On the go

We're dressed, sort of ready, it's 9 a.m., time to go. Yesterday we zagged west to San Francisco and Sausalito. Uncle Doug, burritos, tacos, coke-cola, big tank, micro mini parking spaces, Dolores Park looking over a beautiful city, sunshiny days, Stow Lake, pedal boats, laughing girls, sea-gulls gawking, turtles sitting still in the sun, canadian geese mating. Action movie to be sure.

Now we begin to trek north, it's a road trip. Girls, Girls, Girls. Holding our feet up as we pass through Golden Bridges. Perhaps a memory or two to be made. Time to go, shoes on.....let's go.

Not sure where I am

The wind is howling through our window hotel window. It's late, nearly 11 pm and both girls are still awake. We're still on our road trip. The girls have had a long day, I've had a long day. And I'm not sure where I am let alone know who I am.

Supposedly I'm in Lincoln, California, the fastest growing city in America. More likely a town soon to be victim of the economy. Huge growth, mega malls with no businesses, huge houses, with huge mortgages. A suburb of Sacramento. Flat, stucco, vast, new and not much old stuck together. A sign on the clay mill silo as you drive down highway 70, welcoming you to Lincoln, Calif. I keep thinking the oak trees are beautiful, but ask myself where are the rest of the trees – the cedars, the alders, the tall Douglas firs? It's green, light green fields ready for planting. But where is the richness of my home.

Yesterday, was hot, beautiful – California weather. Light blue, cloudless skies, still air, open spaces. We foraged to Tar–get in search of suburban treasures of flip flops and sun glasses. My mom picking us up in the big red dump truck as Emma calls their huge Ford truck. We venture back down the two lane highway to visit with my dad.

What is it like? I’m not sure I can say. This man, whom to me has always been larger than life, is now frail. He’s looks thin, he looks sad: he looks like my nightmares from last year. I see that he misses his friends, Thom, Linda…..other heroes from grammar school and older days gone by. I see the down turned mouth, my mouth from last year – a cancer mouth, the mouth that only tastes the metal taste of chemo. We sit, side by side silent in our own thoughts. Every once in a while, I ask….can I hold your hand and he lets me, if only for a moment. Minutes tick by and softly I ask, “Dad, what are you thinking about”. He responds, “I keep wondering why they won’t tell me how I am doing – whether I’m going to get well or not”. He goes on to tell me that the doctors gave him a 40% to 90% chance of survival. I remember back to my days and remember I only had a 50% of survival. They never told me that I would survive and I doubt they will ever tell him whether he will survive. But, he’s a crotchety old man…..he can survive, if he wants to.

And yet, here we sit in a leather recliner chairs, my dad and I. My dad, with his red warm, electric blanket, warming him on a windy day….me with a light comforter across my chest…..both of us complaining of the cold while my mother sweats from the warmth of the day. His complexion is grey, his life is dimmed, while my cheeks are pink and I feel full of sparkle.

It’s much later now. I lie in bed, the wind still blowing against the window. Is the man I first loved listening to the wind howl? We both have cancer, can we both survive. I have so many to help me along the way……he has so few. I wonder will he be there with me and will I be there for him.


I am so not ready to give up, let alone let him give up. Please survive…..at least for today…..and maybe tomorrow.

Day 2 - A million miles away

So it's day two and I feel like I'm a million miles away from Bainbridge. And perhaps I am. Let's face it, I live on a small island 10 miles by 3 miles - if that. Small, quaint, postage stamp size - you can get around fast, but it is home and the island is that of gold. Now I'm in the belly of a whale, the Sacramento Valley a 1000 miles by 500 miles. Vast, bright open land spaces, cluttered with houses, strip malls and car lots. Architecture from the 20's, 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's, 70's pass by the window as you drive down I-5. It's either new or old or in between. And the old looks quaint, the medium looks used and the new is lifeless. They say this is California, the land of opportunity. To me......it's different.

