Stepwise

It is 16 steps to my Jeep from the front door - I've parked in front of the attached garage at the end of my parents' blacktop driveway because - as the designated driver - I like to be close to the front door.

We drive for about 15 minutes to arrive at the hospital entrance, exiting the expressway to turn right, then right again, then right once more before pulling into the circular driveway at the entrance.  I greet one of the four valets and tuck my claim ticket in the pocket that holds both my phone and Mom's on the outside of the mini hipster bag I wear across my body. 

We take 3 steps to enter the building, smile at the security and information workers, then the red-vested volunteers, and take 38 steps to the radiation oncology doors just before the elevators.  Receptionist smiles at us when we open the door and sometimes we sit for a few moments in the waiting room off to the left.

Other times, we're waved back into the department, making another 18 steps to the changing room where Mom removes her shirt and bra and dons the hospital gown with the opening in the front - like a robe.  I hold the robe for her, helping her ease her arms in and smoothing it over her shoulders. 

It's a mere 7 steps to the inner waiting room where we sit, side by side, and hold hands until Radiology Technologist comes to fetch us, his bearded face eased into a gentle smile as we say hello. 

We walk, still side by side, the 20 steps to the CT scanner and I hold her arm as she sits on the table.  Used to the process, I help her remove the robe from her left arm and fold down the netting that surrounds her torso, holding the gauze in place.  RT puts on gloves to remove the dressing after placing 2 warm blankets at the end of the table.  I place one of her body, making sure to cover her feet, even if they're wearing shoes.  Then I take the 4 steps around the table to hold her right hand as RT arranges her, positioning so that the green lasers match their crosshairs to the markers on her skin. 

Once done, I smooth the other blanket over arms she places over her head.  I tuck the ends, as RT showed me, around her head and over her chest so that only her face peeks out into the frigid room.  And I soothe her, sometimes praying, others chatting, as her lower lip quivers from a mixture of low temperature and high anxiety.

Doctor and Physicist enter, peering at the catheter that exits her breast before nodding at RT.  I take 8 steps to leave the room, closing the door gently behind me only after I deposit a kiss on Mom's forehead and remind her that (1) God's with her, (2) I'm filled with love and pride for her and (3) I'm just outside while the CT is running.

I repeat those 8 steps in the reverse direction just a few minutes later, reaching to hold her hand and offering a glance of gentle impatience to RT if he hasn't removed the table from the machine and allowed her to drop her arms.  Her arthritis is bothering her without her normal medications over the last 2 weeks.  After Doctor and Physicist examine and nod over the CT display, I bundle her back in her robe and we waddle 14 more steps, like ducks in a row - RT with her fixation device, Mom holding her robe closed and me with a sheet and my bag across my body.

After unlocking two doors, we enter the HDR (High Dose Radiation) room, a smaller but warmer space where the cot awaits us.  RT places her fixation pad and I smooth the sheet over the table before helping her adjust her robe again.  He goes to fetch more warm blankets while I turn on the television in the corner - it's always tuned to the same hospital station.  The one that shows nature scenes and plays soothing music.  Mom likes that one.

She settles on the cot and I make sure she's covered and cozy and we sit together while waiting for Dosimetrist.  She bustles in and plays with the radiation device - removing the spacers in the 7 tubes and connecting long cables to deliver the radioactive seed for the carefully-prescribed times.  After the cables are all attached, I look at Mom - and she at me - and we exchange sad little smiles because it's time for me to leave. 

I take two steps toward her and offer a kiss.  "I'll pray out there," I always say, "and you pray in here."  She nods and I take a few steps I don't count because I'm moving backward, keeping my eye on her and touching Dosimetrist to remind her to take good care of my mom while I'm forbidden from being in the room.  Because I love her and she's special and she gets nervous - we both do - when I'm not there to be overprotective.

I move back to the inner waiting room to watch television fretfully.  I know she's fine - she's been doing so well - but the waiting remains difficult for me.  While I'm gone, she says they check the connections at least twice more before they all leave the room, the heavily shielded doors automatically clanging closed behind them.

"It's a little like a death chamber," Mom said after the first treatment.  "Getting carefully set up and everyone checking you and then leaving while the doors close and leave you alone with God."  I'd worry (well, I'd worry more) but when having tea with her Bible Study friend, she said it's the time she's closest to Christ - focused and reliant and quiet with only Him. 

The treatment is short - less than 8 minutes - and then they unhook her and dress the radiation site where the device protrudes.  Then they return her to me in the waiting room and we grin at each other as we move back to the dressing room to change, then back to the valet to wait on the bench, then back home to wait for the next treatment - whether it's that afternoon or the next morning.

She's done 6 treatments in 3 days thus far.  We do two more tomorrow and her final pair on Monday.

Dad had his 7th chemotherapy treatment today and gets a week off next week.  He's not been feeling well, but I hope and pray that it's doing some good.  That this medicine is killing cancer even as it's making him mildly miserable.

He's down the hall in bed.  Mom snuffles quietly on the couch across the living room.  I'll soon go to bed early myself as we're due to take those same steps in the same order just before 7AM tomorrow.   

A Feline Missive

To Whom It May Concern:

I have successfully migrated to what appears to be my new headquarters.  I am pleased to report that there are plants and chirping creatures galore, yet I've thus far not managed to escape the interior environs.  I nearly managed to slide the lighter door away from the wall recently, but Elder Paternal arose from his chair, called me an uncomplimentary name and shooed me away.  Retreat is the better part of valor, I always say, especially when confronted with Elder Paternal.  He's quite big.

I spend much of my time underground, in the cool darkness of my basement lair.  I have created multiple napping locations, better to confuse the ever-present spies, and devised multiple locations where I can lurk behind boxes or under blankets to avoid detection.  I continue to worry that Maternal will attempt another capture and place me in my Moving Nemesis.  And I so despise car rides.  I will continue to thwart her, I think.

Elder Maternal continues to care for me so I'll spare her a bit of affection and allow her to stroke my stripey coat on occasion.  There are times my food dish - an inelegant bit of plastic that says something ridiculous like "I [heart] my cat" - goes empty at times but I can typically lure a human down the steps to refill it with my favorite of kibbles.  Elder Maternal bought a different litter - it has not that sharp detergent scent and does not seem to catch on my paws.  I enjoy it all the more when Maternal curses over its lack of clumping ability.  She amuses me so I spare her some affection, ill-advised as that may be, as well.

I have endeavored to spend time with the Elders as they are acceptably quiet on most occasions.  They have learned to let their hands dangle harmlessly and I rub against them should the mood strike me.  I believe them to be suitably grateful as they often remark on my beauty.  The problematic component comes by way of the Whirling Nemesis and VeryLoudBox Nemesis.  The former perches on the ceiling and persists on moving in one direction, four blades stupidly following the first to circulate the air.  It ruffles my stripey coat and despite my glares and hisses of warning, it continues to form its damnable circles.  And so I continue to watch (and occasionally retreat). 

Whirling Nemesis would be bearable if VeryLoudBox Nemesis was not proximal.  But between VeryLoudBox and the roaring of cars or shouting of people and the constant whirling, my nerves can not bear the danger and I must keep careful watch from the kitchen. 

I have attempted to send messages via Maternal to the pride I once commanded in my former headquarters.  I corner her in private and can only do so when she's resting but she often shushes my monologues, muttering something about trying to sleep.  After many attempts and the indignity of being scolded, I reach out to you in hopes that you will tell all who listen that I will return if I'm able (though not if it requires the Moving Nemesis).  And, if not, I am well here and will seek to establish a suitable kingdom.

