Dad. We are not sad because it's over, but we smile because he lived.

Thank you to everyone for all the kind words, notes, meals, and visits. The Clot loves you all.

Voyages

Of late I’ve been thinking a lot about voyages, due, no doubt, to the centennial commemoration of the sinking of the Titanic. The Titanic was the largest movable man-made object on earth…and pronounced unsinkable. It was a pitiless deception.

The ship was launched in early April on a great and ambitious adventure, with passengers representing all strata of society, from plutocrats to peasants. The Titanic was an exceedingly ornate and elaborate structure…a model of robust architectural busyness.

A recent documentary concluded that this grand ocean voyager sank because of “negative buoyancy.” Well, Duuh-uh! I always considered “negative buoyancy” a euphemism for age-related geriatric sag. I know well that feeling of betrayal when all things once thought eternally perky eventually sink.

There is an inherent comedic element to natural bodily functions and the tyranny of time…a sort of humorous chagrin about skin like beef jerky or limbs with dimples like inverted Braille. And frequently one’s social calendar is at the mercy of one’s regularity. The finest minds that ever lived have created structures specifically designed to cantilever our bodies to a state of perfect eternal float, until we ferment and fossilize. Women especially are expected to morph into fanciful hybrids of unrelenting youth and graceful maturity. The creations render us anatomically incorrect. Also, they’re anatomically inhumane. These are unrealistic expectations. Anatomy undulates. Our personal architecture loses some of its power, energy and force. We must deal with it, not conceal it. In fact, I think we ought to flaunt it, like medals of honor worn by veterans who have survived the extended warfare of simply getting through this life. What I wouldn’t give to be in charge of selecting the cover for Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

Sometimes I think we sign on for voyages assuming it will be a phantasmagoria of festivities and clear sailing on calm seas. But if we take the time to read the fine print on the agreement, we find there are no guarantees. Last week the waters became rather turbulent for us. Dennis had some issues that, at first, seemed to indicate a possible bowel blockage. The doctor at the Acute Care Center also made casual reference to a scan that possibly showed some irregularities (tumors?) in his peritoneum. No matter how frequently such incidents occur, it is never routine. We were stunned. This was news to us, since we had read the scan reports, and there was no mention of peritoneum involvement. The information came like a series of javelins thrown so fast we hardly had time to register collision.

And so we approached Dennis’ PET/CT scan on Monday with a degree of trepidation, preparing ourselves for the blow by conversation omission. We simply did not make our apprehensions audible. Sometimes not naming our demons makes them easier to abide, but my innards were a swollen knot. I did retreat to a small corner of my heart, where I could salvage enough composure to absorb the impact of the impending specifics and remain an intact entity. Not an easy task.

Wednesday we got the radiologist’s report of the scans. We read and re-read the information imbedded on those pages. Apparently, there is no evidence of spread to the peritoneum. There is some lung involvement that indicates a nodule in the left lung has enlarged somewhat. We expected this since Dennis has been off chemo for four months. And we have a battle plan. We are going for complete and utter obliteration.

I have a picture of a river so full of crocodiles that one can hardly see the water. The caption underneath reads, “The only way out is through.” It is by Robert Frost. Our family has adopted that philosophy as our mantra. Often one’s only viable option when trying to get to the other side is to go through.

A dear friend, Sam Arishita, suffered a freak fall that rendered him a quadriplegic. We talk regularly, sharing each other’s triumphs and disappointments. Recently he told me he was able to crawl across the floor. A monumental achievement. We were euphoric. Sam is a cherished and trusted friend, and we care deeply for each other. He is like a strong magnetic field that attracts what is positive and reflects it. He knows better than most how to navigate through treacherous, croc-infested waters. All our lives are interconnected. We were meant to learn from one another. If it is true that, as has been said, we attract what we dread, it is simple logic to stop dreading. If Sam can crawl across the floor and the heavens rejoice, surely I can put one foot in front of the other. There is a certain grace and power that comes with perseverance. It would be an offence to Sam’s miracles, not to mention our own, if we did not keep heading toward the other side of the river.

There are times in this voyage that I wonder if I actually signed up for the adventure, if I cross-checked the weather forecast and prepared for the perils. But I know our destination, and perhaps that knowledge, along with our compass, are the most crucial instruments of the journey. Possibly tempests are the most efficient means of reaching the Promised Land. Still, the only way out is through.

Sometimes I feel like a consort battleship. Other times I feel like I’m a little dingy. But in commemoration of the Titanic, and ALL things once thought unsinkable that have gone down, I’m going braless.