I've traveled 515 miles today. I traveled 515 miles today in a car with 4 girls under the age of 8 years old and two women over the age of 35. Needless to say, once we settled into the hotel tonight......after the drive down I-5, the broken records of "Are we there yet", i-Pod's mixed with bathroom breaks, naps in between dvd's on portable players, swimming in hotel pools, pizza, juice paks and whiny kids staring at a T.V. like zombies.......I had a drink. Chelle and I shared a bottle of wine. She's tired......I'm tired. But I'm anxious.

I'm anxious to travel through I town I knew 30 years ago but don't know today. And I'm anxious to see my dad. I love my dad. He and I both now have cancer. We have a bond.....and I wonder will it bring us closer. Is he part of the vastness....the whale, the place I used to know. While now, I'm part of the quaitness and the island the home I've grown to love....

We're on the Road to Nowhere

As I sit here all ready and packed for my road adventure, I wonder is this going to be a “Thelma and Louise” Epic without the bad parts and ending. Or are Chelle and I going to be “Lucy and Ethel”……or maybe a little of both.

I’ve packed everything plus the kitchen sink (Although I was a little ticked to discover my grown up children, Ashley and Dylan have stolen all the suitcases in the house – or at least the small easy carry travel bags). We’ve got jeans galore, t-shirt, hoodies (because we’re cool and don’t call them sweat jackets anymore), coloring books, trashy magazines, a full nail salon, wine, cheese, crackers, bananas, iPods, Zunes, Danimals (it’s a kid’s fruity yogurt drink – the kids love it and suck it down), popcorn, sandals, converse tennis shoes, stuffies, blankies, books and computers. The only thing we aren’t taking is the husbands. It’s a girl’s road trip…..and as I think back to “Thelma and Louise” or “Lucy and Ethel” am I Lucy, or Ethel. All, I know is that I don’t have the long flowing red hair anymore and I’m a one boobed chick so perhaps I’m Chevy Chase and this is going to be a National Lampoon disaster flick.

Who knows, stay tuned for details.

Wandering

Not doing too much tonight. My thoughts are just wandering through my brain tonight. It’s late. Rainer’s asleep next to me. The girls conked out hours ago. Hannah was reading “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” to Emma when they both fell asleep, reading one minute then out like light bulbs the next. Chapter books are the big thing in our household these days. Drifting thoughts go through the back of my brain; I wonder what’s happening with my older children – the adults, Dylan and Ashley. Why do children have to grow up? Why do adults have to get old?

The dogs are running around my bedroom creating all sorts of havoc, pulling dirty clothes out and playing tug of war with them. Put that down, that’s my t-shirt your dumb dogs. I can’t understand how Rainer sleeps through this chaos, but remember he has his trusty earplugs in. Dogs, you say. I thought she only had one dog. Nope, I’ve got two dogs now. We still have Maggie, our big, 80 pound ferocious, sad-eyed, smiling, more red than golden, golden retriever. Maggie Dog, who after scaring a person to death with her tremendous growl would then wag her tail and lick them like there is no tomorrow, has a friend. Her name is Hildy, she’s our 4 pound miniature wiener dog. She’s my comfort companion, my husband's pain in the neck and my daughters toy to dump upside down. Dappled gray and black, prissy, runs like ferret, (for that matter looks like one too), yapping guard dog, who likes to burrow under my bedcovers and will steal the food from your plate when your back is turned or not, that’s our new dog, Hildy. She’s nine months old and still to my chagrin is not potty trained. She adores Maggie and Maggie….shall we say… tolerates her. They play somewhat; Maggie puts her paw on Hildy and just holds her down while Hildy twists furiously.

Yes, it’s late. But changes are in the air and though tired, I’m not sleepy. I think I’m waking up, waking up to life and whatever comes along. Music is back in my life big time – all 683 songs on my Zune. (The songs were not gotten by ill begotten gains – but legally) and I was quite proud of my 683 songs, until I found out some techno geek at work has several thousand songs on his iThing. I don’t like Apples, that’s why I have a Zune. Besides, it sounds better. Oh well. I’m just wandering tonight and thinking about life. Lot’s happening lately…..I’ve come out of the closet, I’ve gone out on disability, and now am going on a road trip.

