Are You Listening?

I found this article that I not only have to share but inspired me to get back on the blog.

The line that got me the most––"that's not a good way to die, before you've told the end of your story." I read that and instantly began thinking of my Mother's passing this past October. You could probably tell I haven't posted much since then. Her passing has jolted me more than I expected. I didn't get to talk to her much, as my Mother was always on the go and was somewhat of a nomad her last year+ in her life. But when we did talk my Mom would tell me stories about her friends, her work or some situation she got herself into that she couldn't figure out how to mitigate.

It wasn't unusual for me to say, "hi, Mom. How are you?" and get my next chance to say something to her about 20-30 minutes later. And this happened my whole life. When I was younger I would wait up for her when she went out. Being a young, single Mother I fully understood and accepted her need to have fun with people her own age. We were only 17 years apart in age so as I grew older my listening became more important as our ages seems to come closer together. While it always seemed "cool" to have such a young Mom it was also tough as I became more "grown-up" faster and that meant I didn't always want to listen.

Now for those of you who know me and can't fathom me just sitting there and listening, it's true. I like to think that I'm a good listener. I believe that part of that is listening to my body, which was telling me 4 1/2 years ago that I had cancer. I also believe in my heart my Mom's trip in the Fall of 2010 to my house was her way of wanting me to listen again, even closer this time. I spent as much time as I could with her, happy she was with us yet concerned that she didn't look or act very well during her stay. And the next time I saw her was in the hospital after her massive stroke. It was hard to listen to her because I think she was trying to finish her story, tell me all about it.

I'm still here, ready to listen as always.

Short But Hopeful

Today I wish for a safe transport of my Mother from Las Vegas to Southern California. Too emotional to write anything else.

What's Going On?

My Mother is still hanging in there but still in the hospital. It really doesn't look good for a recovery.

But sometimes forces greater than us have a way of bringing a smile to a situation that has an inevitable and sorrow-filled ending. That's why you see Marvin Gaye's picture above. My Mother loved to party––but she was NOT a drinker, she just liked to have a good time. That good time was focused on dancing to the music. She loved music, especially Elvis and Motown. And she could dance her ass off all night. I know from firsthand experience. She would take my Sister and I to our very close friends of the family––we do call them family––Joe and Annie's place in the mid to late '60's and early '70's. Can't find a babysitter? We would go and hang out with their kids and the adults until we would get bored or go to sleep. And my Mom was usually the life of the party, dancing, laughing and just having a clean good time.

The other significance of Marvin Gaye is his album, "What's Going On?", was the first album I can remember seeing and listening to––we had tons of 45's, which had an A and B side and were much cheaper than an LP, a long playing record. So we listened to Marvin Gaye ALL the time because we could hear more than one song. I also learned to listen to the words and not just the music because of Mr. Gaye's storytelling ability. I could feel his despair, pain, agony and joy in his voice and his words. Without knowing it at the time, he (along with Edwin Jackson, songwriter/singer of "War") hooked me in the power and purpose of the written and spoken word. So when I looked at this poster, hanging on the side of Hitsville, USA, the old Motown records "studio", his eyes touched my soul. I saw the despair, pain and the essence of his soul in this photo. And while it made me smile at first because it brought good times with my Mom to mind, I also felt something extremely deeper.

The pain my Mom must be going through now. Love you, Mom.

Keeping Perspective

It's been a tumultuous month.

My Mom suffered a stroke and heart attack. Blood pressure––top number––was over 240. She's lucky to still be alive. But she's still not out of the woods, as she's spent the last 4-5 weeks in and out of critical condition and back and forth from hospital to rehab to back to ICU. Thank God she is fighting to stay alive. Next week is a quadruple bypass for her. Always a risk but there's no alternative as she has only 30% capacity of blood flow through her heart.

I'm writing this very personal post about someone other than myself because it's brought up the inevitable part of life––what if Mom doesn't make it? As my family, close friends––thanks, Ben & Tim––and others have discussed the possibilities, I've noticed something very different about me from the rest of the family. While I'm very sad and know my Mom is in the fight of her life, I've also come to grips with mortality. I talked to my Dad about this the other day––he is also a cancer survivor––and he totally understood. I can only equate this to something I know millions of cancer survivors have gone through and perhaps have a better understanding because of their own face-to-face meeting with death.

I believe when you've stared death in the face––and I'm not talking about thrill seekers who looks for the rush––you find out a lot about yourself. I've written before that there were a few times I didn't think I was going to make it through the night, so I would stay awake to see the sun come through my window. I used to think, "I lived. Now to live another day." It may seem somewhat of a morbid thought. But the power of positive thinking is truly powerful and extremely helpful in the fight against cancer. Even if you don't make it, you die knowing you fought to live to the bitter end.

