The Calm After the Storm
Following our rather stressful trip to M.D. Anderson last week, I’ve spent the last few days in quiet reflection. I began by finishing up the last of four blog entries I’d been writing about my family (please go back and read them if you have the chance). But then I went into contemplative mode, pondering what had just happened.
The news from Houston could have been awful. I shudder to even think about how bad it might have been; it’s so unhealthy to let the mind go there.
But instead, much to my surprise, the news turned out to be pretty good. Although the tumors hadn’t shrunk in the last three months (during which I received five more chemo treatments, a total of twenty-five since this nightmare began), they hadn’t grown either. The treatments I had endured kept the cancer at bay, for a time at least. This can only last for so long, but for now my body is holding its own.
Of course our two-day trip to Houston was much more than just having tests and awaiting results. There were travel arrangements to make (this time we flew), hotels and restaurants from which to choose, and transportation options to consider. The Oklahoman team was there, and we had to coordinate their coverage with an M.D. Anderson publicist. In addition, representatives from the hospital’s survivorship group wanted to meet with us, because their magazine is doing a story on me.
And then there were the complicating stresses. LeAnn spent a lot of her time on the phone attempting to work through numerous crises back home. Maddye, our high school senior who plans on going to Oklahoma State next year, was enrolling in a math class at OU in order to make next year a little easier. My wife wanted so much to be there to help Maddye through that process (you know how difficult finding your way around a college campus can be), but alas she was stuck in Houston with me. Then Maddye got sick. That meant getting medicine to her and finding a way for Ford to get home from school.
This is how it is for LeAnn. When she goes with me to Houston, responsibilities back home are always calling. When she stays home, she can’t help but worry about me, miles away. It’s a lose/lose situation.
So even with good news, it was an exhausting trip, both mentally and physically. I was glad, upon our return, to see the kids, along with our dog Gracie and our fat cat Ginger. I was thrilled to climb into my own bed, turn on the tv, and fall to sleep. I was thankful to wake up to a good cup of coffee and the Today Show.
This was the beginning of the calm after the storm. A time when you quietly consider what has just passed, knowing that you were lucky, knowing that another storm will soon be heading your way.
Ford
Ford was only seven when I was first diagnosed with cancer. At the time he was still involved with sports–soccer, basketball, baseball. But soon after the bad news came our way, Ford picked up a guitar. After that, sports were done. He never looked back.
I’m not saying my illness had anything to do with Ford’s decision to choose music over muscle. But I’m not saying it didn’t either. Ford is a creative soul, that’s for sure, and cancer had little to do with that. But adversity can surely take creativity on great new adventures, and Ford has seen more adversity than most kids I know.
When he was only eight or nine, Ford formed the band Refuje. He began writing songs for the band soon afterward, and he sang and played guitar too. The band often surprised people by their mature sound. Thinking they were hearing a college band, strangers would stop and ask, “How old are those kids?” “Ten,” we’d say, or “eleven,” while watching their jaws drop.
Refuje was together for five years, longer than most bands, and it was an incredible ride. Ford and his three bandmates played some of the state’s best gigs: Dfest, Opening Night, Toby Keith’s, The Opolis, Festival of the Arts, the Norman Music Festival, Midsummer Night’s Fair, etc. They shared the stage with some great bands, and they were on t.v. and radio numerous times. At the peak of their popularity, they were averaging a gig a week and were flown to Hollywood to audition for The Next Great American Band television show. (Thankfully, they didn’t make the show.)
Ever wonder why so many bands break up? There’s a good reason: it’s incredibly hard to keep a band together, something like maintaining four simultaneous marriages. Refuje finally gave up the ghost in July of 2008.
Since that time, Ford has recorded “If I Leave,” his own solo EP (six songs) at Bell Labs Recording Studio in Norman. He had an amazing group of musicians join him on that project, including Allan Vest of the Starlight Mints, Matt Duckworth of Stardeath and White Dwarfs, Dave Spindle of the Rounders, and Trent Bell of the Chainsaw Kittens. Ford wrote the songs, sang the lead vocals, and played guitar on the record, which has been praised by music critics from the Fort Worth Star Telegram, The Oklahoma Gazette, and The Norman Transcript.
These are amazing accomplishments for someone who has yet to turn fifteen. But I think I’m even more amazed at what Ford has done in the last three months, in the time after we were told that I am a terminal case and that there is little or no hope for recovery.