No, I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, she says in her best whiny Seinfeld voice. Many of my friends already know this (and some are really sick of hearing it) but I have to say it – not only to the world but to myself. I have Stage IV Breast Cancer with Bone Metastases. No. I’m not cured….and probably won’t be cured. My bones are like Swiss cheese and I’ll probably have chemo for the rest of my life. But for the moment I am here, waking up and wandering through life.

I’ve gone out on disability. Ewww, that one was a big one. I sobbed hysterically when I finally did it. It was like death, I was in so much pain. I was working too many hours to count and getting nowhere. Chemo kept catching up with me. I remember my hands were shaking uncontrollably when I finally broke down and signed the paperwork. My doctor had wanted me to do it months ago. You have to think about yourself Joan, not them. However, I kept trying (and in some ways am still trying) to be old Joan. The powerhouse, the girl who worked 10 hour days, trying to help a start up Software Company grow up for the last four years. But my bones won’t let me, my heart won’t let me. I have to think about me. I need the pain to lessen, I need to stop working so many hours – OMG, I can’t believe I’m going to say this….but there’s more to life than work. (So did the world just stop – nope it’s still going, and Rainer’s still snoring next to me – it’s comforting to hear) I need my family, my bright eyed girls, and my dashing husband. I need to look at the sunshine and not cringe in pain behind a deferred revenue spreadsheet. Of course, this means a big cut in my paycheck and the old woman in me worries about whether or not we’ll loose the house. On the other hand, little girl in me keeps hoping that maybe I’ll win the lottery; but of course the problem there is that I’m too cheap to buy the lottery ticket. Or I fantasize maybe Oprah will read my blog and become my fairy godmother, taking away my debts, and giving TeamJoan members a self deserved trip to the Caribbean for all the wonderful gifts they have given me. But that is just a fantasy and like I said….I’m just wandering tonight.

And in a few days, I am going to wander down to visit my father. He too has cancer and he’s in the “This is Hard” phase. I think I need to go create some havoc in his life, I think I need to kick him in the butt. So I’m packing up my girls and hitting the road to with a friend who thinks I can’t drive by myself so she’s bringing herself and her two girls along to make sure that I can make it. Hopefully I’m not too old to enjoy life and wake someone else up too.

Wish me luck and wish my father luck too.

Standing Tall


Let’s go back tonight…let’s reminiscent about days long ago. Its 1968 – yes, I know I seem to be stuck in time, but what the hay. Our country was in a strange funk. Free love, the Tet Offensive, flowers in guns and soldiers standing tall. In 1968 my family lived in Jacksonville, Arkansas. I remember it as being soft fuzzy green, hot days, long warm evenings and fire flies that we used to catch and put into jars that our fathers would put holes in lids with a hammer and nail. Do you remember when your dad would take a long nail put in on the lid of the jar and with one mighty whack of the hammer; the nail would drive straight thru the tough metal.

I was eight years old and time seemed to edge slow even though I was non stop. I remember everything seemed to move fast, even though I complained endlessly how the days dawdled along. When does school get out, when will it be summer. Be Patient, it will be here sooner than you know. School, homework, trips to the dentist, going to bed by 8 pm. And then bang, it was summer and we were free of restrictions, getting up early and running late. Games, tag, Batman reruns, Kool-Aid with lots of sugar, baseball, catfishing, swinging on tree ropes in willow trees, hot dogs, swimming in the lake even though we weren’t supposed to and Dark Shadows at 4 pm religiously Monday through Friday were my favorite past times. We lived on base, Little Rock Air Force Base.

My dad was a career officer in the United States Air Force. He was tall, thin and very cool. He was a pilot, a Major; he was Air Force. He flew large planes….no, not the puny firefighters, but big lumbering massive refueling tankers that would fly endlessly in the clouds for days on end. He was proud to be an officer, he was proud to be in the Air Force even in a time that didn’t necessarily like the military man. He’s still a pilot, an officer, a military man and my Dad. A Marlboro man, he drove a sleek blue mustang and looked quiet dashing in his dress uniforms. My cousin, Stephen, once told me later in life that the thing he best remembers about my dad - was that he could throw a baseball straight up into the air, so high that you couldn’t even see it, and then catch it with his bare hand as the ball plummeted down to earth. Like, I said, cool very cool.

