needed warriors, we need them fast.

“I will.  I’m sure I’ll be talking to you tomorrow.” I don’t like the sadness in her voice, she can’t let herself be down, not at a time like this.

“Be strong.  Don’t let him think that you don’t have faith.” I say to her, myself included.

“I know.” She sounds doubtful.

“I love you.”  I want to be off the telephone, off it now.

“I love you too.” The connection between us drops, but I’m still holding the phone.  It takes me a few minutes before I finally replace it on the cradle.

The conversation haunts my dreams when I actually did sleep.  It is like a broken record.  “Four to six months” looping endlessly as I occupy myself with chores around the house.  I keep telling myself that sometimes doctors can be wrong.  We are praying for a miracle, and don’t we deserve it?  He’s already been through so much, really?  Does this have to happen?  Keep positive, it won’t be in his internal organs.

I catch myself asking why, why did this have to happen to us?  I know that we are not immune to everything, but why something this terrible?  Why this much pain and suffering?  Why something that maybe I can’t handle?  I’ve always been there for him, the positive heart when things get down.  Can I do it this time? I hear my aunt’s voice again telling me we cannot ask these types of questions-the answers are God’s.  Don’t spend time torturing, focus on moving forward with the job.

I think about the warrior.  He’s in that hospital bed probably awake, wondering the same questions.  Maybe he’s taking himself to a different place, a place where he is happy.  I hope they gave him a sleeping pill, I remember him saying how hard it is facing things when you are tired.

He’s the one living through this, he’s the one with the fight on his hands.  I just don’t want it to be him, I don’t want him to have to go through this pain.  He’s the greatest person I know, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, now he’s the one hurting and there is nothing I can do about it.  

I try accomplishing things but distraction makes my efforts in vain. Each time I look at the clock I think, “3 more hours until the meeting,” or, “two more hours to the meeting.”  I call him once in the morning, when I know he is alone.

“Hey Pops, how are you?” My voice sounds falsely light.

“Better.  I was so tired last night.  The sleeping pill knocked me out last night.” He sounds like himself, I am glad.

“Good, I’m glad you got to sleep.” I’m pacing my living room.

“I tell you, I am so happy that all those tests are over with.” He does sound genuinely happy.

“So it was hard.” My heart reaches through the line to him.

“It was murder.  I started at 8 o’clock yesterday morning and went until 730 last night.  God, I was exhausted.  I am so glad that that’s over.” I can hear his smile.

“You are a strong person.  You made it through the tests, you can make it through anything.” I am proud of him, he simply moves forward, finding something positive.  

“I hope so.  I just want to know.  I hate this waiting part.” I feel his sigh.

“Yeah, me too.  But the meeting is today and at least you will know.” I am telling myself the same thing.

“The doctor did not make it sound too good.” He is back to sounding stressed.

“Screw him.”  I hear laughter.  “Just wait until you get the tests back.  Wait until we know everything that’s going on.”

“Yeah, I know.  It’s just hard.” We both hate waiting.

My heart breaks to hear him say that, but I’m not going to let him hear it.  “Are you eating?”  Typical Irish comment, in the face of crisis make sure there’s enough food.

“I ate all of my breakfast.  I just wish that I could get my appetite back.” There is the sound of movement in the room.

“One thing at a time, the only way you can keep your strength is to eat.” What else can I say, focus on something I can control.

“You sound like my mother.” There is the smile back.

“After all that hospital shit, you’ll be ready for a big steak, huh?” I can see him in his favorite joint, Steak and Ale (“Kelly don’t you love restaurant names that make sense, Steak and Ale, why name it anything else?”)

“Uh huh.”  His silence is telling me it is time to go, his attention is elsewhere.

“OK, I’ll call you later on this afternoon.  I love you, Pops.” We each have our pet names, he is and will only be the person calling me Kate.

“I love you too Kate.”

I can hear the conversation in my head again as I walk around the house wondering what to do.  I can’t work, every time I sit at my computer my fingers poised over the keys, nothing comes to mind.  I go and hold my dog, or I wipe down the kitchen counters again and again.  I think about washing clothes walking up stairs throwing them in.  I sit at my computer again, check my e-mail, the writing that I need to do ,scaring me because it is not coming.