My family was still in a state of shock over that news, which hit in October 2008, when Ford disappeared into his room. This is not uncommon, because Ford requires more than his share of alone time. He heads off regularly to his bedroom to write songs. Writing music seems to be his way of processing life, just as writing poetry is mine.
But on this particular occasion, Ford was “missing from us” for longer than usual–several days in fact. We’d hear him in his room or upstairs strumming the guitar, banging the drums, trying out a new bass line, singing. This is good, I thought. He’s working through these trying times.
On the third day, when I returned home from who knows where, Ford met me at the door. He was a bit perkier than he had been lately, anxious to let me in on some big news.
“Dad,” he said. “I’ve been working on some new songs.”
“Oh really?” I said, as if this was new information.
“Yeah. I’m in a really good writing groove right now. Anyway, I’ve recorded the new ones, and I’ve been working real hard on the mixes.”
Whenever Ford writes a new song (at least one he likes), he immediately records it and saves it to his computer. The recordings used to be guitar and vocals only, but lately he’d been using his computer to do full mixes of some of his favorites. The songs would include backing vocals, a cool bass line, a catchy drum beat, and at times, keyboards, harmonica, synthesizer, or tambourine. Mixing (that is, blending the vocals and instruments so they sound the best) is difficult work, but Ford had been getting better at it lately.
“After that, I put the new songs and a few of my best mixes of other songs and burned them on to a CD, seven altogether. Want to go here them?”
“Sure,” I said. This is our favorite and most regular father/son activity. Ford records a new song, burns it onto a CD, then we grab a Pepsi and drive around town, listening to his latest creation. I’m always amazed when I hear the birth of a new song.
As I listened to Ford’s first homemade CD, which he calls “Night Mumbling,” I had to fight to keep myself composed. Many of the songs had lyrics, a line or two here or there, that were clearly about our family’s crappy situation. (”forget all of my troubles now,” “one by one you know we’re gonna die,” “the things I feel inside won’t go away.”) Overall, the songs weren’t “about me.” Rather, they were about living a stressful, complicated life, which for Ford includes having a very sick father.
The songs were catchy. The lyrics were good. The instruments, which were all performed by Ford, sounded great. And the mixes were much better than Ford have ever done before. I told him I loved it.
“I was thinking… maybe I could get some blank CD sleeves and markers and make a cover and back for the CD. Then I could sell ‘em for something like, uh, five bucks. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a great idea to me,” I said.
“Do you think you could sell any?” he asked.
“Probably,” I said. “I know I’d buy one.”
Ford and LeAnn went that night and bought all the supplies, and by morning I had the first three copies of “Night Mumbling” in my hand. Each had been elaborately decorated with Ford’s own artwork. It took him about thirty minutes to create each one. I headed off to work that day, promising Ford I would do my best to sell the CDs.
I met with two friends that day, and each of them asked me if there was anything they could do for my family.
“Yes,” I said. “How would you like to make a young boy happy?”
I proceeded to tell them the story of how Ford had thrown positive energy at our family’s grief by using his pain to create a brand new CD. I told them how much work he’d put into it, not the least of which was the art he’d painstakingly drawn by hand.
One of my friends bought four copies. The other bought two.
“What should we do with it?” they asked.
“Listen to it, or pass it along to someone you know who likes indie rock. Or you might just put one in the safety box, because if Ford ever ‘makes it’ in music, these will be worth a fortune.”
When I got home that night, Ford happened to be out front, taking out the trash as per his mother’s directive. His demeanor was noticeably sulky, as if he had a black cloud overhead, following him everywhere.
“Hey, I sold six CDs today,” I announced.
“Cool,” he said in a rather unimpressed way. He thought I was talking about his studio EP, “If I Leave,” not his new creation. (Proceeds from his studio EP went into the bank to pay LeAnn and I back for the money we’d sunk into that project. So Ford rarely got excited about those sales.)
“Did you sell any copies of my homemade CD?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Six.” Then I handed him thirty bucks.
He seemed confused. “But I only gave you three,” he reminded me.
“Yes,” I said. ”So you need to go make me three more right away.”
At that moment a smile broke across Ford’s face that I’ll never forget. It was a smile that seemed much lighter than his normal smile, as though some heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It was the smile of an artist, one who suddenly realizes that his hard work might actually payoff or that someone out there believes he has something worthwhile to offer.
Maddye
Soon after our daughter Madison was born, people began stopping LeAnn and me to tell us how unbelievably adorable she was. I say this not as a matter of pride, but as a matter of fact. It happened all the time.