My dad was away a lot. This was Vietnam. Men were off at war, many coming back in flag draped boxes. My family lived a sheltered life in the on-base community of the military, while most of the nation was battling abroad or amongst themselves on Walter Cronkite nightly. We were family, scared young mothers, with bouffant hairdos and rapidly growing children crisscrossing the neighborhood on their bikes and skateboards. Our fathers were constantly gone, away on long TDY’s. (Please don’t ask me what this means…..it’s been over 40 years and I still don’t know what it means….but to an 8 yr old it meant a totally, daring, young man in his flying machine was gone). Blue station wagons, dress whites and folded flags were our enemies. Our houses were soft pastel colors with pristine yards; cartoon like to hide what was really going on. Military wives searched for anything to keep themselves occupied during the long, hot days of summer, vying to see who would have the best summer garden or playing bridge Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays just to pass the minutes away while daring young men flew the skies. To have your dad home was the best, to have your dad home in the summer was better, to have my dad home on the 4th of July was Christmas.

4th of July was filled with laughter, it was a carnival, it was north versus the south, it was a blast. All families would meet down by the lake, a central location amongst the base housing. We lived on the south part of the lake, in the officers division. To the north, the non-coms, non commissioned officers, lived. My family would cross the street, cut through the Chatfield’s backyard and hike down to the lake carrying blankets, large baskets of food, jugs of kool-aid, bottles of Coca-cola and ice tea where lugged over by my whole family. Of course you had to get there early, to mark out your territory. Hamburgers, hot dogs, potatoes salads, green moldy looking Jello concoctions lined the tables. Men were playing fire marshals with barbeques, while children were desperately throwing their fishing lines in the lake in hopes of catching the notoriously big granddaddy of all catfish.

I remember homemade strawberry ice cream. The cream poured carefully into a large tin and then placed in a rickety wooden bucket. Ice and salt were thrown into the bucket. And then…..muscle power. Sorry, this was the 60’s not every kitchen gadget was electrified yet. A group of scrawny 8 year olds would gather round the bucket to crank the rotary arm. Who could last the longest, whose arm fell off, when would the ice cream be done? More salt, no more ice. Go faster, my arm’s sore. You do it, no you do it. Is it done yet? And then the next thing we knew, our superhero dad’s would show up and crank that ice cream maker so fast…..it’s arm would fall off instead. Yummmm……creamy, delicious, tart, strawberry ice cream, so tasty and cold it was perfect.

As dust began to settle, excitement would pass through the throngs of picnickers. Battle lines had been drawn. It was north vs. south, it was them against us. It was battle time, and the fireworks were drawn and ready. Bottle rockets, sparklers, cones of fire, star bursts of red, white and blue. Green fountains of flame. Dad’s taking a long drag on their cigarettes and their embers starting the rockets red blare. Girls were running around with green sparklers, boys sneaking around setting off long, loud strings of firecrackers. Look at that display of colors, no just wait – my dad has yet to fire off his arsenal. Rockets brighter than stars, smoke haze filled skies. We win; we win…..what’s that….look at that flare. He cheated; he cheated…..no look at that flare. The flare guns coming from the military survival kits handed out to all personnel.

And then it was over. K-rations packed back up into baskets, stuffed with empty jugs of tea and kool-aid. Blankets wrapped around sleeping children who now were slung, limp, sleeping over strong shoulders. Young men, rubbing their young wives back as they hiked back up the hills to their homes. A day worth of fun, a day’s worth of battle, it was a memory for an 8 yr old to keep forever.

Recently my dad was diagnosed with cancer. He has cancer of the throat and cancer of the tongue. It was probably from the cigarettes he smoked over 30 years ago. Even though the tumors are small, he has it in two spots making him Stage IV cancer like me. My dad is a boisterous, gregarious, man. My dad, a man who likes to tell war stories, is a man proud of America, no matter what. A soldier, a pilot, he’s my dad. My dad is standing tall even though he knows not what will come.

Let’s all wish him well. As I remember a little 8 year old girl holding her dad’s hand as we hiked up the hill together on a warm summer’s eve.