Svo Hljótt...

           Gonna be a little graphic in the first two paragraphs, so if you would like to continue reading and have a stomach that doesn't mix well with lightly graphic content, you might want to skip past the first two paragraphs. So the past three weeks weren't the best. I had what felt like the flu for most of that time. Had a cough that was pretty relentless-without much regard for time of day. Eyes were crusted shut every morning for a week or so of it. Ears and nose were stuffed...then the nose began running. Had night chills. Fever was present for most of it, but really saved it's best for the beginning of the third week. Monday morning, I woke, went to the doctor. They took my temp and it was 98.2. The PA said, "Well, why are you here again?"-joking, of course. During my office visit, I started to shiver. I felt a night chill coming on. Luckily I was at the end of my appointment, so I made my way downstairs to a restroom. Felt a strong need to be sick, so I was for a little bit.
        I realized just how much I've changed over the past year and a half as I left the restroom and made my way to the car. I was walking and started to feel sick again. Instead of rushing back to the restroom, I just began throwing up to my side on the grass as I was walking. This is something I never would have done in the past. I was still shaking as I made my way to the car. I just wanted to get in the car, out of the 75 degree temp outside that was freezing. So being sick in public took a backseat to getting in the car and turning on the heat. I turned on the heat, full blast. Kept it going with the vents aimed right at me the entire 40 min drive back to our house in St. Augustine. The rest of the day my temperature never dropped under 103.
           So my oncologist decided that there were likely 3 things my symptoms could be the result of: 1. My cancer is spreading/growing. 2. One of my chemo pills could be causing my cough and fever. 3. It could be a virus they haven't pegged yet.  So he called for me to have the CT scan that I had scheduled for the end of March up to last Friday. He wanted to check to make sure the cancer wasn't spreading and was still responding to the meds. Thankfully, we were blessed with great news again. The cancer has continued to shrink and is not likely the cause of my 3 weeks of symptoms. I've stopped taking the chemo pill as of Friday night. This is in an attempt to figure out if the chemo pill is responsible. So far this weekend, my fever was either non existent or low grade. It sounds likely that the pill is the culprit, but we won't know for sure for a little bit.
          The past 3 weeks I missed a lot of work, and was unable to do much of anything around the house. Karen's mother had to come up and help out as did many of our friends during that stretch. My situation once again causes others to change the course of their daily lives to help out me and my family. This sort of information isn't new to share. It's mostly the same sort of thing that we put out there every so often because every time we experience illness we are reminded of just how much love and support we have. When people aren't around, it's just me, Karen, and Harper. During times when I feel healthier than the norm, I am able to help out around the house more, I can be more of a real father to Harper, and I can feel like a normal, productive, human being. Unfortunately, that isn't the norm. Most of the past, almost 2 years, I have spent my time recovering from a cycle of chemo, an illness like we just got through, or surgery. So that typically means, I sleep a lot in bed or I'm laying on the couch watching life move on.
           It's easy to hate yourself during one of the sick/recovery stretches you go through. Not trying to be dramatic, but that's really how you feel at times. Anytime I've brought that subject up with anyone, the response is the same, "It's not your fault you have cancer." Of course I appreciate the support, but there is nothing that would make me feel different than I do during those stretches. When you are on the inside of all that we experience, you understand everything that is going on around you. You are physically sick, but mentally, you are fully aware of all that is going on around you to make life continue on without your contribution. You spend most all of your life learning how to develop a work ethic and learn how to produce the results you want and kind of effort goes in to achieving those results. Then you just have to set all that aside and be the person you never wanted to be. You hate yourself as a husband, because your wife is functioning as a single mother essentially, and you have to fight yourself from letting yourself think that this might be how it would look if cancer wins out. It's like watching your life through a window. You watch everything happening that you should be involved in, but can't. You can see how your lack of involvement impacts everyone in your life, and there is nothing you can do about it. You hate yourself as a father because your daughter can't express it exactly, but she wants and needs you in her life as any other 2 year old would. So you see the distance between you and her grow everyday you are not capable of being the father you want to be. I'm good with my daughter rejecting me because I'm a jerk, but it's extremely difficult to swallow when I feel distance from your daughter because I'm not physically able to keep up with her. Then when you feel better, you want to cram, however many days/weeks you weren't yourself into the first day you feel better and she is, well, a 2 year old and doesn't know how to take you because you aren't the person she has come to know. You feel the pressure because you don't know how much time you will feel this good, so you want to spend all your time with her. Then you feel bad because she rejects you because you've been an absentee father and you know it, so you want to do whatever you can to make it up to her, so you say, "Ok, I can play the patient game." Then you remember that you don't know how much time you have...period. Pressure. The point is, she is two. It's never her fault. But it's cyclical and you are the reason things aren't right in her eyes. Cancer? What is cancer to a two year old? You're laying on the couch, she's playing on her toy horse. Your fault. She's playing with play dough, you are laying on the couch. Your fault.  She wants to go outside and play with chalk, you are in bed. Your fault. It's always your fault when your child has expectations of you that she/he should have and you aren't providing them for them when they are at an age when you can't explain the situation to them. Is it my fault really? No. It's cancer. It's life. But that's not what matters. What matters are her feelings and how she perceives things. Hating cancer gets me nowhere. Hating myself in some ways helps motivate me to push myself to be a better me. Please don't read this and think I walk around hating myself. Most everyday I'm extremely happy and feel beyond blessed for the life and love I have. Darker moments come from during couch time.
              I remember when we were sitting in the neuro unit at UF Health and the brain surgeon said to Karen and me that he wasn't sure how much time we had left, but he knew it wasn't as long as it was right after the exam that followed the surgery. Right then there were people saying, "you gotta see this...you gotta do that!" Not once did I say to myself, "Yeah, that sounds good." All that I want to see or do in my life I want to do with my family. I want to go to Target and be told it's my turn to push the cart with my daughter in it and have her give me the stink eye when I tell her to sit down. I want to watch Peppa Pig with my girls and make pig sounds with a British accent. I want to drive my daughter to school and start to sing along to the Frozen soundtrack and be told, "NO DADDY!" by the 2 year old vocal coach sitting in her pink throne in the backseat. I want to nap with my family and have someone (wife or dogs) snore louder than my daughter. Before when I wanted to travel the world and see things; I was looking for something to experience and remember the rest of my life. Now all I want to see is life from anywhere but the living room couch, while holding my wife's hand as we see the world through the eyes of our daughter.