Three hours until they call me.

There are encouraging e-mails from everyone in the family, I feel strength in their support.  

How Sweet It Is - The Waiting

I am participating in a Memoir Class and had to pick an experience to write about.  This is about my Dad's journey with cancer.  It will be a Wednesday thing until the story is told.  At the end of the class we get a self published book.  I think his story needs to be told.

THE WAITING

The outside deck was filled with people.  Many with drinks in hand, others holding plates of food with their drinks.  There were many in black, but others, bucking the system added color to their outfits because it was what she would want.  “Don’t mourn at my funeral, make sure the bartender is happy,” she always said.

He sat at a corner of the deck, surrounded by children, dressed in a suit like his cousins, a Perrier in hand.  They’d already eaten, just sitting and talking about a great woman who recently passed.

“You know her and Grandmom are now fighting in heaven.” I said, enjoyed a sip of keg beer because every wake I remember from the Craig/McKeon family included a “bereavement room” translated into the bar.

“Heaven is much different now.  Let’s hope St. Peter doesn’t send them both back.” My father said with a smile, missing his mother and aunt.  Two ladies that lived a lifetime filled with arguments over everything followed by promises that they would never argue again.

“Buddy!”  All of our heads turn to the others at the party.  A family of cousins that called each other brother and sister, a family of cousins that knew summers at the beach, holidays together, and of course in true Scottish/Irish families not without its drama.

“Sing the song!”  His cousins were yelling, looking our way.

Dad looks at us, we shrug.  We were used to him singing the songs at every family gathering.  Used to watching our Grandmother and her sister cry as he sang the songs in his Irish tenor voice.  “Sing them Dad.” We say, wanting again to hear that voice.  A touching way to honor the last of the generation passing away.

Dad looks at all of his cousins looking at him, looks down at us children, then down to his bottle of Perrier.  “I’ve never sung this song sober before.”

Years before he decided that enough was enough.  It was time to stop drinking and live his life.  He survived things that drinking take away, I remembering him coming to visit me in Boston proudly showing his 3 year chip, all of us celebrating with a lavish dinner at a dive restaurant called The Port Hole.  He survived standing up to someone he loved and helping him down the same path. Survived a divorce from the drinking.  Now his family was asking the thing that was easy to do drunk, sing a song in front of a crowd.  But difficult to do sober.

He stood handing the Perrier bottle to me, smiling, started in a small voice.

Mother Machree

There's a spot in my heart,

Which no colleen may own.

There's a depth in my soul,

Never sounded or known;

There's a place in my mem'ry,

My life, that you fill,

No other can take it,

No one ever will.

cho: Sure, I love the dear silver

     That shines in your hair,

     And the brow that's all furrowed,

     And wrinkled with care.

     I kiss the dear fingers,

     So toil-worn for me,

     Oh, God bless you and keep you,

     Mother Machree.

Ev'ry sorrow or care

In the dear days gone by,

Was made bright by the light

Of the smile in your eye,

Like a candle that's set

In the window at night,

Your fond love has cheered me

And guided me right.

They cheered as my father bowed, turning to us.

“That is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”The Waiting

I’m waiting for the news as my mind swims with all the possibilities of what will happen.  I cannot control that small part of me that swings over to the worst possibility.  Stop it, it’s just tests.  Don’t jump to conclusions.

The fan in the living room travels slowly round and round, watching it I listen for everything and hear nothing.  Waiting for something to happen, something stupendous, maybe a bolt of electricity, an overwhelming feeling that everything is going to be OK.  Met with silence, no bolt of lightening.  I wanted something to announce this, something pointing out that everything was OK, some type of sign.  Instead, I’m sitting here with this sadness, this anxiousness and I can’t do a thing about it.

I’ve moved pass the crying, realizing that I am lying as it hits me again letting this wave pass through me.  It is like the ocean, so calm one minute,  full of crests another.  But each crest crashing against my psyche is less in strength than the day I first heard the news.

The party was just getting started, the bar flowing with people.  I look down at my watch, 9pm Seattle time, time to make a phone call.

“Hello?”  The voice sounded stressed.