Mostly Respectfully,
Sir Sprout, the Stripey

Certainly

"Will you hold my hand?" she asked, lying on the CT table, completely covered with warm blankets so that only her face was exposed.  I burrowed beneath the blankets covering her arms and found her hand, curling my fingers around hers and letting her squeeze. 

"I don't think this will hurt," I offered soothingly, but frowned protectively at the men who were marking and measuring and making notes around her left breast.  She squinted a few times and I'd remind the personnel to be gentle, hoping they didn't have me removed from the room. 

We talked about zoos in an attempt at distraction, topical because Brother planned to take the girls to visit the animals today.  There's a baby giraffe.  The seal died.  And that turtle I remember from my youth has a spot in the African exhibit.

"I think elephants get lonely," I said absently, keeping an eye on the trio working on the other side of Mom.  "I heard of one that died and her mate was just miserable."

"Don't all animals get lonely if they lose someone?" she asked and I blinked down at her, this woman who's been married to my father for 43 of her 63 years.  And was suddenly staggered at the thought of her losing her lifetime mate. 

"Yeah," I replied quietly, trying for a soothing tone.  "I suppose they do."  After smoothing hair from her forehead, I leaned to place a kiss and stayed to nuzzle. 

***

"Will you wash my hair?" she requested, frowning as she sifted her fingers through her short, colored locks.  Dad, who looks remarkably like Santa with his white beard and fringe of hair around his bald head, doesn't want Mom to go grey.  So she colors hers to a mix of browns and blondes.

I found myself dumping water over it, using one of those Tupperware pitchers with the little red tick marks to note volume when she couldn't lean far enough into the sink.  I breathed in watermelon-scented shampoo she uses with the girls and scrubbed so I could smile at the piles of bubbles before rinsing them away. 

"Better?" I asked, once we were finished and she'd piled the towel atop her head. 

"Much," she replied and reached to embrace me.  I let myself cling for a moment, smoothing her hair with stripey highlights and watermelon fragrance. 

***

So whether it's fetching more water with piles of ice cubes or helping with showers or shaving her legs, I treasure this time with her.  I realize it is fleeting - that I'm losing them both - but we laugh at rerunning sitcoms and frown over prices paid for abandoned storage lockers.  We wait for stars who dance and take pills and find meals at the proper times.  And, between meetings I take on the back patio, with birds singing and the trees rustling in the background, I look out into the day - whether sunny or gloomy - and am profoundly grateful I'm able to be here.  Completing random, yet important, tasks.

Frustrations

On my daily trip to the market prefixed with Wal, I picked up various prescriptions.  Then over the counter medicines.  Then tiny cupcakes and toppings for an ice cream party we're holding tomorrow.

"Will you come to my party at school?" Smallest One asked each of us when she called yesterday. 

"We can't, sweetheart," we all replied gently.  "Grandma has to go to the doctor and Grandpa isn't feeling so well after his treatment."

Yet in another shift that I suppose I could expect, all was well today.  Dad ate his ice cream bar and deemed it excellent after his anti-nausea medicine kicked in. 

Mom slept for much of the day after her early procedure and I distracted myself from fretting in the waiting room with work and books. 

I thought about Mom's surgeon as I wandered the aisles, picking up pastel sugar sprinkles and heading to the refrigerated case for whipping cream.  She was late - nearly 30 minutes - for the procedure this morning.  Then didn't start until about an hour after the scheduled time as she screwed around with changing clothes and doing other suitably egotistical nonsense. 

My tolerance of medical personnel is pretty low for this region of the country.  Dad didn't let me go to chemo since I'm not properly respectful.  But Mom's love for me overpowers her ingrained awe of doctors.  I suppose I'm desensitized - I ask questions and raise my eyebrows when I get sarcastic responses.  And when someone berates my mother for being afraid or in pain?  I become an overprotective bear cub, growling with claws extended and eager to do some damage.

And while I tolerated the wait for the office visit and her dismissal of normal questions before and after surgery, the delays and comments this morning are intolerable.  She's a miserable bitch.  And I'm plotting my comments to her staff so they can tell her I think so.

Luckily, I think we're done with her and on to doctors I've liked better.  Dad's perking up again and my perusal of the blood reports Brother brought home have me feeling better about his progress.  So I'll keep praying and trekking to WalMart and fetching drinks for thirsty parents. 

And tomorrow, we'll make wishes of tiny cupcakes and bowls of ice cream.  I'm planning on blowing out lots of candles - let me know if you need anything.

Dramamine, Ice Cream

"You took your patch off," I realized, watching Mom huddle miserably on the couch, a drastic change from the past days of relative health and happiness. 

"Oh," she whispered, touching the spot behind her ear where they'd placed the medicinal device that had kept the nausea blessedly at bay.  Within hours of its removal, she was unable to eat and looking increasingly wan.

So I called the doctor.

I went to school with the nurse that returned my call, sending me after OTC Dramamine patches. 

"Was she smart?" Dad asked after I hung up with her. 

"Not particularly," I replied, recalling her vaguely but not from my honors classes.  So it should have been no particular surprise that I could not - after 3 drug stores - find any patches next to the pills or at the pharmacy counter. 

"Here," I said gently when I arrived home and sat next to Mom.  "Put this strip on your tongue and it will dissolve."  And while she made choking attempts to do so, I bundled her into acupressure straps and said a quick prayer for relief. 

She's feeling better now, she says from across the room, sitting on the couch and reading her Kindle rather than curled up with eyes closed. 

****

"What kind of ice cream is on that commercial?" Dad asked last night.  He's not been feeling great, but his blood counts and liver function are good and chemo continues.

"With the girl who climbs over the cars to get the ice cream bar?" I confirmed and when he nodded, I looked it up and realized it was Magnum.  And so, on my quest for anti-nausea assistance, I kept an eye out for expensive ice cream bars coated in chocolate and caramel.

"Dad doesn't want us to go with him," Mom told me yesterday.  "Because you're too pushy."  She glanced at me in surprise when I laughed.

"Brother can take him," I replied easily, still amused.  "I've met enough people who don't like me all that much not to be offended.  So if Dad doesn't want me to ask questions, I'm fine to stay home.  It's his therapy."

So Brother rode in on his motorcycle and out in my folks' SUV, Dad in tow, this morning.  He returned our dad post-therapy and went to pick up his girlfriend before mowing the yard.

I brought them dinner, the second stop of my errands, and placed it on the table while they finished riding the mowers around the yard.

"I found your ice cream," I offered to Dad and he smiled weakly before I placed them in the freezer for later.
 We're surviving - it's going pretty well, really - but it's starting to feel hard.  

Iridescent

The pathology report came back today. 

"It's a good report," the nurse said, bemused, after Mom hurriedly handed me the phone.  "Lymph nodes were clean.  Margins were clean.  Stage Ia is confirmed.  So it's as good as it could have been."

"We've been praying," I replied and thanked her for the news. 

And we have - the outpouring of love and support has been tremendously moving.  From the nurses who prayed and friends who bring flowers and family who help.  It's just...lovely. 

I recited The Lord's Prayer into Mom's hair on Monday night as she cried, the pain overcoming her when she tried to lay down to sleep.  I helped her from bed and joined her on the couch, holding her hand and sleepily talking until her medication worked and I was able to settle her.  I rose with each sounding of my phone's alarm to dispense more pills and give gentle kisses on her forehead as she settled back to sleep.

She was feeling so well yesterday that we went grocery shopping for soup ingredients.  And I made mental notes of recipe tricks as we put together vegetable beef in a large pot. 

Aunt and Uncle came today to help change the bandages.  Mom and I got queasy, though we didn't really look, but Aunt was gently efficient. 

The Culligan man came to add water softener salt and joined us in the living room to pray over Dad. 