I lean against you, in calm everything stood still, and you, you sang to me so quietly- Jónsi


With love,

Brian

Every moment was so precious.

       So two days ago, I had to get an echo-cardiogram done on my heart. It's standard procedure to get them every so often when you are on certain kinds of chemo. I walk into the curtained enclosed room and give the standard apology to both women for the torso I'm about to unveil. I lay down on my side on the hospital bed while the two nurses begin prepping for the procedure. One turns down the lights and the other sits at the computer next to the bed prepping the gel they use on your chest to get the images of your heart. They begin by asking me a series of questions that are required to be answered before beginning; and end up discussing the details of my condition that are not required. We talk about the misdiagnosis, the effects of chemo, and Harper. Not long into the details the woman operating the machine asks that we stop the conversation so she can listen to what she is looking at on the screen. I stop talking and close my eyes. I lay there for a few seconds before I start to hear my heartbeat. Laying on the hospital bed on my side, mentally being taken back to the time of doctor appointments where we were able to listen to Harper's heart beating. It immediately takes me back to when Karen and I would go for pregnancy checkups. I just laid there in the dark, thinking about how different things were then, and listening to every beat and feeling the weight that every beat carried along with it. I hated the nerve-wracking feeling that came with waiting for the midwife to find the heartbeat. There was nothing like when they found it and there was a calm that came over all of us. After a few minutes, I then stopped remembering and was back in the present hooked up for an echo-cardiogram-still rooting for same strong heartbeat that we heard with Harper.
         I'm a sucker for vulnerability. Watching Harper lay in bed at night as Karen and I sing her to sleep still is the best, but hardest part of the day for me. She lays there in her footsie pj's, holding her stuffed animal, as she is covered up by a little blanket. She looks up at both of us as we sing her to sleep. Her eyes are tired as she watches us. They are ready to close with ease because of the trust that she looks at us with. The trust that in her crib, with all of the items we and loved ones have surrounded her with things that give her the security that a baby needs to be able to close their eyes and go to sleep.