“Happy New Year Dad!” I step outside the bar, leaving the party to talk to my Dad.  He usually spent New Years alone, divorced from my mother.  I always felt a need to connect on holidays, making him feel special.

“Where are you?” I traveled for the airlines, it was always a topic of conversation.

“Seattle, at the Owl and Thistle Bar, hear all the noise?” I hold the phone up.

“I got something to tell you.” He turned quiet.

I immediately stop everything, tuning completely into my father.  He sounds stressed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got cancer.”  The statement hung between us for a moment.  I’m trying to think of something to say. 

“Cancer?  Are you sure?” I’m looking at all the people partying in this bar, their smiles, thinking everything’s changed.

“I have to go in for more tests tomorrow.  The problem is I can’t sleep.  I haven’t slept in days.  It would be easier if I could sleep.” He sounded scared, thousands of miles away I am at a loss.

“Listen.  We don’t know how bad it is until the tests.  So don’t worry about it.  Everything will be fine.  Have you told anyone else?” I’m thinking of my brother and two sisters.

“No, I thought I’d wait until after the tests come back.  Why worry them? I’m sorry you called, I was going to wait.” He sounded sad.

“You call them right now.  They are not going to let you go in for all those tests by yourself.  If you don’t call them.  I’m calling in the morning and telling them, so there is no getting out of it.”  I use my stern teacher voice, hoping he will realize I mean business.

“OK, I’ll call them.  The doctor says I have to go through Keno-therapy.” Dad says, I hear a small smile in his voice.

“It’s chemotherapy Dad.  Not Keno-therapy.” I say with a smile.

“Well let’s hope I get as lucky with chemotherapy as I do with Keno-Therapy, right Kate?”  

“You will Dad, I am sure of it.” I say laughing, leave it to Dad to find something funny in any situation, even a bad one.  

“That’s right Kate.  Go have fun.  I’m going to try and sleep.  I love you.”

I hang up the phone, walking outside the bar into the damp night, my mind swirling.  Keno-therapy.  I remember sitting with my father at a bar playing the game in Ocean City.  We both filled out our cards, waiting anxiously.  All the numbers were called and we look at each other saying, “I won!”

We looked at each other in disbelief, comparing numbers.  Dad used his birthday 6-26-31 and his age 65, I used my birthday 6-29-65 and my age 31.  Irish luck at its best.  Now let’s hope the Keno-therapy luck holds up this time.  He’s only 67, we have too much life to live!CHAPTER

The sunlight comes through the window, the dust swirling with the slow movement of the blades.  I want to go back to summer, to those lazy days of warmth when I didn’t have a care in the world.  I want to go back to before the burden of knowledge shattered everything I believed in.  Back to when my Dad was strong and I didn’t have to think about life ending early, all the things I haven’t done yet, but want to share with him.  

My hand moves over to the cup of tea, my heart feels more weight.

“He’s in the hospital now.  Tomorrow he starts the tests, I don’t think that we will know anything until probably Wednesday.” My sister’s voice sounds dire.

“So do you think I need to come up?” I live a 7 hour drive away, I have a job.  My mind wondering how I could pull it off.

“No, if we get grim news can you make it in quickly.” She knows that we need to be together, I agree.

My heart speeds up at that prospect.  “Yeah, I can be there that day if you need me.”

“OK, good, he will need us.” She was always to patriarch, when I chose not to wear the mantle.  Good at taking care of everything, planning and organizing.

“So, how’s he doing?” I’m afraid of the answer.

“He’s quiet.  But you know how Dad is.” Her voice trails off.

I feel the sadness again thinking about the conversation.  I know that he’s scared, there is nothing I can do to help him.  I want to take away the pain and put it inside of me.  I’m not sure if I can handle it, but I can’t handle the pain knowing that he’s depressed and scared.  I feel inadequate because I can’t be there every day like my sisters and brother, and in my own selfish way,  I’m glad that I’m not there with everyone else, that I’m far enough away that they cannot see my pain, or my weakness.

“Are you going to call him today?” She asks.

“Of course.  I’ll call as soon as I hang up with you.” I don’t want to make the phone call, but know I have to.

“He gets excited when you call.” She says quietly.

“OK, I’m doing it now.” I say with a sigh.