I took a conference call from the back porch, laughing when colleagues commented over the birds they could hear in the background from my line. 

"It's really good," I told them, looking out at my parents' acreage as it basked in the cool breeze and warm sunshine.  Good results and holding hands and dinners I've cooked.  We nap and watch television and read books.  I do work and return calls from recruiters and set up an interview out of flattery more than interest. 

I have the darkest of dreams, waking to see both parents in the doorway of the guest room in the middle of the night.  They tell me I called for them, sounding so alone and afraid, and I'm sad that my subconscious is so scared.  For it is frightening - the cancer and mortality and treatments that will eventually fail. 

But in the sunshine, it's happy - Dad's feeling better, though he insists on spending a majority of the time in his chair.  Mom is chipper and relieved - the pain not as bad as we feared, results even better than we'd hoped. 

So thank you for the prayers - for thoughts and wishes and hopes you've sent our way.  I'm so grateful and blessed. 

Surgery, Left Breast

"That's on tonight," Mom said while we waited in pre-op, watching stars dance on the morning show.  "Will you watch it with me?"

"Of course I will," I replied, squeezing her hand and smiling, for Mom is lovely under most circumstances but sugar-sweet when scared.  I would have promised her anything, but mostly offered quiet support as I followed her around.

"We have to pray," I interrupted as they tried to rush us to start an IV.  "We have people here."  So we moved to the waiting room and formed a circle with linked hands.  My parents' pastor spoke while 3 of her Great Banquet friends, my dad, Brother and I bowed our heads and pleaded for strength, peace and good results. 

It made me cry, such a moment of love and support and faith. 

"I'm going," I hurriedly offered when a nurse said someone could accompany her as they settled her in a wheelchair and moved away.  So I followed her to a room and murmured reassuringly when her blood pressure was 211/153.  I waited in Radiology while they injected dye - 4 shots - into her nipple to identify sentinel lymph nodes.  Then they placed a wire into the lesion under mammo.  And she was wide awake, shaking but sweet.

I gathered our people when we returned to pre-op, finding space in area 8 for our friends to pray again.  And I finally relaxed when they injected a sedative, watching her finally relaxing, offering one last reminder that she was going home today - outpatient surgery.

We waited - which Friend tells me is normal - and joined her a couple hours later in recovery with all signs positive.  Lymph nodes looked clear.  Margins equally good.  Final report on Wednesday or Thursday. 

She came home and I arranged her, both of us wincing, on pillows in her bed as the incisions stung.  I've been setting alarms to remind us of the pills I went to fetch.  And she's eating!  She never eats after medical stuff, but she had a sandwich and salad and ice cream and is now going for a Rice Krispie Treat!  I couldn't be prouder.

So, as we watch the trios on Dancing this evening, I'm relieved.  And profoundly grateful for answered prayers and good results.

Hunters of Heads

Let's say I get an annual report card as this is not inaccurate and I've just admired Little Ones marks for this year as she completes here 1st grade studies. 

There are, more or less, four areas of assessment in my particular area of Industry.  We could call them Major Projects, Taxes, Soft Skills and Overall Impression.  Now, regardless of how depressed or miserable, unmotivated or self-destructive I have been, I get stuff done.  So whether the projects are high profile or menial labor, I score reasonably high on the first two. 

The Overall Impression, it turns out, suffers a bit when you're miserable and self-destructive.  Perhaps you don't show up at work for a day (or week) or two.  Cancel travel at the last minute because you simply can't be bothered.  Roll your eyes at meetings and sigh over assigned tasks, correct in your predictions that none of this is going to matter anyway.  And when you're unhappy and (mostly) sincere, people - whether external collaborators or high-level executives - notice that you think most of this is bullshit. 

And then you get a Poor on Soft Skills, even though you're capable of cashmere-quality soft skills, which triggers (despite reasonable scores elsewhere) Plans.  Formal Plans.  With deadlines and reviews and everything. 

"I actually prefer this," I told Adam when he told me.  Then I got viciously angry, feeling terribly betrayed, and decided I'd just leave.  And that would show them.  Train someone else!  Start from scratch!  Even though I can do most of this even while I think it's sucky and stupid!  "At least I'll know what you want and how to execute on a plan - I've been asking for a plan for ages."

But as I spent time with my parents and increasing amounts of time in prayer, the anger - as requested - eased.  Acceptance of how badly I'd performed in some instances and what I wanted from my professional life occupied enough of my attention that when I returned to the office, I felt stable and strong and productive.  And though I wasn't necessarily happy and hopeful - flitting about like a happy fairy among fields of delicate flowers - I was quietly encouraging and focused on steps we could reasonably take. 

And the official form for the Plan began to turn green as the leaves budding on trees.  I showed up when my calendar indicated I should.  I spent lots of time at my desk and even more moving around between labs and conference rooms, visibility a clear goal.  When I needed breaks, I went for lunch or to run an errand rather than fleeing home to pajamas and nap time.  I stopped wincing every time my phone rang.  I caught up on emails I'd not wanted to answer and started managing various tasks through happy spreadsheets and pretty PowerPoints.

"It's going so well," Adam mused as we last chatted.  "I'm really pleased so we've shortened the duration of the Plan and we'll have this out of the way in no time."

"Great," I smiled, relieved even as I was puzzled by how easily my formal Plan could morph and shorten in my favor.  I shook my head over how very much power Adam has over my career and thought back on the conversation I'd had with Friend on how boredom seems to set in after 3-4 years.  How it starts to feel like you should be doing something different, new, challenging - this quest toward eternal youth by way of novel places and projects.

So I've been thinking - a lot, actually - about what comes next.  Do I stay, satisfied that I've corrected past mistakes and doing something that I'm absolutely blessed to do?  Or do I leave, returning home in a different industry, unrelated to my education and background.  I have zero desire to return to academic research - even looking at job listings makes me shudder with distaste.  But I can do office work - manage projects and handle customers and make nifty lists and pretty presentations.

"Someone called when you were asleep," Dad informed me on Friday.  I rubbed at the headache my nap hadn't eased and swallowed a Tylenol as I checked my messages, blinking with surprise.  "Who was it?" he asked, ever curious.

"It was a head hunter - my first head hunter," I grinned, absurdly flattered.  "A competitor is interested in my background so she wants me to call back to discuss opportunities."

"Ask them to give you lots of money," he advised and I smiled and shook my head.  I have more money than I really need.  But I should identify what qualities matter - how I can feel productive and peaceful and happy.

In the meantime, Mom's breast surgery is tomorrow morning - 7AM Central time.  If you could send prayers and thoughts and strength to us, I'd be grateful.     

Delicate Balance

Friend looked at me, eyebrows arched in surprise, when I shivered and said I was freezing.  I like the cold in general and a day in the 50s should have had me lifting my face to the wind and sighing in pleasure.  Instead, I shivered again and moved toward the bathroom again.

"Are you OK?" Friend asked gently and I moaned that my head hurt so badly.  It had started in the morning - focused on the right side, a little above my eye.  I'd taken Advil when I woke.  Tylenol before we left.  Excedrin on the drive.  And it wouldn't go away, stubbornly throbbing in concert with my newly-acquired nausea, courtesy of the multiple pills.

"I need to eat," I continued to say.  But given that I was driving and there were multiple restaurants on the way, I'm not sure why I didn't stop.  I finally decided on a place and was slurping soup before nibbling on grilled cheese, watching Friend with her strawberry pancakes.  

"The soup healed me," I reported happily and we continued on our journey.  Zipping sweatshirts against the cold and cameras in hand, we traipsed among the tulips, mostly quiet.  