The Art of Aversion

Last Thursday, Dr. Suri determined that the abscess on Dennis’ liver was sufficiently “offed” by potent medicines (whose main ingredients are arsenic and toxic waste) and he could safely transition from IV antibiotics to oral. I was so thrilled, I made a wanton display of delight, high-fiving the entire office staff from the front desk to the latrine.  For almost eight straight weeks now, we have been cocooning Dennis’ picc line (the portal where the medications are injected) in saran wrap for his daily shower, until he looked like a tightly-bound chrysalis waiting for Mothra to emerge.  Bathing will be greatly simplified.

This whole antibiotics thing has taken its toll.  The medication is potent enough to knock out the monster infection, but it dang near took out his digestive tract, too.  Dennis looks slightly malnourished, because he is. One of the most flagrant side effects of rocephin is, to put it delicately, diarrhea.  I have tried everything, from ransacking health food stores to resorting to dumpster dives in an effort to discover something edible that he can absorb nutritionally, and that will not “come to pass.” This is a monumental task. Desperation has even had me investigating the potential health benefits of yak urine and marshmallows. Dennis has been wary understandably of anything yellow I place on his plate.  He always was a picky eater!

By a happy coincidence, one day on the news, I heard of a new culinary technique from, of all people, Alicia Silverstone.  Apparently, she chews her food until it’s the consistency of pink slime, similar to the pre-digested liquid worm broth mother birds regurgitate down the gullets of their chicks.  Then, in an act of severe depravity and utter disgust, she transfers the wad of simulated cheese curds and fat globules directly into her child’s palette for his nourishment and enjoyment.  She claims it is in the child’s best interest.  OHH-KAYYY.  Did I mention she starred in the movie “Clueless?”

However, always open to innovative ways to show my love AND supplement Dennis’ body mass, I volunteered to do the same for him. Because it’s Easter time, I could substitute “Peeps” for the marshmallows. Perhaps it could be considered an act of affection and triage, the outer manifestation of inner celestial fire…a higher state of decorum and moral virtue. Why not?  Nothing else seemed to be working. 

Unable to appreciate the possibilities, Dennis politely declined my offer, suggesting that Alicia Silverstone suffers from socially disruptive narcissism, and maybe with our combined intellect, we could invent other ways of generating flesh on his bones than by totally grossing ourselves out. That made sense. He suggested that I continue in my official capacity as the “bowel whisperer” in order to mitigate the “liquid assets,” and hinted that I should stop listening to Entertainment Tonight as a viable news source. Wow.  Way to harsh my mellow!  But he’s right.  From now on, I’m sticking with Barbara Walters for truth and guidance.

It takes courage to get through tough times.  The Art of Aversion helps me navigate my way through gray and weary places.  I find that if I don’t look too closely or think too clearly, I am able to do what needs to be done without imprinting painful things.  I simply put on the therapeutic blinders, looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, and place one foot in front of the other. This is not to be confused with therapeutic denial. Oh no. Aversion is just a coping mechanism that assists one in inculcating the practice of perfect self-control.  And self-control is crucial in trying to avoid spontaneous combustion during times of trial.  It is a viable alternative to mainlining dopamine in the face of a cacophony of lab values.

Although, that higher order of intelligence (aversion) can backfire at times.  Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away.  I was determined to attend the viewing without weeping.  Eyes of cork. Total self control. So I decided not to look closely at anything or anyone.  I would just go through the line, pay my respects, and try to remain composed. 

Well, I signed our names in the Book of Remembrance, and moved, head down, toward the casket.  When we got there, we saw, to our chagrin, that we were at the wrong viewing. It was a man we did not know and had never seen before. His family was so gracious and friendly. And  we were so mortified.  The only thing I could think of to do was grab a handful of Kleenex, cover my face to conceal my embarrassment and humiliation, (not to mention stifle my laughter) and depart quickly, hopefully without being cited by the Behavior Nazis for a flagrant social faux pas.  The whole incident gave new meaning to the term “exit wound.” Dennis just rolled his eyes and continued down the family line. He’s used to frequent mental power outages. His patience should be a controlled substance.

I have been reading Brodi’s sequel to “Everneath.”  It is terrific, and reveals the lay-out of the Hades that was referenced in her first book.  A while ago, she asked our family to give her suggestions as to how we imagined this underworld. I was thrilled to offer my assistance. I came up with ideas that were nothing short of riveting inspiration. My creative juices were on steroids.  I presented these ideas in an uninterrupted monologue worthy of a senate filibuster. Then I sat back in hubristic and bloated self-satisfaction and waited for her grateful ratification. 