            Over the last two years I've become an expert at crying. If I'm honest, before Harper and cancer, I probably cried one or two times a year. I realize now how unhealthy that was. Now, well, I don't count anymore, but me crying happens more than Karen shaves her toes (which isn't often...so that's a bad example). So with this expertise in the area I am able to control how I cry. It's not some sloppy affair that would normally accompany a once a year downpour. I was able to lay there on my side, with my eyes closed, and quietly have a moment. It wasn't a moment that required a "there, there" from someone. It was quiet and quick and the nurses didn't even notice. I don't share this for the sake of sharing something dramatic for a blog entry. It was a moment that would've happened whether or not I was with or without cancer...the result of perspective formed over the last couple of years. Maybe it's because of the sound of a heartbeat reminds me of how fragile the life of my daughter is, mine is, or anyone's is...or maybe it's because of the time in my life when we had Harper only to focus on. When her heartbeat was the only one we had to worry about.
         I'm thankful for these moments. I'm thankful that I don't cry just once or twice a year. I never spoke with my father about those sorts of things. I doubt many men do. Like many who die unexpectedly, I'm sure my father was left with a list of things that he wishes he would have said to others prior to his death. Part of why I think cancer has been a blessing is that the threat of death forces you to wrestle with the mental/emotional items that you likely would not if not face to face with it.  It's a real juggling act to make sure that I am doing what I need to do to function each day, while making sure you make the most of your time with those around you. I think that each day everyone struggles with that balance to some degree. They may not feel the urgency that some of us do, but on some level, maybe we all should love our families/friends with a little more urgency. I am blessed enough to have cancer and all the time it can afford me. There's not a minute that I would want to spend apart from this one.

 

  

 "Now the sky could be blue, I don't mind. Without you it's a waste of time."- Chris Martin

With Love,

Brian

Still Fighting It

              I think I can say with confidence and some regret that I was a spoiled child for much of my upbringing. I was born an only child- son of a Navy man and an English woman. We moved around for most of the first ten years of my life. We tried life over in England during my 7th grade year, and before my dad could tie up loose ends in the states, it was decided that we would return back to Florida to continue our life in Jacksonville. I was indifferent about the decision at the time. I liked being the odd kid from the US while I was in school over there, but I also missed my friends back home.
              My father's life ended when I was 17, a senior in High School. His passing was abrupt. Heart attack in the middle of the day. No goodbyes. Not to his family or the people around him when it happened. It was quick. His tongue had swollen, leaving no breath to pass through his mouth to say any final words. During the time of his passing, our relationship was near the bottom of another one of the valleys in our relationship. Without going into too much detail, he had some drinking problems that drastically changed my opinion of him when I was in elementary school. The relationship never really recovered and then on December 3rd of 1992, the day before his birthday, he died.
            It took me a long time to mourn him. If I was honest to people back then about it (and I wasn't for the most part), the stress in my life had dropped considerably since he passed. I felt bad for those around me who missed him, but I wasn't one of those people. I would simply reflect on the reasons I did not like him and resented him growing up. That seemed to move me past any sort of grieving I might experience. I think part of why I was so confident as to why I was justified in my position was that our relationship was the way it was because of him and his drinking. I still believe that to this day. The thing is though, if you live long enough, you tend to find that life can be difficult...and not just for you. I think I have learned more about my father since his death than I did while he was alive. I learned a great deal about the life he had before he became, "James Newton, Father".
           

                                                 My dad and I, sledding in Rhode Island

        When I met Karen and we started dating, she met my mother and step-father not long after. My mother is half of who I am. So, as with most people, you want anyone you might end up with to meet your family. While my mother is half of who I am, I don't think anyone would tell you that the personality you see from me in public is very much like hers. We are alike in many ways, just not in this area. I, like it or not (and am reminded often by the remaining family that knew my father) have his personality. The relationships I have with those around me are guided by much of the personality that I inherited from him. I am thankful, but jealous at times when Harper is around Karen's parents. Harper is seeing who her mother is through these two people. As I am able to see both of Karen's parents in Karen, I am certain Harper is able to see the similar traits as well.
           When Harper was born, I was overwhelmed. Not sure I can explain each feeling that was present at that time, but I remember holding her, looking at Karen and feeling the excitement of going to get the rest of the family to come in and meet her. Seeing their reactions was something I was really looking forward to. That was one of the first times I can say I really missed my father. He was supposed to be there for that. He was supposed to love Harper more than he loved me.

            That has been part of what is difficult about this cancer thing. Harper will always have pictures, videos, stories, and such to plug in holes of the story she is making out of me. But my personality? That's something that is harder to come by. Either directly from the encounters she might remember from me. Then if not me, it should be my father. But as life would present this situation, we both may not be here to leave that mark on her life.