Hanging up the phone, I take a minute composing myself.  How can I be positive after hearing how scared he is, how can I be strong?  It feels good my phone calls are making a difference, then I feel that stab of guilt that I’m not there and it’s all my fault.  I want to be there yet I want to stay, I’m torn because I don’t know what to do.

The sunlight is still in the living room, I can see all the dust bunnies at the fireplace.  I think about waiting on the phone call, cleaning them first, getting mad at myself for trying to do something besides call my father.  Most other people wouldn’t do something like this, only me.  I am the most thoughtless person I know.  I look toward the refrigerator thinking about getting a beer, deciding against that too.  I have to make this phone call, I have to make it now.

“Hello.”  I can tell he’s trying to be cheerful, so that’s good.  I’ll go along with it.

“It’s your daughter.” I say in a false bright voice.

“Which one.”  He has a smile on his face, I just know it.

“The beautiful one.” I reply, our usual greeting.

“Oh, Jennifer.” I love my father’s dry wit.

“No, it’s Kelly.”  I wait for a few seconds enjoying his laughter on the other line.  “How are you?”

“They gave me a sleeping pill last night, it knocked me out.” He says, I wonder if the hospital bed is comfortable.

“That’s good.  So you slept?” I ask.

“Through the night.  I feel so much better now that I slept through the night.  You don’t know how hard it is when you are not sleeping.” He sounds less stressed, this is good.

I thought about times when I couldn’t sleep.  I’d lay awake in bed thinking about things and how miserable when your mind takes control.  I knew exactly what was happening to him.  He’d go to bed trying to sleep, then the monsters would come out from under the bed.  They would start as light whisperings, planting a doubt here, another there.  Pretty soon, the spiders in the corners of the room would join the monsters whispering, “What if it is?  Could you have?  Maybe? “ Then the whisperings become talking voices, you can’t ignore them.  

They sound like the wicked witch in the Wizard of OZ.  They keep telling me everything I should have done, what I could have done finding myself agreeing with them.  Rather than ignoring them, I start looking around the darkened room thinking.  I try to reading a book but I think.  I’ve been there, I know how much it sucks.  I can feel his pain, I can use my talent, I can be positive and help him.

“You know, when you leave the hospital you should take a prescription for those sleeping pills if they are helping you to sleep.” I suggest.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.” He likes it when we tell him what to do.

“Well, I’m always thinking.  So, how are you really?” I ask, my heart heavy.

“I’m a little nervous.  I think the worst thing is just not knowing.” He replies with a smile.

“Yeah.” I know exactly how he feels, we, as a family, feel his pain.

I am close to my father, I know he is sitting on that hospital bed, wondering what is happening with his life.  The tests tomorrow will determine how long he has to live.  How do you sympathize with someone like that?  He looks at his family sitting around him, knowing when they leave the room they are crying.  They are keeping from him the news that he already knows, that the results of the tests may not be good.  He feels our fear, magnifying his own.  He’s trying to be positive, that’s what makes me glad I am not there.  I can be positive with him, he’ll never know what happens when I hang up the phone.  He doesn’t see the fear in my eyes, he doesn’t see the redness from crying, the puffiness from the lack of sleep.

I can be positive, getting drunk after hanging up the phone.  My heart tells me that I am selfish, that I need to put my father first.  

“Dad?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

I know it makes him feel better, I feel it as I say it.  “Be positive Dad.  Everyone has to stay positive.  We have to band together as a family and get through this, OK?”

“OK.”

“Don’t let anyone be boo hooing around you.  You’re going to show them that they are wrong.” I say, feeling a bit stronger myself.

“OK, hon.” He sounds stoic.

“I love you very much.  Don’t forget that.  We can do this.” I say, wanting to crawl through the phone and hug him.

“OK, hon.  I love you.” I can hear his Baltimore accent.

Replacing the phone on the hook, the tears start coming.  Why, dammit did it happen to him?  Why is it that there are some people that live to be in their nineties and he’s sick at 67?  Can’t it happen to anyone else but him?  I move to the living room, my dogs follow both sensing my sadness behaving.  Sitting down feeling both wet noses on my hands, asking for some touching, something telling them that everything is going to be all right.  But Mommy can’t tell them that right now.  She’s just not so sure.