“Oh my,” they’d say. “That’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.” Or words to that effect. These weren’t friends, mind you, but complete strangers we’d pass at the mall or grocery store.
It was something about her big eyes, tiny voice, interesting hair, and one-of-a-kind personality that did it, especially a bit later, when she was one or two. Madison would look at you with those eyes and then say something uniquely Madison-like in that little voice of hers, and it was all over. She’d hung the moon, it seemed.
Later, when she was a bit older, but no less cute, I was asked to come up with an Indian name that suited her. Dances with Wolves was a big movie of that era, so it had become trendy for a time (but perhaps politically incorrect) to decide what name was the right fit for those in your family.
“Full of life,” I said. For with Madison, no specific characteristic stood out. It was the overall package that made her who she was, something about her positive spirit and gung-ho approach to life. Madison was the opposite of melancholic. She was joyous, happy-go-lucky, fun.
During elementary school we noticed something else about her, something that played right into that full of life personality. Madison couldn’t stand it when stories had unhappy endings. She didn’t like it when people suffered. It just didn’t seem right.
I read to her a lot back then, and, as a film critic, she saw more than her fair share of movies. So I saw this reaction time after time. If a book or movie did not end “as it should,” it was a failure in her eyes. For life was good, not bad.
When cancer descended upon our family, Madison was only ten. I’m not exactly sure how hard it hit her, but it must have had some impact, to suddenly discover that her dad and her family were not infallible. Her world-view must have adjusted, however slightly.
But you wouldn’t know this by watching her. While others in the family might get down from time to time, Madison would have none of it. “You’re going to be fine,” she’d say while smiling, humming a happy tune.
Madison is one of those people who doesn’t dwell on the what-ifs when things are going wrong. Instead, she expects things to work out. I’m not sure if she adheres to a “power of positive thinking” belief-system, but in a practical way that’s who she is.
But then, year after year, it was bad news, worse news, awful news. Life has a funny way of surprising you like that. So you think that’s how it is, do you? someone seems to be asking behind the scenes. Well then, let’s see what you think about this! BAM!
During the last year, after they told me I had stage four cancer with little hope of survival, I’ve noticed a few more adjustments in Madison, now Maddye. She gives me long hugs, the kind that can change your mood from bad to good. She comes to me, not infrequently, and curls up on my lap, just as she did when she was that adorable big-eyed baby, and she simply holds on. She apologizes quicker than she might with a dad living under the seventy-year plan. And she tells me she loves me before going to bed each night.
One day, when I was feeling particularly awful, sick as a dog from chemo, Maddye surprised me by taking my hand and saying, “Dad. You don’t have to do this. If the medicine’s making you feel too sick, you can stop taking it. It’s okay.” Like those lousy movies from her childhood, she couldn’t stand to see me suffer.
“No, I’m fine,” I told her. “I want to be here with you for as long as I possibly can. So if that means being sick for a few days every other week, then that’s okay.” She thought about my answer for a few seconds and seemed satisfied.
It’s strange how a spontaneous conversation like that can become so big. Because a few days later, she tells me this story, right out of the blue.
“Hey Dad. I was in class today, and our teacher asked us this question,” she said. “Get this. She asked what we would do if someone in our family was extremely sick and going to die and wanted us to give him a pill that would make him die, so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said, or perhaps something a little stronger.
“I know,” Maddye said. “Awkward. So a bunch of the kids in my class are saying that they wouldn’t do it, that’s it’s wrong, that it’s not up to us to decide when someone should die, stuff like that.”
“So what’d you say?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know.
“Well, I stayed quiet. But everyone kept giving the same answer. So I finally raised my hand and told them that I’d do it. I told them you’re very sick, dying from cancer, and how I’d told you that if the medicine and chemotherapy was making you too sick that you should stop doing it. And then I told them how you’d said it was worth it to keep taking the medicine and be sick sometimes if it helped you live longer.”
Meanwhile, as Maddye spoke, my heart was beating like a heavy metal band’s drums.
She continued: “So I said that if you asked me to give you a pill, then you must really be suffering, because you wouldn’t stop taking the medicine before when it was making you sick. So I told them if you asked me that I’d know that it was really bad and I’d give it to you.”
“Gosh Maddye, what did everyone say?” I asked, trying to maintain control.
“After I said that, everyone was completely quiet. No one said a word. But after class a bunch of them came up and told me they were sorry about my dad.”
There she was, happy-go-lucky Maddye, so beautiful, so full of life, having to think about making one of the hardest calls of all. She was so grown up now, a high school senior, heading off to college next year, and I was so proud of her.