I watched, a little bemused, as she took photos.  Friend is thoughtful, deliberate.  And I thought worriedly of the photos she'd shown me the night before - every single topiary that graced the grounds at Epcot Center - and looked at the array of blooms in dismay.  If she assigned herself the task of cataloging each of them, her dedication was no match for my impatience and we'd be there for-freaking-ever.  

But each time I glanced up, she was never far away.  She told a few stories.  Pointed out the particularly pretty.  And we walked companionably, crunching through gravel and wandering across grassy paths.  And I clenched my teeth and endured - a growing trend of late - thinking that I'd feel better for a moment before a particularly vicious gust of wind would anger my headache and renew the brutal throb.  

"I make buffers," Friend noted and I nodded, though I'm not really sure what that means.  "And some experiments go all wild, but they just need longer to stir.  Then it all balances out.  Sometimes you just end up with a different pH than when you started."

"You never have enough pictures of flowers," she said later

And though I lost track of our trek through the last two gardens in a haze of misery, the headache eased when we were back in the warm car, additional pills swallowed and jackets shed.  

We drove to, then past, the airport, finding a friendly pizza place to spend a last bit of time together before I dropped her off, clinging when she hugged me before leaving the Jeep (and me) with a wave.  

So I miss her, which is no surprise.  But I got some sleep and went to work and faced my week with some degree of maturity.

"Hey," I answered the phone, machines buzzing around me in the lab as I moved to a quieter spot.  "All done?" I asked Mom of her bone scan.  We'd talked after she'd received her injection - on their way back home - and then she was to return to the hospital for a quick zip through the machine.  

"I think so," she replied.  "Claudia is just making sure the doctor doesn't want to do any more scans.  I wish you were here to look at the images."

"PET scans aren't hard, I don't think," I mused.  "Did you see any bright spots?  Really bright spots, I mean, around your ribs?  Where they thought the spot was?"

"No," she replied slowly.  "But I'll look again.  Call you back," she said and we exchanged 'love you's and I smiled fondly.  

"Spots, Katie," she said quietly when my phone rang again.  "Bright spots.  And they want to do more scans."

"Oh," I replied, sinking into a nearby chair.  "Maybe..." I trailed off, wanting to say something reassuring, able to hear Claudia in the background.  The technologist indicated it could be anything and not to get so upset and I winced as Mom wept.

"Where's Dad?" I asked fretfully and scowled when she reported he was in the car.  I love that he wants to go with her, but if you're going to sign up, then get in there!  There's no waiting in the car in this game, damn it.  "Do you want to pray?" I finally asked, not knowing what else to say and she declined before we hung up again.

"I'm waiting again," she said when she called back.  "I'm going to ask to see the radiologist - I can't wait until tomorrow."  

"It's arthritis," she finally told me.  "Claudia talked to the doctor and showed me the report.  It's OK.  I'm OK."  And despite the relief that rushed through my body, I still shook, literally sick with stress.

But I finished some work, let an adorable Canadian boy rub my feet for 90 minutes and came home to nap.  But whether lying in a darkened room with soothing music or at my desk, repeating work because people keep changing the freaking algorithm, I think of cool breezes and thousands of petals and lose myself in the blooms until reality demands attention again.  

Friendly Conversation

"I screwed it up," I admitted from across the room.  "Stopped going in.  Did only what was absolutely necessary.  So this bad review - now formally documented and everything - isn't really surprising.  But it's scary."

Friend nodded, opening her mouth to speak before frowning, her attention directed off to the side of the wall behind me.

"Wow," she declared.  "Those mattes are really ragged, aren't they?"

"Oh," I beamed proudly, glancing back to behold them.  "I did those myself."

"Really," she offered, rolling her eyes and returning to her original reply.

So we talked about what was going well now - how Adam is once again pleased and I have managed to show up - every day - and work - all day - when for the last 12-18 months, I found that all but impossible.

We've discussed career goals and when it's our fault versus the people who pay us.  Life plans and the meaning of happiness.  Death and dying.  The ability to cope.

"They complain about me on bitbook," she sighed on our way home from the mall.  We'd shared snacks at Cheesecake Factory, bringing dessert home, and selected items at Lush.  "The stores are closed, they say.  My roommate smells like cheese, they whine.  I want to sell books and you make me work at the sushi shop."  She shook her head at her iPhone and I giggled as I navigated the rainy-day traffic.  "I'll go ahead and restock their stores."

And it's what makes Friend perfect.  There is a balance of expectation of my best self and acceptance of my current self.  Moments of profound brilliance contrasting against Tiny Tower strategy.

And whether we're sitting diagonal from each other in my living room or side by side in the car or across from each other at restaurants, there's comfort.  The gentle sense that even as things change - when we see each other annually rather than daily - there's a continuity that soothes.

We're hurting, Friend and I, as her mom is gone and dad's health uncertain.  As my parents struggle with oncology treatments.  So, were you to peek in on our weekend, you're as likely to find us brushing away tears as laughing over stories, sniffing at bath products or taking photos of flowers.

But I'm grateful - so grateful, really - that she offered to come and my parents insisted I let her.

Missed Calls

I was speaking to an important collaborator yesterday when I pressed ignore in response to Mom's call.  As the next 2 minutes passed, I cursed myself for doing so - she might have needed me.  And I'll admit to panicking when she didn't respond to my next 8 calls, made in rapid succession.

Everything was fine - she'd been pleased about Dad's results and how his liver was softening in response to chemotherapy and wanted to have a celebratory conversation.  Her phone had been on silent so she'd not heard my multiple return calls until Dad and Brother returned home and had her call me.

"I got in trouble," she reported and I laughed even as I promised myself I'd always take her calls in the future.

So, in the middle of a formal review with Adam, I asked him to wait and answered the phone when Mom called.  I listened and asked a couple questions and hung up.

I stared at the desk before glancing up into Adam's concerned eyes.

"There's a spot on her bone," I managed before my voice broke and I had to lower my eyes.  He reached to grip my forearm and I offered brokenly "pre-op chest x-ray," and "scheduling PET scan" and he squeezed harder.  Then I shook my head helplessly, bowed my head and closed my eyes in a moment of pure grief-stricken defeat.

"Go home," he ordered gently, picking up my notebook and pencil and ushered me toward my office, placing items in my bag while I sat down in my chair and watched him.

"Are you OK?" Sibling asked, coming around the corner with an expression of concern.  I began to cry again, tears slipping down my cheeks faster than I could catch them with my fingertips and shook my head.  Adam gave her a look of dismay, told her to help me and escaped while she coaxed me into my jacket, tucked her arm through mine and guided me to my car.

After asking if I was sure I could drive and urging me to do so safely, she gently closed my door and watched with worried eyes as I buckled in and started the Jeep.  And I wept - gut-wrenching sobs that I couldn't control, keening moans of pain.  I managed my way home, shaking, and moved into my house, bent at the waist to control the misery.

I tried to breathe, to think, and busied myself with canceling things.  Lunch plans.  Friend's trip to visit for the weekend.  Once calmer, I called my parents again to try to gather more information - to push past my reaction and plan.

"I think it's from all the coughing she did while you were growing up," Dad reported, feeling better on Friday after a miserable day on Thursday after chemotherapy.  He's doing so well though - blood counts remain normal, liver is softening - his oncologist is very pleased.  And I'm so very proud of my father.

"I'm losing it," I confessed when he handed me back to Mom, laughing through tears.  "I don't know what to do - I can't stop shaking and crying and I'm shocked it's hitting me so hard."

"I can't do any more either, Katie," she replied.  "It's just too much.  But we'll be OK - whatever happens, it's OK.  I'm good with God so if He's taking me, I'll go."