Brodi listened patiently, and then made the acerbic observation that Nikki went to Hell, not the ICU!  “Well,” I huffed, “it’s all the same to me.”  Actually, she was right.  The kingdom I had created involved being confined by tethers of plastic tubing to frightening machines which spewed forth alarming numbers and great noise. Her realm was far superior, as if all nine Muses had inspired her to organize an underneath of various geographical locations with different degrees of awfulness. It was brilliant. I deferred and ratified.

The Art of Aversion is a very useful tool when one is trying to pass through the tunnels of despair. 

Dennis and I have turned our clocks to OFST (Old Fart Standard Time) and continue to celebrate joyful things. Adversity has a way of distinguishing between things that matter and things that don’t. And it is at these times that I want to see most clearly.  

  

CAESAR

Yesterday was the Ides of March.  In 44 B.C., a soothsayer warned Julius Caesar to “beware the Ides of March,” and not go to the Senate. More important, SO DID HIS WIFE! Actually, not much has changed in the two millennia since that day.  It doesn’t take Deepak Chopak to espouse the wisdom of avoiding politics…and listening to one’s wife.  However, Caesar disregarded the warnings and did not beware.  Big Mistake!  Bad Caesar. The consequences of that little decision really made a mess for housekeeping.

Yesterday was also our anniversary.  As avid archivists, we have learned a lot from history, and, unlike Caesar, we bewared (bewore?  Whatev!)  We decided not to tempt fate by doing anything fun.  Instead, just to be safe, we went straight to the University Hospital for another paracentesis!  It is better to suck out three more liters of fluid from Dennis’ midsection, than to risk being eviscerated by guys wearing white togas and carrying concealed daggers. 

Actually, the more I think about it, there were some striking similarities.  Of course, there was no blind man on the steps leading up to the hospital predicting the future by reading the entrails of a chicken. But there were a bunch of guys wearing white lab coats interpreting the growth patterns of a Petri dish and carrying concealed scalpels whose sole intention was to carve portals in Dennis’ lower hemisphere in order to drain his abscess pockets.  Thankfully, in this case, nothing soaked the floor, and Mark Antony didn’t take the podium with his “Dr. Brutus is an honorable man” speech.  That was reassuring.

And as if being down a quart of precious bodily fluids isn’t enough to generate paroxysms of jubilation, the “Technicians at Delphi” informed us that the ultrasound showed the abscess is significantly diminished.  In unrestrained delight, we did a victory lap around the lobby of the hospital.  We had to check our velocity, however, because Dennis was in hospital attire, whose construction is anything but modest and can at an unguarded moment reveal the lay of the land.  It is wise to temper one’s speed with prudence lest things are revealed to an unsuspecting public which are best left concealed.  But Dennis really rocks those hospital gowns!

Good news is the new prozac.  Dennis has been on a powerful antibiotic, rocephin, which is specifically designed to target strep anginosis, an evil bug akin to Ellen Ripley’s alien nemesis.  As innocuous as this drug’s name seems, (it sounds like something one would plant in a garden) it has done some serious damage to the abscess.  Unfortunately, it is harsh on Dennis’ already compromised system, and challenges both of us to constantly re-invent appropriate obscenities for talk bubbles over our heads.  We’ve tried channeling our inner Julius Caesar for his inspirational final words, but neither of us speaks Latin, and “Etu Brute!” just doesn’t cut it. We’re big-time into words consisting of four letters.

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we chose to postpone our elaborate anniversary celebration pageantry until today.  This works for me.  “Sympathetic diarrhea syndrome” has caused me to temporarily relinquish the title of “Our Lady of Perpetual Perkiness.”  Daylight Savings Time seems to extract an hour out of EVERY day, and settling our weary carcasses into matching recliners in a synchronized collapse is a major part of our afternoon protocol.  Dennis is particularly angular, and we are constantly shielding him from paleontologists who might be tempted to excavate and carbon-date his bones.

This afternoon, however, we are going to see a live theatrical production of “Zorro,” the musical.  We can’t wait to be swashbuckled by Don Diego de la Vega, who rights wrongs and brings justice to the tyranny in his town.  (Yeah, yeah, but can he tolerate massive doses of rocephin for six straight weeks without the runs?  Now that’s something to sing about!)