A few days later, our family was thinking about going to see one of the holiday films. When LeAnn mentioned Marley and Me, I hesitated. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maddye might not like it. I heard a rumor that the ending is ’sad’.”
Funny. I was still trying to protect her from the imperfect world out there, that place that can be so big, so scary, so sad. Meanwhile, Maddye had moved beyond that dream into the real world, where someone, every day, has to decide whether or not to pull the plug.
LeAnn
I met my wife LeAnn while we were attending college at Oklahoma State University. She was a sophomore, and I was a junior. We had both signed up to be part of Varsity Review, which is a singing and dancing show, and her sorority (Chi Omega) was paired up with my fraternity (Delta Tau Delta). I was there to meet girls, and she was there, I assume, to meet guys, bond with girls in her house, and have fun.
I asked her out a couple of months later when the opportunity arose. She hesitated at first (her friends said I “wasn’t her type”), but she eventually agreed. Our first date was for coffee in March of 1985, almost twenty-four years ago. We began dating steadily a few months later. During my senior year, we were inseparable.
Upon completing my degree, I was accepted into law school at the University of Oklahoma. LeAnn still had one year to go. So I headed off to Norman, while she stayed behind in Stillwater. This “long-distance” relationship (a one hour and fifteen minute drive) was tough, but it only lasted one semester. I asked her to marry me during Christmas break, December, 1986, and, incredibly, she said yes.
LeAnn joined me in Norman after Christmas. She completed her degree by doing her student teaching at Norman High. That semester she lived in an apartment with our friends Polly and Shellie. We married in the summer, on July 25, 1987, and have lived in Norman ever since. I was twenty three years old at the time, and LeAnn was twenty-two.
We spent the remainder of our twenties like most other young marrieds do: getting used to married life; completing our education (I received my law degree in 1989, while LeAnn obtained her Master’s Degree in Mathematics at OU that same year, earning straight A’s); scrambling to find jobs; getting established in our community; and starting a family. Our daughter Maddye was born in 1991, and Ford was born three years later, in 1994.
As we hit our thirties, LeAnn and I were still living a fairly normal life. It was a crazy time, of course, as we were busy raising kids while balancing marriage, work, friendships, church, and our personal interests. I was working as a lawyer at various places and attempting to establish myself as a writer. LeAnn was multitasking, as wives/mothers tend to do. In addition to her mom responsibilities and volunteer duties, she taught night classes at several different colleges. And she worked for a time at a church, organizing women’s book studies.
But while we were in our middle thirties, during the hustle and bustle of life, cancer came and knocked on our door. I was thirty-seven years old. LeAnn was only thirty-six, which is way too young to be suddenly thrust into a new role, the wife of a seriously ill husband.
I have described those early years and how they affected me in my memoir, I Survived Cancer, but Never Won the Tour de France. But as with practically everyone who steps into the unenviable role of caretaker, LeAnn’s story is lesser known.
It would be nearly impossible for me to tell you that story. I’m too close to it, to be honest, and I’m pretty sure LeAnn wouldn’t want me to anyway. But I can tell you this: it’s as heroic as any story I know, much more so than mine.
I can give you a brief sketch of LeAnn, however. That is, I can tell you about some of her best qualities and a few of her primary interests, the stuff that helps make her the incredible person she is.
In addition to being easy on the eyes, LeAnn is smart. She’s hardworking and tough. She’s adventurous and fun. She’s generous and kind-hearted. She loves people deeply. She’s a devoted wife and a wonderful mom. She’s my best friend and has been for nearly a quarter of a century. I don’t know who or where I would be without her.
LeAnn enjoys book clubs, for she reads dozens of books each year. She’s genuinely interested in other cultures. She’s a certified scuba diver and loves to go diving in Mexico. She’s the Math Counts coach at her middle school, and her team is one of the best in the state. She’s also a runner, having completed her first half marathon last year.
And as for the cancer years, those years that have stretched from her mid-thirties to the age of forty-three, well, what can I say? She’s been severely tested, that’s for sure. No one steps into a marriage expecting to deal with the kinds of issues LeAnn has had to deal with at such a young age. In addition to all the craziness that comes with being a mother, teacher, friend, and human being with dreams of her own, LeAnn has had to drop everything in her life, time after time, in order to help me.
It’s a lonely, thankless job, being the “caretaker,” a job that’s so big and exhausting and overlooked that it’s nearly impossible to describe it in words. The best I can do is to give you a sense of it from a poem I wrote in 2007.