"I know," I replied, even as Dad scolded her for being negative in the background.  Then they chided me for canceling with Friend.  So I called Post-Doctoral City again and discussed it without sobbing and we decided she would come.  I made the drive to fetch her successfully - listening to NPR and retreating into denial that the biopsy results were mild, MRI didn't note any spread and x-rays aren't all that specific to metastatic spread.

But my eyes were stinging with every blink of my eyes.  Head ached with overwhelming pressure.  And my heart - more poor heart - tried to knit its broken pieces back into some semblance of working order.

"We're fine," they soothed when I called from the cell phone lot of the airport.  "We had dinner and are watching some television and going to bed early.  We'll call when we have the appointment for the PET scan but surgery should go as planned."

I removed the phone from my ear, glancing at the screen before wishing my parents good night and letting Friend know I'd pull around to meet her.  And we've continued on from there.

Midpoint

I deposited my paperwork and purse on the counter, skirting the edge of the desk to stand in front of the purple fabric, taking a moment to wonder why they'd chosen that color, before smoothing my wind-tousled hair before smiling at the camera.

I'd paused before answering the 'number of years driving experience in the United States or Canada' question, realizing that 33-16 = 17.  I've been driving more than half my life, I realized, as I watched elderly couples shuffle toward the window as their numbers were called.  There was a toddler with the woman just ahead of me and I finished the journal I'd brought before she woke from her nap.  She fussed a bit before being lifted from her stroller and relieved of her blankie, proceeding to charm all who occupied the DMV on this sunny afternoon.  She would grin easily and explore a bit before hurrying back to her mother and I found her adorable.

Then there were those in between.  Teenagers with their parents who beamed at the pieces of plastic they were handed without meaning to.  Every one of them looking so self-possessed and mature as they waited patiently for photos or forms.  Then, upon the completion of the process, there was this irrepressible pride or joy or anticipation.

Dad is not yet 65.  And while I would frown at people who claimed to have 'quarter-life crises' in their mid-to-late 20s, wondering if they'd really live past 100, I didn't expect to be encountering my potential midway point at 33.

"I'm 41," a colleague told me this morning.  "And my dad died of lung cancer at 44, some 20 years ago." Yet tears filled her eyes as she told me - the diagnosis and treatment and eventual failure.  "It was fast," she said, "and my family relied on me.  It changes you," she warned.  "Makes planning too far ahead seem silly.  Instead you want to jump out of planes or have sex with someone irresistible, and if he's married, well, life isn't very fair."

"Yes," I agreed.  "It is changing me - I can't tell how, exactly, but I feel like a stranger in some moments."

"Take care of yourself," she advised kindly and I nodded, blinking back my own tears and hurrying to my next meeting, eager for the distraction.  Because how do I take care of myself?  I pray, sleep and eat.  I work, read and pray.

I need to do research on more aggressive treatment options - surgical procedures, hyperthermia, RF ablation, radiation therapy.  I want to have a plan should this first round of chemo not be as effective as we need.

I can't make myself learn though.

"When I was so happy in Venice?" I said the other day.  "I'd already screwed up that project.  The cancer was already growing in both my parents.  The only difference is that now I know.  And that knowing changed everything."

"I wish I hadn't come," Dad said a few times in the hospital.  "I don't want to know."

I call daily, discussing my dog (who's here) and my cat (who's there) and dinner plans.  What happened to me at work and what the girls did that day.  It's nice - we get a chance to catch up and love each other.  I reassure myself that he sounds healthy, that Mom sounds rested.  That they're OK.  Normal.  Just as they always have been.

And it helps me sleep at night.  Keeps me from thinking that I'm just working my way, painfully at times, toward the end.  

Exquisite, yet Grotesque

There comes a moment when I'm ready to disclose information.

"You're being too helpful," my attorney murmured close to my ear after asking if we could take a break from the deposition.  I looked at him helplessly and he nodded in understanding.  "I know you can decipher what he wants to know.  I know it's instinct for people to offer information or help guide conversations.  This isn't like that - it's us vs. them.  You need to try harder."

I agreed and with grueling focus in a hotel conference room, I forced myself to take a sip of water after each question the opposing attorney asked me so that I would think.  And, as I'd been painstakingly prepared to do, would answer as simply as possible.

"Very good," he complimented at lunch.  "It's like after that break, you just shut down - stopped being so friendly.  Started saying you didn't know and you didn't know why you didn't know.  It was great!"

And that adaptability tends to serve people well when they remember to use it.

"I'm fine," I had taken to repeating.  Then I would recite the relevant bits of information - Dad's blood counts stayed well within the normal range.  He's tolerating treatment well.  Mom's surgery is scheduled and I'll return home for that 2 weeks.  My brother is helping, yes.  We're all doing very well but continue to be grateful for prayers.

And it is fine.  Until is isn't.

But those moments come rarely, honestly.  A moment in the cafeteria when someone offers an unexpected hug that elicits tears.  A random statistic in an oncology seminar that leaves me unable to take more notes, instead suffering through a miserable wave of panicked grief.  A meeting request on a day I'll be spending at home.

"I'll pick you up at your door," I told a colleague and friend on Friday at 11.  Normally we would have met somewhere on campus, but it was raining and I thought I might get sad so we drove through the sprinkling rain on that chilly day.

And I told her everything.  That there are moments where I'm failing at work, so miserably sick of some of the bureaucratic bullshit that I want to scream and escape, never to return.  I roll my eyes at promises of upcoming change and brighter days ahead.  I cringe at the thought of telling the same collaborators the same stories and having no visible progress.

"His mood is fairly good," I told her of Daddy.  Then I admitted that I prayed that he'd either grow hopeful or leave us quickly.  Because I couldn't imagine watching him suffer for months that might stretch into years, just staring out the windows, watching for death to coast down the road outside my childhood home.

"She's afraid, but it helps when I'm there," I said of Mom.  And I'm happy to do it.  Grateful that my presence offers her strength and comfort because I love her ever so much.  Given that it's pretty easy to be there, it's an easy step to take.  And, later, maybe I'll move home.  Or she'll move here.  And we'll live together.  Because she doesn't want to live alone.  Even though I absolutely adore it and dread the time when it may be impossible to do.

I whispered that I worried about Brother - the dramatic mood swings, the drinking and drugs, the unpredictability of support.  But I was also frustrated that he couldn't just do this - that his own demons prevent him from being as loving and supportive and present as Mom and Dad want.

And once that crack formed in the wall of denial around my emotions, it's easier for truth to emerge.

Friend sent cheese biscuits - a gesture so completely perfect that I found myself clutching the packages to my chest, overwhelmed as I lifted them from their box and removed them from a brown paper bag with a familiar logo.  And it's easier to chat with her - I don't have the desperate desire to beg her to let me hide in her study.  To rescue me from the life that has turned on me.  To exist in the comfort that she's never overly surprised or disappointed or aghast at my multitude of sins.

M sent a text last week and I smiled and sent a happy reply, then read an email she sent last night to catch up in more detail.  "I read an essay on death and dying," she wrote, "and it said one regret so many people have is not keeping in touch with people they loved.  And I thought of you and how I love you and miss you so we should try harder."

So I told her everything too.  The comfort arrived electronically from across the Pacific, along with the knowledge that there's another spot where I can escape and exist in the comfort of friendship.

I'm stuck by these things as I walk around the neighborhood or mow my lawn.  Drive to work or run some errands.  It's lovely - this warm support - but it's generated from this cold, awful threat - the damn cells that multiply beyond our control.

And I remember looking at Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.  This compelling structure that was at once stunning and icky.  But I found it difficult to look away, finding myself turning back toward the spires that stretch into the sky, the decorations that appeared to drip toward the ground were they not stubbornly clinging to surfaces.