We had considered going to see “Hunger Games,” but after a steady diet of rainwater and rice gruel, we much prefer Bacchanalian Excess Games.

And we are preparing for the production big time, donning masks and practicing our thrust and parry like we learned in our correspondence course, En Garde for Dummies. In the absence of rapiers or daggers, we opted for some dull steak knives I resurrected from a kitchen drawer. 

It was rather an amusing exercise in foolishness to slash imaginary Z’s in each other’s underwear while singing “Out of the night/ When the full moon is bright/ Comes a horseman known as Zorro!” with decibels that exceeded city ordinances.  (Too much leisure time creates all kind of mischief on weak minds.) But then in an errant and misguided parry, my new Spanx got snagged. SNAGGED!!!  AAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH! Dang.  Those suckers are expensive.  They’re greater inventions than even the ShamWOW! And, they’re architecturally correct. I grieved.  But, although it felt like death by a thousand paper cuts, I decided to release my angst into the universe and tried not to mourn the loss of the garment that allows me to go into polite society without too much body dismorphia.  We put the knives away, along with our dreams of being adopted by a tribe of Massai warriors.

I know, I know, running with knives is never a good idea.

Every anniversary I ponder the longevity of our marriage. How has it endured?  Why do two people decide each year to remain together? There must be many reasons.  I’m sure a contributing factor must have been my “pre-nup/post partum” vow to give Dennis sole custody of the kids in the event of divorce.  That always gave him pause. The only other plausible explanation is Dennis’ incredible gift of patience, and our strict avoidance of soothsayers, disgruntled senators, and sharp objects.

Mars, Hares and Madness

It’s March already.  It arrived a little late this year because of Leap Day, although it seems the first two months of 2012 have passed at the speed of light.  And speaking of light, on March 11^th, we will all lose an hour of sleep to pick up extra sun at the end of the day.  I guess the exchange is worth it.

March is actually named after a rather angry fellow, Mars, the Roman god of war, and it is known for madness, hatters, hares and ides. 

It is also the month Dennis and I chose to get married.  In fact, our anniversary falls exactly on the Ides of March, the date when Brutus murdered his friend, Julius Caesar.  Brutus must have been madder than a March hare.  Is this a bad omen?  Not necessarily, although we tend to avoid asylums, haberdashers, the Senate, and senators, especially on an election year.

It was nice to have leap day, a bonus 24-hour respite to catch our breath.  We invested that extra time NOT going to the Huntsman.  Not going certain places is nice, especially when we had been there so many times this past week.  I admit I began to understand the probable cause of Mars’ anger.

Last Friday, Dr. Sharma arranged to have Dennis’ portacathe removed, suspecting it could be the source of the abscess on his liver.  Having an adversarial relationship with abscesses on livers, we ratified that recommendation and showed up on the doorstep of HCH early in the morning…fasting. 

A very competent doctor entered the exam room as the designated predatory surgeon.   By virtue of its simplicity, I was invited to remain in the room for the procedure.  The nurse asked me if I would be all right, since they were just going to inject some xylacaine to deaden the surrounding area. No big deal.

Oh puhhhleeeeze!  After everything we’ve been through, nothing bothers me.  Besides, I wanted Dennis to have the benefit of the potent power of my presence to give an aura of strength and stability.  The doc had me at, “Now this is a pretty simple procedure.”  I opted to stay. 

I mean, how bad could it be?  I would simply avert my eyes by reading an out-of-date smut mag (in this particular issue, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were still together) and go to an alternate universe for the duration.

There were just two teeny weeny problems I had not factored in to my decision. 

1. I  had not eaten.
2. Because Dennis is a physician, the doctor felt compelled to deliver a play-by-play account of what he was doing in maniacally graphic detail.

So, while I could avert my eyes, I could not avert my ears.

The first thing I heard was, “Now Dennis, you’ll feel a little poke and then a slight burning sensation.”  I realized at that point I had made a very bad decision.  I wanted to adopt my daughter Erin’s technique of cupping her hands over her ears and shrieking “LA LA LA LA LA!  I’m not LISTening!” when I tried to tell her the facts of life.

“A little poke??!!!”  I heard a puncture and the nauseating sucking sound of a plumber’s friend being plunged into a backed-up sewer pipe.  He must have been using the trident of Beelzebub! 

“A slight burning sensation??!!!”  The flames of the underworld flared up from the depths of Hades licking at my pant legs and threatened to engulf the entire third floor.  What a backdraft!