The Caretaker
If I told you how many needles
they’ve stuck in me
in the name of making me well
you’d probably never believe it.
If I told you of the drugs
I’ve ingested or the poisons
they’ve pumped through my veins,
you’d wonder if it was possible.
If I told you of the radiation
that had seeped through my body,
via x-rays, scans and “therapies,”
you’d call me a monster.
If I told you of the surgeries
I’ve endured and the scars I wear,
you might question God
or, more likely, your faith.
If I detailed the vomiting, the bills,
and how often I’ve been told,
“I’m sorry, it’s cancer,”
you’d call me a hopeless cause.
If I told you of the conversations
I’ve had with my wife, my kids,
my parents, family and friends,
you’d walk away.
If I told you these things,
if I counted them all up
and then disclosed the final tally
you’d give me up
because life wouldn’t make sense anymore.
So I’ll keep all the counting to myself,
because I need you to hang in there
with me, playing that major
or minor role in the screenplay.
But if you wanted to know more,
if you somehow convinced me
to reveal the things I’ve seen,
to divulge those horrible numbers,
and then if you needed confirmation,
you could fact-check with my wife,
who witnessed and endured
these same things.
She brought the cold rags
for my forehead, the pans
to throw up in, the pills
I was to take with my meals.
She bandaged my wounds,
emptied my drains,
made impossible phone calls
and arrangements for the kids.
She cried over the bills,
set up impractical payment plans,
drove me to my appointments
and slept by my hospital bed.
Ask her. She’ll tell you.
She was the one who remained
ever-so-patient when people asked,
“So how’s Jim?”
Family
Two years ago my memoir, I Survived Cancer, but Never Won the Tour de France, was first published.
In the book, which is kind of a common man’s introduction/guide to the absolute craziness that is cancer, I included poems between each chapter. The poems were written during the thick of the battle. One of those poems is a favorite of mine, but it is also one of my most difficult. During the few times I have tried to read it out loud to audiences, I have choked up every time.
Anyway, for what it’s worth, here it is.
family
four will be
three
three will be
two
two will be
one
three bury
one
two bury
two
one buries
three
cruel world where
four
can’t just be
four
and always be
four
That’s a pretty painful poem, because almost all of us have experienced it in some way, and all of us will experience it eventually. That is, the loss of someone in our immediate family. My family, growing up, consisted of six of us: dad, mom, my three sisters, and me. We lost my sister Karyn to a car accident at the age of twenty. So six has become five. If I leave, five will become four.
My other family (the one in which I’m the husband and father) consists of four people: my wife LeAnn, my seventeen year old daughter Maddye, and my fourteen year old son Ford. I wrote the poem “family” while thinking of them, along with my own mortality and the loss of my sister.
It is sad when one of us has to leave. But it may be even sadder for those left behind, especially for that last person, the one who buries all the rest of his or her family.
Although this “Life is Real” series has primarily been about me up to this point, I want you to know that there are three others who are just as much a part of the story as I am. They are, in fact, up to their necks in it. Those people are, of course, LeAnn, Maddye, and Ford. They are my inner circle, the three people I love the most in the world.
Over the next week, I will be writing a tribute to each of them. I want to show you a glimpse of the incredible people that they are. And I want you to know that they too are doing their best to find hope and meaning and guidance during these difficult days.
Walking the Dog
So yesterday was the big day: the day The Oklahoman formally launched its stories about my family and me in the newspaper.
Yes, we’ve been blogging in this “Life is Real” series for well over a month now, and many people started reading weeks ago. But the internet’s not for everyone, so yesterday was officially the “big day.” For on that day the story was due to appear on the front cover of the paper, and many thousands of readers would decide for the first time whether or not my story was something they were interested in.
You might be wondering how that made me feel. How does it feel to have a third party (Ken Raymond) reflect on your life after many weeks of careful observation and then report his thoughts to a great many others who don’t know you from Adam?
Well, I felt a little queasy, to be honest. Oh, I wasn’t nervous about how the story would be told or received, mind you-that was out of my hand(s). I would instead liken it to those college days when grades are due to be released. The work was done. The grades were due and beyond anyone’s control. And although you think everything will probably turn out fine, sometimes it’s just a little easier not to think about it.