             I guess what I am saying is that relationships with those who have passed are still relationships. As I mentioned, I've learned more about my dad since he died, than while he was alive. And in doing so, It changes the way I view the man he was then, and now. So in a sense, he is still alive. He is changing in my perception, which in many ways, changes me. I think every parent wants a chance to tell their story or to their children. This verse from a Ben Folds song seemed applicable: "Good morning, son
In twenty years from now
Maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers
And I can tell you 'bout today
And how I picked you up and everything changed
It was pain
Sunny days and rain
I knew you'd feel the same things"

            I'm thankful for the person I've been able to become because of many of the good and bad things I saw my father experience. I'm thankful that I see him in me. I'm thankful that I'm not handcuffed by many of the things in life that held him back from being the person I believe he could've been. I'm sad that we never had that conversation of reflection as adults. I'm thankful that my life wasn't taken in a split second where I would've left things unsaid to Harper. Regardless of how long my life will be, if I need to savor every drop of this imaginary tea. Cancer's gift for the day is the time it has given me, that a heart attack did not give my dad to have his drink with me, and his granddaughter.

 "I picked you up and everything changed" - Ben Folds

With love,

Brian

You were.

         When I daydream (which is often) it's not usually about anything except Harper. I think about how tall she might be, how she is going to look in a few years, and usually what areas she is growing in...both physically and mentally. If how protective I feel is healthy for me or for her. 

          Because of cancer I have to check my daydreaming as to not go too far down the road. That's difficult and usually puts an end to the daydream. I look at women all around me and wonder what their lives were like growing up. Karen and I often watch the show Intervention. When we first started watching, we would always wait for what seemed to be the inevitable moment in the story when you hear about some kind of tragedy that occurred early in the life of the addict. Either they were abused in some way or a member of their immediate family died. Didn't happen in every show, but it absolutely happened in the majority of the lives of the addicts. Now when we watch the show I am left thinking that this could be Harper and am reminded of how this is just one of those things I can't control. I don't think it is likely because of the kind of mother Karen is and because of the village we have around us, but it still reaches deep in me and scares me to death. 

            My dad died when I was 17. We had a pretty rocky relationship. I was full of insecurity, anger, and an inability to work through it because of me having the maturity of a 14 year old. I easily could've run the addiction route. The tendency for addiction runs like wildfire in my family. I very easily could have become what Intervention's odds would have me be...but I didn't. Matured 14 years or so, the path of least resistance should've been laid out in front of me, but I was pulled in another direction. 

          I was part of a village of friends who kept me from drifting too far from the path that led me to the family I have today. Without my mother, my  friends, and their parents I most likely would've ended up the predictable statistic.

          I take peace in that nowadays. Believing that the village we have in place will pick up where I inevitably will leave off. That peace allows me to daydream a little further down the road. When I can have conversations with Harper where she knows that I've lived a full life. I've loved and been loved more than I need for this lifetime. I've seen some of the most beautiful places on earth and have found myself through my relationships with those I love. 

           I remember watching Forrest Gump when I was around 29? (Not for the first time). There is a scene at the end where Forrest is recapping a few of the moments of his life that seemed to mean the most to him to the love of his life, Jenny.  Most of them were really amazing moments he spent alone in nature. You may remember Jenny saying "I wish I could've been there with you." He replied to her, "you were." It really made me want to see the world.

           I spent a few years plugging in hiking trips when I could. I want to be able to have those conversations with Harper. I want her to know that if she is able to travel to those places and beyond, that I'll be with her too. Physically or not. 

With love,

Brian

The Rising Tide

        So I woke up this morning and part of my morning routine is checking Facebook while I sit down in a little room all by myself. It's a little room with one seat and some soft paper rolled up on a piece of cardboard within reach. While checking my Facebook account, I scrolled down and came across a picture that was posted by one of my favorite people in the world. Here is the picture:

 

            I don't know that I know many people like her. She and her son Zak create their own happiness in a way that is obvious to others. A way that is infectious to those they are around. It's a pretty amazing thing to see people respond to adversity in a way that almost makes you want things not to go your way.

           The other day I was limping because of some pain in my left leg. Nothing new there. There was some cancer in there a while back that was radiated. This past month I got my first in a series of injections that are aimed at bone regeneration. I don't know the extent to which the cancer ate away at the femur, but it still hurts. It has some good days and some that aren't so good. I'm not sure how many more months the injections will continue, but I am sure it won't be taken care of before my next injection. The point is, later in that same day, I was sitting down thinking about the leg and I started to make a mental list of all the things that have lingered on and flare up from time to time. It actually surprised me when I thought of how many things there were. I really don't want you to think of this as some way of getting sympathy or anything along those lines. What I am trying to get at is that I don't wake up or go to bed upset about these things. I don't wake up counting all the things that are causing pain or that I am dreading about the day. 