This good surgeon, who no doubt was valedictorian of his graduating medical school class because of his gymnastically acute verbal descriptive prowess, then announced he was going to make a slight incision at the port site. 

What I heard was, “And now I will open a gaping cavernous wound which will hereafter be known as The Yawning and Cavernous Black Hole with the gravitational sucking power capable of engulfing the entire universe into everlasting darkness.”

Even his ornate medical terms could not obscure the facts of this “simple little procedure.”  Dennis uttered not a word.  No doubt his hearing was impaired.

The doctor then referred to a “scalpel,” but I testify I heard a Samarai sword slash through the air with predatory force cleaving the atmosphere in two as his voice went all “Miss Piggy” screaming “HYYYYYYY-YAH!”  Never allowing my eyes to wander from the magazine, I had no doubt he was conducting a total evisceration.

The metal tray was heavy with scalpels and adhesives, giving a whole new meaning to “cut and paste.”  And he described shades of pulsating pink, evoking images reminiscent of internal organs at work.  I was sure the incision would have the bite radius of a Great White. The room was suffused with the fusty aroma of alcohol and something orange and pungent. 

In the wild excess of self-indulgent narcissism, I noticed the room getting smaller and swaying slightly, as if it had been chloroformed.  The nurse thought I looked pale.  I explained I was just extremely blond.

I tried channeling my inner Whitney by belting out “They can’t take away my dignity!”  Apparently, they can.

I exited the room clinging tightly to Dennis’ arm…so he wouldn’t fall.  He endured the ordeal well, which restored our credibility. 

But the next time I’m invited to listen to a procedure, I’m going to eat breakfast, get REALLY angry, and then go to a universe far, far away, where there are no ides, hares, madness or senators.   

Romance and Wisdom

It seems the first few months of the new year are scatter shot with clusters of micro holidays specifically designed to wean us off the frenetic pace of the Christmas season.  It’s OK I guess, although I believe many of these second-tier calendar dates are specifically created by someone with a savage passion to sell greeting cards. 

This particular weekend is Presidents Day, in which we celebrate the presidents…Washington and Lincoln specifically.  This date follows close behind Valentine’s Day, which celebrates valentines specifically.

Personally, I prefer honoring the presidents to honoring Cupid.  Especially Lincoln.  He was a man of profound wisdom, a commodity seemingly in short supply these days.  He truly was honor’s voice.  His Gettysburg Address, all 272 words, has the power to transform, no matter how many times one hears it. One is always well advised to take counsel from the wise.

Valentine’s Day is something I wrestle with each year. I appreciate the sentiment, but I find it hard to legislate romance.  It seems that should be part of the daily routine…every day, like brushing your teeth or making your bed.  Affection should always be expressed.

However, this past Valentine’s Day was actually one of my favorites. No, I did not get chocolate or roses.  That would have driven me to spasms of bellicose oaths worthy of a Visigoth warrior.  (Although I have been known to accept any gift with diamonds.  Hey, we all have our standards.) 

Tuesday, I brought Dennis home from the hospital.  He had resided in room 4512 for over a week as he was treated for an abscess on his liver that was causing all kinds of havoc on his body.  Actually, his body withstood the assault admirably, although, it did leave him slightly diminished.  His washboard abs look a little like balsa wood, and his muscle memory has progressed from dementia to full-blown amnesia. But that can be resolved, all in good time.  It does not worry me.  It is sometimes a good thing not to have total recall.

I was so happy to have him in the house once again, I couldn’t restrain myself.  At the top of my lungs I began singing,  “I-eeeeeee-eye-eeeeeee-eye will always love you-ooooh-hooooo-ooooh-hooooooo.”  It gave me chills. Dennis, however, stopped me mid hooo-hooo, muttering something about Alfalfa on steroids, and suggested that the better part of romance (and wisdom) is silence.  He suggested I consider becoming the “Valentine whisperer.” 

I thought about if. I refused to be offended, although I’m not sure why.  We have toilet paper embossed with hearts, and as I placed a new roll on the dispenser, I whispered, “From my heart to your derrier.” That sufficed for the occasion.  It brought a tear to my eye.

Sometimes I think life is a leavening agent.  Shakespeare suffused his plays with Fate.  Whatever the engine that drives the events in our lives, we always have need for wisdom to guide us in negotiating the potholes on the highway of life.  Wisdom diffuses despair.

It is good to seek the guidance from voices of the past, silent mentors whose words echo to instruct and reassure.  I have several mentors that serve as constant reference points.  They are like my North Star. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN:  “I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.”