Listen. I believe in what we’re doing here, and I know Ken’s a seasoned writer who’s more than up to the task. Nevertheless, it’s a little intimidating to read what an unbiased third party thinks about your life. Plus, even after all these years of dealing with and writing about cancer, I still find it difficult, at times, to look at what the disease has reduced me to.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to face the story right away. I had a poetry reading in Tulsa on Saturday, so my wife and I spent the night there at the Warren Doubletree. I awoke on Sunday morning to a hotel full of Tulsa Worlds and USA Todays, but virtually free of other newspapers. Plus, my computer was back home in Norman, so I had no ability to read the story online.
I suppose we could’ve found an Oklahoman in Tulsa if we’d really wanted. But instead of heading to the nearest 7-Eleven, LeAnn and I drove to the Blue Dome Diner for a fabulous breakfast. (The French toast rocks, by the way.) After that, we carefully avoided all newspaper-selling stores and drove home.
We arrived in Norman sometime after one p.m., and within minutes the newspaper was staring us in the face. I picked it up, flipped through the photos, and then went to the back bedroom for a nap without reading a word. I awoke an hour later. Rested, I again fought off the urge to read what had been written about me and went to walk the dog.
As my golden retriever Gracie could tell you (if she wasn’t a dog), I’m not the best dog-owner in the world, at least when it comes to taking her out on walks. A couple of years ago, I was much better, walking three miles a day, four days a week, with Gracie and my friend Dave. But I fell out of the habit, and the latest cancer diagnosis made returning to such walks difficult. My fatigue always seemed to take precedence over Gracie’s need for a walk, despite how much I love her and despite all the guilt I’ve recently experienced after watching Marley and Me.
Poor dog, even she was suffering as a result of my cancer.
Anyway, you know I’m procrastinating about something when I suddenly announce that I’m taking Gracie out for a walk. But walk we did.
It was a beautiful, glorious day, especially for January. Fifty-five degrees, sunny, no wind. Gracie and I walked over to a nearby park. There, I took off her leash, and she ran back and forth in the happy-go-lucky way dogs do, as if we had no problems, as if we owned the world. I breathed in the crisp air and considered my surroundings. Some children were playing on the swings nearby. It hadn’t been too long ago when my own kids were out there on the playground. Time passes so fast.
After awhile, I called Gracie back over and put her leash back on. I patted her on the head and told her what a great dog she is. I told I was lucky to have her, that I didn’t know how a person made it through cancer without a dog like her, always happy, always ready and willing to give as much time as was needed. She licked my hand in response, and I told her how much I love her.
Then we turned and headed back home. There was a newspaper story waiting. It was time to return to the real world.
A New Calendar
I bought a new calendar last week, the 2009 month at a glance version. I prefer this version because I’m a month at a glance type of guy. I tend to get so focused on the tasks staring me directly in the face that I need a bigger picture to remind me visually of the road ahead. Even a week at a glance won’t do the trick.
Anyway, as I open the new calendar, I admit having mixed feelings, most of them falling on the negative side. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a particular day with my name on it, the day my body gives up what has been, I think, a good fight. There’s a time and a place for every purpose under heaven, it has been said, so I find myself thinking about certain months and seasons. Will I see another spring or summer? Will I make it past April to see Maddye’s 18th birthday or to May to see her graduate high school?
Plus, the new calendar is too open-ended. If I were to show you my last calendar, you’d see my chicken-scratch written all over it–notations about upcoming trips to Houston, poetry readings, writing deadlines, lunch and breakfast meetings, concerts by my son, vacations, etc. But the new calendar is strangely free of writing. Why? Well, because of the holidays and uncertainties regarding my health, I’ve done very little planning beyond this point. For two months now I’ve been saying, “I’ll decide that after the holidays.” So guess what? As of today, the holidays have officially ended.
On the other hand, in some ways I’m glad to say goodbye to the old calendar, for I can’t in all honesty say I’m sorry to see 2008 go. I’ve made it this far, which is good, but 2008 was in so many ways an awful year. Gas prices soared. Our economy tanked. Home values plunged. Many people lost their life savings due to banking blunders and sheer greed. My family was hit by bad news numerous times.
Yes, 2008 was tough, but it wasn’t all bad. Our country had an incredible presidential election, one that gives me hope. I celebrated my 21st wedding anniversary and published a new collection of poems. LeAnn and I went on some incredible vacations with friends and family. Ford finished a terrific six-song CD and played for his third time at Opening Night. Maddye became a high school senior. I gave two dozen public readings, saw some great plays and shows (Spamalot, Jersey Boys, Billy Elliot, Tom Waits, Beatles Love, and Jerry Seinfeld), read some great books (The Brothers Karamazov, Death Be Not Proud), and even saw a few good films (Frost/Nixon, Doubt, Slumdog Millionaire). I deepened old friendships and made some new ones. Plus we embarked on this series, with hopes that it would be helpful to others.