And though I'd have never picked this path, I do feel alive.  Like people and places are more vivid.  The tulips staggering as they've sprouted and then stayed fresh in the cold weather that lingers just above freezing.  Alive and beautiful, graceful and lingering past their expiration dates.

Art, Life & Other Notes

Upon regaining possession of my iPad, I began closing applications one after another - Smallest One has a short attention span and wants new and better and more. She's ever so sweet and spirited, making me desperately want one of my own even as I shudder at the thought.

Given that she's used to her iPod though, she's quite competent with my tablet and I grinned as I paged through nearly 100 pictures of Chienne. It gave me pause for well as I know my precious pup's various expressions and quirks, I have not captured them so well for posterity. And given that Smallest chose my parents' house over spending time with her cousins at the lake on Easter weekend, I have a bigger soft spot for her than before.

***

Remember my European trip? When everything seemed so easy and idyllic? I ordered prints of some of the photos - 8x10, 20x30 - and bought cut-it-yourself mattes at a craft store on the way to the cancer center with my folks. They've been sitting in SUVs - theirs and then mine - and I finally brought them inside to carefully measure openings when I returned to my house yesterday.

The scoff at an Exacto knife but obey a box cutter and I finally have images of that time neatly framed and hung in my living room, replacing the vintage posters I've displayed for years. They're a little ragged around the edges and perhaps not perfectly adjusted for contrast and balance, but I love them. Reminders of both happy times past and those still to come.

***

The canine traveled north with me. Senor Sprout remained with his abuelos so I'm graced with reports of his visits upstairs when I call to check in. Brother finally got to see him, indicating he was a very pretty cat before Sprout offered a snooty glare and scampered back to the basement.

Dad got to pet him this morning after he filled Spout's food dish. Mom sometimes gets to cuddle when she can't sleep at night.

"We like having him," she said when I called. "He's a good distraction at times." So I'm proud of the stripy one, serving as he is as a placeholder for us.

***

Chienne and I have mowed the lawn and done a bit of cleaning and slept since returning to our house yesterday. In the midst of a delicious nap this afternoon, my rest was disturbed by drumming outside the screen door at the head of my bed.

It would be blatantly false to call it music. So as the noise continued - played, I imagined, but a drunken toddler - it was soon joined by a drugged monkey on guitar. And they've continued most of the day. I finally went outside to behold the open garage across the street that contained two young boys rocking out. If they could translate only a fraction of their enthusiasm into talent, we'd be set.

In the meantime, I kind of wish I was deaf or it was hot or cold enough to close the doors to protect myself from the misery.

***

Fifty Shades of Grey (and the sequels) are wonderful. I know I normally read erotic romance so perhaps I'm not the most qualified to offer recommendations here, but I really loved it. So if you're in need of an engrossing story while you wait to take your parents to learn about their cancers - or another intense distraction - I'd suggest reading them.

And while the sex is plentiful and there is "kinky fuckery," it's really nicely done. I read the trilogy back-to-back-to-back (which took 3 days as I wasn't doing much else) and am very fond of EL James for offering me a much-needed escape.

***

I emailed myself Brother's phone number before I left for Europe. We simply didn't talk all that often before. It's now programmed into my mobile and I left a message yesterday, gently scolding him to check in more with Daddy and make sure he was spending time there while I was away.

I emailed myself my older brother's number before I left home. He's 11 years my senior and from Dad's first marriage. He apparently stopped by when I was young, but I don't recall ever meeting him. Dad has called him - talking for the first time in 20-30 years, I believe - and I'm vaguely tempted to reach out myself. Though, as I don't know how I feel about the whole situation, I'm not sure what I would say.

***

We could still use prayers if you have them to spare. Dad's blood counts are expected to drop this week - 10-14 days after the initiation of treatment. So think good neutrophil thoughts.

Mom decided on the partial breast irradiation, even after she and I beheld the device that will be implanted with horror. (It's larger than I expected. I told her she could do external beam instead.) Dad was in favor of the accelerated approach as was her (really, really wonderful) radiation oncologist so she signed on but is scared. So peace and strength be with her until I can return and take care of her again.

Brother and I are OK. More stressed than sad now that we've adjusted and both having difficulty sleeping. He drinks and smokes. I take prescription anti-anxiety pills alternated with melanin or Nyquil. I do, however, feel surrounded by love and support which is such a blessing. It's just at sleepy-time that I forget and panic in the face of what might be. So if anyone wants to sleep over and sing me songs or rub my back or tell me stories, I'm happy to post some sort of sign up sheet.

Extreme Close Up

I have been praised more times than I can count.

Family, friends, colleagues seem to share a sense of approval that I've abandoned my life to tend to my parents and given that I don't mind doing it, it feels odd to accept compliments gracefully. As expected, Friend was correct - it just becomes what you do. The worrying is far worse than the execution of plans.

"I can't leave now!" Brother seethed at me via phone and I shook my head while rolling my eyes.

"That's fine," I replied regarding our dinner plans. "We'll take the girls and meet you girlfriend for pizza. And you can see Mom and Dad tomorrow."

"Fine," he offered, clearly irritated. "I'm just trying to do inventory and place orders and manage my people but if you can't wait a little longer, that's fine. Just go."

I declined to argue, but had my reasons. Smallest One calls for Grandma multiple times each night when she sleeps over so none of us are particularly rested. Dad had been watching the clock for his next dose of pills so leaving at the prescribed time would have put dinner at a good pain/nausea point that I hated to avoid. The girls were finished with computer games and considering baths if we waited longer (and then I get coaxed into combing ridiculously long hair on very tender scalps). And I'd moved meetings around so we could go at the proper point in time so if he was inflexible, he didn't have to go.

So there.

And I don't blame him (at least not for long, anyway). It's hard to understand all the pieces that go into a decision unless you're here. When you know that Dad's in a reasonable mood and Mom isn't overly stressed or weepy.

I do envy him (at least for a little while), especially after a day connected to work via Blackberry and a headset that's too large for my tiny ears. So I answered questions and arranged introductions and made informal presentations. And I missed it. The feeling of easy expertise and friendly exchanges of information. I don't want cancer and pain and sickness. Surgery, doctors and waiting rooms. I want it to all go away and be like it used to be.

But it isn't. And it won't be. And that somehow has to be OK.

And in the moments between where we smile our good mornings over coffee and kiss our good nights in the glow from the blaring television, there is goodness and peace and joy. Walks with Chienne and the Ones performing living-room recitals and playing games and commenting on Family Feud responses. (We are not impressed.)

"Did you know an elephant could stand on a blue whale's tongue?" I asked Dad while playing Quizzy's Corner on Webkinz (Smallest One spends money fast).

"I bet that'd make him mad - somebody standing on his tongue like that," he replied and I grinned.

"I love you a lot," I murmured to Mom and smoothed her hair while we watched Dancing with the Stars and gasped (I kid you not) at the results show.

The three of us stood at the kitchen sink one morning, gawking at the bugs that covered the screen on the first really cold night after warm days.

We see who gets to pet Sprout most in the evenings. (I usually win. But not always.)

And I say prayers when they're located in the next room. Which means I'm doing the best I can. And I hope that feeling lasts even while I need to be back at work and a few hours away.

Lay of the Land

I've remembered my way around.

Driving is no longer a squinting game or guess and check. Sleep comes faster (especially when drugged). The clickity-clack of Chienne on the wood floor and the padding of Sir Sprout have grown familiar, as have the demands of two little girls who are always stealing my iPad.

We are mostly well.

After a brilliant recovery from chemotherapy, Dad crashed a bit on Saturday. While Thursday and Friday saw him happy and hopeful, his mood subsequently dipped and has become grumpy and unwell. He watches the clock so he can take his next pill for nausea or pain. He complains about the oddest of things - why the front door was locked or if the shower curtain didn't get closed properly or the car door being closed too hard. This is, however, typical Dad-like behavior so to this I've re-adapted as well.