AESCHYLUS:  “He who learns must suffer.  And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

GALILEO:  “The Sun, with all the planets revolving around it, and depending on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as though it had nothing else in the Universe to do.”

OLYMPIC CREED:  “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle.  The essential thing is not to have conquered, but to have fought well.”

WINNIE-THE-POOH:  “Those who are clever, who have Brain, never understand anything.”

MOM:  “Why make the bed?  I’m just going to climb in again.”

These are a few of my silent mentors.    

So as Dennis mends and recovers from the latest ordeal, I will remember to pray, that wisdom is hard won, but comes even against our will, that our grapes will ripen eventually if we flood them with sunshine, that we will not only fight well, but triumph, that understanding eclipses IQ, and that making the bed is highly over-rated. 

Maybe wisdom really is the highest form of romance after all.  Until someone writes a song to convey that sentiment, I will have to write love letters on our toilet paper.

Score Four

Four years and seven hours ago, Dennis took one for the team and underwent “The Whipple.”  To those whose lives have not required it, “Whipple” may conjure up images of an elderly gentleman inordinately obsessed with Charmin toilet paper.  (Actually, I’m not knocking it.  The older I get, the more obsessed with toilet paper I become. I think it’s a condition of menopause.)

But to those whose health depends upon extreme intervention, The Whipple is much more.  The medical community speaks the name in hushed tones reserved for cathedrals, and genuflect at the mere mention of this formidable operation.

As I understand it, The Whipple is a relatively simple surgical procedure in which the patient is gutted by a skilled doctor with nothing to do for the next 8 to 10 hours, as he performs a total organectomy.  We had the best.  But it was one of the few times I prayed that Dr. Mulvihill had graduated medical school at the top of his class.

Dr. Mulvihill prepared us for what was about to take place by reciting an inventory of preparations for a long list of possible contingencies.  He spoke of “harvesting” the carotid.  “HARVESTING THE CAROTID???”  And then he spoke reassuringly of the tankers of blood should Dennis spring a leak. Oddly enough, I was reassured.

However, I became dizzy with the contingencies. I tried to feign competence, but soon began speaking in sentence fragments.  “What the…?”  “You’re going to put what where?”  “Is that possible?” “Is that legal?”   My final question was, “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” 

That’s not a direct quote.  Anyone who knows The Clot, knows that harsh language is our Mother Tongue.  We actually consider ourselves bilingual.

I looked at Erin and Brodi, whose saucer-eyes resembled the characters in cartoons where only the whites show up in the dark, as Dr. Mulvihill recited all the “what ifs.”  Dennis, on the other hand, seemed quite serene.  But he just had been administered the “I don’t care” drug in impressive quantities. We had not received said drugs. We cared deeply.

By the end of that long day, the girls and I looked pretty disheveled.  But Dr. Mulvihill emerged from the OR looking impressively sheveled. As Dennis surfaced from the anesthetic, the first thing he said was, “What time is it?” I thought it a curious question, but told him it was almost 10:00 p.m. and all was well.  He smiled.  It wasn’t till later I learned that just before going under, Dr. Mulvihill informed him that if he got in and found spread, he would close immediately and terminate the procedure. Dennis accepted the terms of the contract.     

 

I have always told our girls that you move in the direction you are looking. But  sometimes it is good to look back, if only for a moment.  Certain anniversaries must be observed.

It is no small thing to confront what is fearful.  Allowing angst to lie dormant might cause it to fester and abscess.  There are shadows that hover spectrally, but the best defense against shadows is to flood them with sunshine.

Are the uses of adversity really sweet?  Do we need adversity to appreciate what is of value in our lives?  Perhaps there are many answers to that question.  Four years ago, one life was usurped by another.  It was a hostile take-over, leaving a major paradigm shift in its wake.  This event altered everything. 

We look back on lessons we learned.  What occurred during this re-awakening was good.  We are able to hold on to what was of greatest consequence, and loosen our grasp on the unessential.

We cannot change the past.  Nor would we if we could.  Our task is to move forward.  Our great concern is to be guided by our experience as we plan our present. 

We will be directed by the things we love.

We also celebrate another anniversary today.  It’s been one week since Brodi’s book launch. 

She said to me that day, “What if nobody comes.”  I told her that her family would be there.  When we looked at all those present, I realized we have a very big family.

Some things we don’t understand.  Some things we never will.  Perhaps all that is expected is that we reverence the miracles.

We accept the terms.