So I close the 2008 calendar and open the new one with relief and regret. Thank you for your prayers and may you all have a happy new year.
Life is… Surreal
I haven’t been able to write for the last few days because my wife and I have been out of town, vacationing with some of our dearest friends. But we’re back now, and I’m ready to start writing once again.
It’s been a surreal time, these last three and a half days. We’ve been so busy celebrating life and friendship and just being thrilled about getting away that I haven’t had time to think too much about all that other stuff: cancer; chemotherapy; medical decisions; insurance; the road ahead; and, yes, dying. Oh, those thoughts would creep in every now and then, when there were distinct reminders, but I had long stretches when I was able to completely forget the reality of the way things are.
So today I’m thankful for what we have just received. And to be completely honest, I’m not quite ready to let it go.
Christmas Thoughts
Here’s a question I get fairly often: Does it make you sad when a holiday (like Christmas) is over, because it might be your last?The answer is yes, it’s inevitable for the holidays to take on a bittersweet edge. I can’t help but think back upon all the great Christmases I’ve had. I remember how my sisters and I would stay up all night waiting for Santa to come. I remember getting presents like a new bicycle and a racecar track. I remember driving in the early morning to Tahlequah, where my extended family gathered to open presents. I remember trying to pick out the right gift for my wife. And I remember the days, not-so-long-ago, when my kids were little, how they’d walk into the living room with wonder in their eyes as they saw the stockings and presents waiting.
I love Christmas, so it hurts, terribly, to think this could be it.
But we cannot dwell on such things. For when we do, we trade away the potential for joy. The sadness is always there, waiting to sweep me away if I would allow it. Today it is Christmas. Tomorrow it will be something else.
Yes, trying times bring about inevitable moments of sadness. So when they do, we should take a little time to let that grief out in some positive way. And then we must put it away and move on.
As I’ve told my friends and family, now’s not the time for being sad. That time may be coming, but today isn’t it. Today, I’m alive and getting the wonderful gift of spending an entire day with my family.
Who knows what will happen down the road?
Therapy
I have this poem called “Two Guys in Therapy” that was published in Oklahoma Today magazine last summer, in the issue focusing on barbeque. The running joke, or observation, in that poem is that guys are pretty clueless when it comes to depression and therapy. Rather than going to see a professional (therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, priest, pastor, or shaman), guys tend to go to their favorite barbeque joint and pig-out.
While I like to poke fun at guys, cause we deserve it, you’ve gotta be careful when it comes to issues like depression, counseling sessions, medication, and what not. (Look at what happened to Tom Cruise.) It’s a serious topic, one that each person will probably have to muddle through at some point in his or her life, so long as they live in a country where such options are somewhat affordable.
As for me, I’ve seen my share of therapists, some helpful, some not so much. As a general rule, I think therapy can be wonderful and is, at times, critical. And the same is true for medication. Although it’s arguably true that America is a bit overmedicated, there are conditions and circumstances for which prescribed medicine is truly a lifesaver.
Due to my crappy health, people tend to assume that I’m in some sort of intense ongoing psychotherapy and that I’m popping pills like a guy eating popcorn at a movie.
However, truth is I’ve developed my own mental health wellness plan. It began long ago with a lot of reading, writing, and visits to a variety of professionals in the field, from psychiatrists to church counselors. But it has adapted over time. It is deeper now, more thought out and helpful.
Reading and writing are essential to the plan. Writing, and poetry in particular, is one of my primary methods of flushing the psychological and emotional toxins that build up inside me. Now I understand that many people don’t have creative outlets for the stress and grief they’re experiencing. Few of us are writers and a heck of a lot fewer than that are poets.
But anyone can read, and everyone should be doing it on a regular basis. In addition to books covering a specific topic I may be interested in (like mental health), I tend to choose books about “real stuff,” which means nonfiction, honest poetry, and time-tested classics. Plus, my wife LeAnn reads a lot of books about other cultures, so I get to select from her highest recommendations.
Beyond reading, I do a heck of a lot of one-on-one talking with friends, the true counselors of my life. Each of these friends serves a different function, and together they have helped me make it through this physically and emotionally taxing journey. I’d like to mention some of them here, because they deserve it.