"Don't go home," Mom said after I'd called her surgeon's office and understood the upcoming appointments before I planned to leave yesterday.

"Right," I replied absently, still writing things down - I type notes with bullet points for easy reference and to make me feel more in control. I like notes with bullet points. "You go straight from pre-surgical testing to the radiation folks."

"No, you," she said, and I looked up into panicked eyes. "You don't go home. You stay here with me."

"Oh," I said gently, taking my fingers from my laptop to reach for her hand. "Of course I won't leave. I'll be right here." And by the time she'd recovered control enough to say I could go home and be back at work, I'd called Adam and arranged to stay another week.

I've been to more appointments and taken additional notes. I've run errands and now recall how Kroger's is organized. I've done more sinks of dishes in the past 2 days than all year at my house - Dad doesn't like it when we use the dishwasher. I fetch pills and note times so we don't overdose. I've supervised the naming of Webkinz for Easter (Lambie - guess what animal she is...) and helped fill plastic eggs. I put together cheesy potatoes and bit back a sigh when Brother worked his way through a 12 pack of beer and most of a bottle of vodka with his girlfriend. He is a good, loving person. And I'm really proud of him. Mostly.

It feels routine. And easy. Which is such a blessing, honestly, as the awful thing at work has turned into an Awful Thing and I basically dread returning.

But it will work out. It tends to, anyway. And in the meantime, there are lilacs blooming right at the eastern edge of the house - right where they're supposed to be.

The Tale of the Very Long Day

"Where are you?" I asked Brother via phone, having peered down the hallways looking for him to guide me to the exam room.

"Where are you?" he replied and I rolled my eyes.

"I'm exactly where you told me to meet you," I whined impatiently. "You said to come in, take the elevator and arrive at Pod C. So I came in, took the elevators and arrived at Pod C. Where Are You?!"

"I'm outside looking for you," he admitted sheepishly. "Give me 2 minutes to get back."

I took deep breaths as I waited, leaning there against the wall in the sunny cancer center. Nothing was going according to plan and one would think I'd embrace the concept after the last few weeks, but I still struggle against it, striving hopelessly for control.

After writing the blog post, I made my way toward home, planning to land at 10PM and be in bed by 11. The plane broke in Detroit, however, resulting in 90 minutes on the broken plane before leaving it and arriving at another. I crawled into bed after 1AM and slept fitfully until the morning sunshine nudged at my eyelids.

"Crap," I murmured to greet the day and stumbled out of bed to brush my teeth, gulp down coffee and walk my drugged dog so that her sedative could take affect before I hefted her into an already-packed Jeep. She mostly slept as we sped toward home, feeling sleepily hopeful that Dad would do well with his initial chemotherapy and Mom's surgeon would have encouraging news.

"Sorry," Brother said, wearing the abashed smile that often graces my face when I screw something up. I laughed at him and exchanged hugs before entering the same room we'd used at our last oncologist visit.

I kissed Mom (who looked stressed) and Dad (who looked just a little afraid) and stood next to Brother in front of the sink on one wall.

"Ready to get started?" the doctor asked when he opened the door and we all nodded and murmured in the affirmative. He shuffled through papers, hummed over blood pressure (which was extremely low) and indicated blood counts were all fine.

And we went to the waiting room. Where we waited. And waited. And Waited Some More.

Dad was a trooper, continuing to answer us that he was fine - just ready to get started - when we inquired. Brother went to fetch him some juice. I held his hand and chattered about my trip. Mom looked on worriedly. And we all sighed with relief when - nearly 90 minutes after we were meant to begin - they called us back to the treatment room.

Brother and I took the chairs between Dad's reclining chair and the window that overlooked the lake, leaving Mom in a chair across the bookshelves.

"Are you pretending you're not with us?" Brother teased her and we formed a semi-circle in front of Dad, staring up at the pre-chemo meds dripping through his IV until the Gemzar arrived and began to drip.

We four stared up at the transparent baggie of fluid hopefully there in the bright room. And glanced around at the other families dealing with varying degrees of illness with us.

We stared at the ducks in the pond outside. Remarked on the weather. Encouraged Dad to take lollipops from the Easter basket for the girls and got Brother a cupcake from a different volunteer. We spoke to the social worker - my parents want neither rides to treatment or free massages. I eagerly awaited our turn with the therapy dog, riding sweetly in his stroller for all to admire and nuzzle at him. And we talked and laughed - Brother and I sharing a similar humor and easiness with self-deprecation.

"Is it burning?" I asked and Dad shook his head and, having finished his juice, sipped at his water.

"Almost done," Mom told him, glancing between the clock and the baggie of fluid.

We panicked when the tube filled with blood - it was just the lack of pressure pushing anything in, they said - but then he was free of the IV and we made our way downstairs and out into the afternoon.

My parents had ordered a new dining room table before Christmas and were thrilled to show me the display at JC Penney until it was delivered. Then the order was cancelled and all my pouting and glares failed to reinstate it. So, after we were home from the hospital with Dad that weekend, I found a similar one online and ordered it.

And - on this hectic of days - it was due to arrive. Brother's girlfriend met the delivery guys so we hurried through construction to see our new furniture.

As we paused at a stoplight, all cars arranged single file, I watched the workers squirt black goo on the pavement over the worst of the cracks, other orange-vested men following it busily with their brushes to fill and coat the damage. I pictured the goo attacking the tumors, shrinking them into nothing inside Dad's belly.

We returned home to the new table, which is perfect in its cozy simplicity, and cooed over how lovely it was. Brother, his girlfriend and I loaded the old one in his truck so he could use it at home. And we all had half sandwiches and fruit before departing for Mom's appointment, the four of us pleased that we'd taken this cancellation and were seeing someone early.

"You'll have to wait a long time," the receptionist warned. "A long, long time - hours," she clarified when we looked at her skeptically.

So we filled in paperwork and settled in to the mostly-empty waiting room.

Mom demanded Brother take Dad home after 45 minutes. Dad refused.

I moved a chair around to put my feet up after an hour. Turned the television up after 90 minutes. Went to get water from the vending machines at 2 hours.

We watched the employees file out between 5 and 6, growing increasingly tired ourselves. My head ached so I took Tylenol from Mom's purse and sighed.

After a little over 3 hours, we grinned upon being called back to a room. Where we waited some more.

And more.

And more.

My headache returned. Dad shifted uncomfortably, still holding Mom's hand as she leaned forward, resting her head on her knees and begging God to make this end already.

We saw a nurse. Then waited. An assistant. Then waited. And when I opened the exam room door to allow blessedly cool air in, the surgeon finally came.

After a quick exam, we outline treatment option, forming a family chain with our linked hands. Brother to me to Dad to Mom as she sat by the doctor and struggled to focus. I forced my tired brain to focus, memorizing facts and references so I could write it out later.

I called in a take-out order while we waited for the elevator, wincing against my headache as Brother drove us to get it.

I called Aunt on the subsequent drive home.

"It's good," I reported dutifully. "Small invasive ductal carcinoma. They'll take it out and some lymph nodes, though they don't think it's spread. Then they'll do radiation afterward - hopefully partial breast."

"Say it again," Aunt requested and I could hear her shuffling for pen and paper.

"I'll send you an email," I promised. "I'll write it all down for you. But not now - we're so tired. Tomorrow. I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

And I laced my fingers through Mom's as we sat in the backseat, handing her the phone so she could speak to her sister.