I love my Mom and selfishly want her to be around for another 70 years. But I also know that death is the most unfortunate part of life and inevitable. That doesn't make it any easier when a loved one, dear friend or anyone else who has been a part of my life passes away.

Right now, it's helping me keep my perspective right where it should be.

No Time To Celebrate

I got the good news on Wednesday, June 29, that the cancer has not come back.

This was completely tempered by the fact that 2 days earlier, my Mom had a heart attack, stroke and a blood clot near her kidney and was in ICU clear across the country from me. So there I was, struggling with the decision of when to hop on the next plane while I was waiting to hear what my fate was going to be with cancer. You can imagine the thoughts and feelings that were racing through my head––worry, anxiety, sadness, guilt, happy, concern, confusion, conflict––that were ringing in my brain at various levels.  I was like, "c'mon, really? Someone or some thing thinks I can handle all this crap, all at once?

I got on a plane Friday morning, not knowing what to expect once I was able to see my Mom. The reports from my Cousin and Sister were not encouraging. And unfortunately, this was looking like a life altering incident. I didn't know if I was going to able to handle it. I remember the last time I rushed back home to the West Coast to see my Grandmother. She was barley hanging on when I got there. I got to tell her I love her, hold her hand and kiss her on the cheek and forehead. I also told her that if she needed to go, it was OK. You held on until I got to see you. And I'll never forget her face––she had a peaceful look even though she was catatonic. She passed away a couple of hours later.

We take for granted that life is fragile. Precious. And it will end. For myself, having stared death right in the eye and telling it to "go screw yourself, I'm not ready" was an experience I hope I never have to go through again. But if I had to, I know I can and will fight to win at all costs. And that's the scariest part of watching my Mom in her current situation. I'm not sure if she's willing or able to fight––her brain is damaged from the stroke and her anxiety disorder has kicked in to high gear. I wish I could do something for her to make her better.

Until then, celebrations are on hold.

Can't Do It Alone

Sometimes, we try to do too much.

I was watching a high school girls lacrosse game tonight, trying to watch as a fan but eventually falling into watching as a coach. Why? Because I have been coaching or mentoring coaches since I was 16 years old. I've coached Men's Softball, Women's Softball, Youth Baseball and Basketball, Girls High School Basketball, mentored a Girls High School Volleyball coach and other sports. I also played sports in high school and college and even played a little semi-pro baseball. So, it's tough for me to just sit back and enjoy as a fan. I'm always breaking down plays, looking at the whole playing field and figuring out what I would do to help my team win. Yeah, a little weird.

In watching the game tonight I saw players trying to force plays, play selfishly and play as if they were the only players on the field. They weren't playing for the school or for their their team to win. They were out there to show everyone how good they were. And in doing so, they showed everyone how bad they were, really. Taking the attitude of "I can do this all by myself, I'll show everyone how much of a superstar I really am." I've seen that attitude too many times as a coach and player. I've even done it a time or two myself. We all have, right? 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had a brief moment of thinking I can do this alone. I can do the treatments. Drive myself to the Doctors. Sit with a needle in my arm or hand while they pump chemo into my body and be there by myself. I don't want anyone to have to be there with me. I'm the one with cancer and I'm the one who is going to have to beat it. I can do it. I'm tough. Don't need anyone's help. And then it hit me––what a stubborn, pigheaded asshole I am.

You see, I was told by my Dad at 8 years old that I was going to have to be The Man Of The House. I was going to have to watch out for my Mom and my little Sister. I was going to be the only man in the house because he wasn't going to be around. I remember crying. I remember the look in my Dad's eye. I remember how that day changed my life forever. I needed to become responsible. I've felt that way ever since that day. So relying on someone else to be the strong one? C'mon, that was my job, my responsibility, my purpose in life. Hey, my Dad said so.

cancer kicks your ass up and down the street. And then kicks it again just for laughs. It plays with your ego, beats up your resolve and twists your heart and soul in knots in an effort to win. cancer plays to the death. It doesn't play fair. But one thing cancer doesn't count on is all the help you get. From your Doctors. From the radiation. From the chemo. My cancer didn't know that I wasn't going to give up. That I was going to be the toughest bastard ever. That I was bringing all the stops. From every where. From every one. cancer didn't know that I had this amazing family. An amazing family at work. An amazing group of friends, new and life long. cancer counted on me trying to do it alone.

No way was I going to try.