I meet regularly for breakfast with my friends Don Hull and Molly Griffis. Don is older than me, a college professor, writer, cancer survivor, and former minister. With approximately seventy years under his belt, he has much to say about marriage, parenting, work, and spiritual matters. But he’s also very practical. He calls every week, no matter what. He drove me back and forth from physical therapy, and he has rescued me at chemo more than once. From time to time, he swings by work to take me to lunch or by the house with a coconut creme pie, my favorite. And he’s also cleared my yard of leaves several times, knowing that one-armed guys like me are not good with rakes.
I meet with Molly a couple of times a month. She is my advisor on the business of writing. As a former publisher and well-known author of children’s books, Molly tells me who I should call or connect with. Due to my difficulties stuffing envelopes, she mails out books for me whenever someone orders them through my website. That’s a huge help. She lost her husband to cancer last year, so we traveled that journey together. I’m sure she’s adapting to living alone after fifty years (or so) of marriage, so I think our friendship is as helpful to her as it is to me.
I meet with other friends for lunch on a regular or semi-regular basis. I’ve been meeting with Patti Parrish since we worked together at a law firm in the early nineties. Patti is now a District Court judge, and we’re often joined by others who worked with us (Martha Marshall, Travis Pickens, or Lisa Davis). Patti and I are brother and sister in pain. Mine has to do with cancer and the loss of my sister Karyn in a car accident. Among other things, Patti lost her husband in a freakish train accident, her sister to cancer, and her adopted daughter April was murdered by her husband. And together we shared the painful loss of our dear friend and coworker Doyle Bunch, who drowned in a tragic scuba diving accident. Patti and I have a commonality that is unusual in this area.
I meet at least once a month with my good friend Charlotte Lankard. Charlotte is a counselor at Integris Hospital, and she writes a column for the Oklahoman. She is one of the kindest people I know, and she was the driving force behind this “Life is Real” series. Charlotte lost her husband to cancer some years ago, so she identifies with my circumstance personally. She also lost her adopted son quite recently. She’s been through other pain too, physical and relational. So we share a lot in common. As a counselor, she asks me the questions no one else asks, or even thinks of, and she serves a therapist role in my life too that is an extension of our friendship.
Nathan Brown is my poetry buddy and my creative collaborator. We meet for lunch at the Red Cup when we can, and we do a lot of poetry readings and like events together. He gets a gig and invites me to join him, and vice versa. We share a writing madness that is difficult to explain, but it’s good to know there are other crazies out there too. He tries to be the friend who helps me forget about my health and future, however briefly.
LeAnn and I have a whole host of friends we meet with regularly for dinner or a night on the town. Don and Shellie Greiner were our college buddies, and we’ve remained close over the years. We’ve gone on vacation together, attended the theater with them on many occasions, and get together as often as possible for dinner. Don and I also do lunch here and there. They are some of the best people we know, and they’ve been there for us in more ways than they would ever let me relate in writing.
We also get together with Jack and Katie Kain quite often. Jack shares my addiction to the weather (but he’s a professional), and Katie shares my addiction (as well as LeAnn’s) for reading. Jack is philosophical, which I love, and he joins me for coffee whenever we remember to set a date. We talk about some tough things, and it hurts when I share something that brings him pain. But that’s life I guess, and he is wise about life.
We also meet for dinner with friends like Alan and Kerri Tiedeman, Kevin and Kristy Bloss, William and Ginger Murray, Pam and Dwight Normile. These are lifelong friends that have been meeting with us for years. We can get together with them and relax, able to be ourselves no matter what that may mean on the day in question.
At work, I’ve shared my ongoing journey with a host of friends, Lendell Blosser, Lou Kohlman, Allan Smith, Patty Grotta, Melanie Stucky, Linda McGuire, Arlene Johnson, students like Ashley and Linsey, and members of my staff. The whole place has been there for me, donating sick leave, giving my family presents we don’t deserve, praying.
I get together with other friends on more of a random basis, for an occasional meal, to watch a movie, to watch a game, or perhaps sample a tasty beverage. Dwight and Alan, mentioned above. David Payne, Jim Bishop, Mike Bumgarner, Andy Horton, Brooks Hull, Trent Bell, Scott Petty, Tom Hemry. And with many others, especially dear friends who are far away, I do my best to maintain a meaningful email relationship. They send cheerful notes, encouraging me to keep up the good fight.
The point is this: my wife and I have a tremendous circle of friends. We are truly blessed. Without them, I would be much worse off than I am–indeed I’d hate to think where I’d be. I often see folks at cancer centers that have no one at all. So I am lucky, and proud, to have such dear friends. They are therapeutic to me, having become an important part of my ongoing wellness plan.