We came home and I helped unpack dinner, swallowing more pills as I watched my parents to ensure they ate. I smiled weakly but proudly as they did, wearing my inquisitive expression when they stared at me.

"Aren't you eating? You love this chicken," Mom noted.

"Sick," I explained. "But so proud of both of you. And you," I added for Brother and he grinned easily, lifting his cheek for a kiss before I shuffled down the hall to bed. Mom came to smooth my blankets and turn on the fan so I'd not be too hot. Dad came to kiss my hair and rub my shoulder.

And I lapsed into sleep, drifting pleasantly away from the worries of the world for just a little while.

Standard Trip

"Hello," said I to the man behind the Delta counter at ATL. "I'm traveling with a colleague and her flight is earlier than mine. So I wondered if this plane was full or if I might ride on it."

He asked if I were gold, silver or platinum (I am none of those) and asked if I'd be willing to part with $50 for the change. I happily agreed and was granted a seat in an exit row on an earlier flight than my itinerary reported.

So there I was not long afterward, clicking busily at my laptop between nibbles of complimentary cookie and sips of water. And I felt happy - on an earlier flight, in the air on a sunny day, heading somewhere new to do a job - and then I remembered. And the happiness drifted away as if blown by a tornado-force wind, flapping helplessly in the whirl before disappearing into the distance.

I know not what to do with this knowledge - the prognoses and treatments and needs that I can address now but won't be able to sustain. So I reminded myself that we live - in part, at least - to feel joy and be productive. And that it's good to escape into happiness as often as possible.

"Is your room giant?" I asked when I called Sibling after we'd settled in and I'd consulted with our local hosts. "Mine has 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and this huge living area. I think I could probably live here for a year or two."

So she joined me in my gigantic suite and we worked companionably, squinting at geographical borders and skimming through disease trends.

"Can you draw China?" I finally asked. "I can't figure out internal borders and it doesn't have enough ocean around it." She kindly complied.

I would have ordered what was on the prix fixe menu even without it being $25 for an nearly-too-delicious dinner. And when they were out of the standard dessert? Sibling and I got to select whatever we wanted from the beautifully stocked case.

We walked back through the southern evening and I was pleased that it was cooling down from the miserable humidity of the afternoon. I even welcomed the powerful storms that pelted us with rain as we scampered back from a colleague's room after preparing for our demonstrations today, me playing dog to Sibling's pony in this show.

I called my folks while we transferred data and checked software.

"Did Mom tell you my story?" Dad asked when it was his turn on the phone. I replied that she had not and he said that he'd been in the bathroom, looking in the mirror and heard a voice in his head. 'This is your dad,' the voice said. 'Don't give up.'

"Oh," I replied, rather surprised and quite moved. I'd not been close with my paternal grandfather - he wasn't the friendly/demonstrative type. But I found it terribly lovely that Heaven pushed a message through when Dad was feeling hopeless and sad and afraid. "That's really wonderful, Daddy," I said.

"I think I'm going to be around for a while," he said. "Because I'm not giving up."

"That makes me feel good," I told Mom when she got back on the phone.

"Me, too," she said.

Later, I crawled into both king-sized beds to see which I preferred, finally settling on one and burying myself in the blankets and pillows to relax. I finished my presentation, delivered my part of the day and accomplished some work besides.

Now I wait at the airport, souvenirs in tow, and prepared to fly north then drive south.

But I'm glad I came - it's been a very gracious and good trip.

Tough Enough

I went back to work today, once again mingling among the tall filing cabinets and wide windows and people who were wonderfully normal and oddly foreign to me.

I answered the first call and excused myself for a moment to close my door and turn my chair away from the transparent walls before dabbing at tears and listening to gentle recommendations.

"My dad was sick when I was beginning my career," she said. "And I'd go home for weekends and work all week - calling every day to hear my parents say they were fine. And I wish I'd spent more time there - knowing I was putting them first, that I helped and loved and supported them."

"But I was going to work this week," I protested weakly.

"Go back home," she advised and I blinked back more tears. I'm so lost and confused and afraid. And while faith strengthens me - and it truly does - I sometimes tremble under the weight of the difficulty.

My dad - he who fixes and advises and points out every single flaw - is dying. And I want to delete that line - erase its existence - and make him all better.

"We'll only call if we need you," Mom said. "So make sure you answer, OK?"

"I promise," I replied. I kept it - shooing people from my desk and muting my desk phone for the cell summons.

"My surgery consult got moved up," Mom told me. "It may conflict with your dad's chemotherapy - they said it'd take a few hours on Thursday - so I just wanted to let you know."

"I'll be back," I immediately replied and she said it wasn't necessary. They were fine. It wasn't my job to take care of them - it was my job to be at the office and answer emails and do presentations. "Let's see how it plays out," I concluded - what I had, what times appointments were confirmed.

And then I got bad professional news. A very unpleasant review that - though it should not have been - shocked and appalled me.

I moved back to my office from that meeting, fighting tears of ridiculous self-pity and indignation, and someone asked about my parents.

And I shook my head, moving more quickly past and away from her well-meaning inquiry. Collapsing into my chair, I stared at the screen before me and out the windows behind me and breathed through the urge to flee.

While I do have to travel tomorrow, there really isn't anywhere to run. So I'll do my (professional) job and give presentations and fly on planes and dress up. Then I'll drag my long-suffering canine back in the car and drive south to join my parents for their Thursday appointments.

Much as I worry that I haven't the resources or fortitude or faith to battle this, fight I will.

God help me.

Day to Day

Yesterday we had leftovers.

Mom and I puttered around the kitchen, tucking items into the oven and shoving others in the microwave before arranging bits and pieces on the table and calling Dad to join us.

We've learned nothing new. A social worker called. I talked to several receptionists about moving Mom's surgical consult earlier as the mass is so small that I hate to let it grow before getting it out and away.

Dad's growing - we're all growing, I suppose - increasingly nervous about the oncology appointment tomorrow. The options - or lack thereof - concern me.

"How are you staying so calm?" Mom asked while we waited for the FDG to distribute before his PET scan.

I looked up from a People magazine (I've learned So Much about celebrities) and shrugged. "I trust that God loves us and is in control," I offered. "And I'm in denial, I think. Trying to just deal with the next step for both of you and not think about worst case scenarios."

She nodded. And reached for my hand as we waited together there in the silent waiting room in the basement of the diagnostic center.

"Do you have everything?" I asked the girls this morning, having pulled hair into ponytails and checked homework and bundled both of them in my Jeep. Mom had gone for an early prayer meeting and Dad waved to us from the window while we set off for school.

Little One brought home cards she'd had her class make for my folks. It was terribly sweet and moving - the kids know them as they take playground duty and help with classroom activities. And those folded pieces of multi-color construction paper made me feel much as I do when filling out medical forms.

This is really happening to us. Much as I wish it otherwise, those cells that multiply too quickly are our reality.

Smallest One and I escape into the iPad, playing games with dinosaurs and cavemen.

"You're villagers are hungry," I tell her absently as I glance at the screen.

"I know," she replies before tapping the cauldron for her little community.

"Fire," I warned her later and she moved to tap the animated flames and the little people on screen rushed over with buckets of water.

I pressed my check to the crown of her head and blinked back tears, eyes darting around the room to make sure nobody notices. I had a panic attack the other night over Blackie - the Katie-named '77 Chevy truck that Dad has had forever. Would I take it home? Fit it in my garage? If Mom comes to live with me, there won't be room. And I have to take care of Blackie.

So I read books and do work and always have a television on so that I can distract myself as much as possible. I sleep and stay close, immersing myself in their daily lives until I can figure out how to change them to better handle this.

Tomorrow we know.

And the knowledge that I may not be capable of hiding from that knowing terrifies me.