         Before cancer, when I would roll out of bed, the list of things that I was dreading about the day was much longer than the list of things I dread about the day now that I have cancer. It's not because traffic sucks less with cancer. It's because all I want out of life is to be with my family. To spend time with my girls. When you can wake up, roll out of bed and start your day and end your day with what makes you want to live, there isn't very much that really can get you out of that place. I had a brief time back in 2014 when I had cancer, but didn't know it, and had the life that I have now with Karen and Harper. I appreciated my life and the new perspective that Harper had brought to my marriage, but when I got up in the morning and went to bed at night, what happened in between played a much larger role in determining the feeling I had waking up and going to bed. 

          When you get the news that you are going to have cancer the rest of your life, there is a lot of it that is processable and a lot that is not. The parts that you are able to process are typically pretty easy to deal with. They aren't without a wide range of emotions, but it serves to really shift your focus directly on what drives you. The things you can control. With cancer, you can't control much, but you can control how you approach each day. I can choose to be happy with a lot less resistance than I have experienced prior to all the lessons cancer has brought our way. I've learned so much about what I can do without as long as I have what I need. Which surprisingly enough isn't very much. Just two girls who look a lot alike.

"we will ride the rising tide"- Jeremy Enigk

With love,

Brian

        

Love Actually

              The movie, "Love Actually" was on today. Of course today is Valentine's Day, so it made sense and I watched most of it. At the end, Hugh Grant closes the movie out by saying that despite what you might feel on a daily basis, if you look around, you will see that love actually is all around. Picture it, St. Augustine, 27 hours ago. Last night a group of "friends" put together a get together for me and my family/friends. I was first told about this get together not long after we were released from the hospital in January. The idea was to get together for....well, I don't really know. At the time I learned of the party, the news from the doctors was pretty bleak and left us planning for a very uncertain future. Then last week we meet with our oncologist and learn that the new chemo is working very well.
               I'm not good at parties. Never have been. Even with a few drinks in me, spiked from girls trying to take advantage of my innocence. I'm terrible at surface conversation. Last night there were so many people in one room who I want to talk with, but for sure not enough time to talk with each of them beyond a surface level type conversation. Karen and I were both pretty overwhelmed with what was done in preparation for the event and with the turnout of people for it. The White Room, where we celebrated our marriage hosted this event. It was fully catered with an open bar, foods of all kinds, and decorated with amazing Redskin decor. The photographers we have loved since our wedding who were responsible for our wedding and photographing our family growing since then Jenn Guthrie and Brent Culbertson were there capturing every moment of the evening. Both the White Room and Brent and Jenn provided us with this evening free of charge. Just overwhelming. I mean, who does this kind of thing? Simply overwhelming. Then, Mary, Katie, and Gayle spent entirely too much of their lives/energy putting it all together. If they aren't careful I'm going to attempt to find words to tell them how much I love them.  In addition, I know a lot of people had to change/juggle their schedules to spend some time there. It really meant a lot to both of us.
              As I just mentioned, I'm not good at parties. There was a particularly strange feeling that made me a little more awkward than usual at this party. I think it was because the original reason for setting up this party was because the immediate future was uncertain and we wanted to gather loved ones to just have some time together. Now, with the immediate future appearing to be a little more certain with the cancer in my body (from the neck down) shrinking, the party seemed to take on a new meaning. I brought that up during the party and a few people said, "it's a celebration of life" (or something very similar to that). It was amazing to look around the room and take everything in, or try to...but the feeling that this party could have a very different feel to it if the news from the doctor last week had been different. It was a very strong reminder that the incredible feeling that we've been walking around with is very fragile. While things are good at the moment, one meeting with the doctor could change everything.
              I think most people were having a good time. I was trying to overcome the fact that I am terrible with surface conversation and avoid thinking about how different the evening could have been if the doctors visit had gone differently. There honestly wasn't a minute when I wasn't engaged in conversation with someone. How many people can say they've had an event put together for them with a room filled with most of your closest friends/loved ones and it wasn't their birthday or a wedding or for something specific? One of my closest friends, Trey recently said, "Why aren't we doing this kind of thing every year?" He was referring to the house we got in the mountains, but the same thought applies to get togethers like this. Why don't people do that? Why does it take something like cancer to pull people together? Not at all talking about my situation, but most people only communicate what they feel about the people they love at that person's funeral. Last night was a prime example of that. I look around and I see all of my worlds colliding. Groups of my friends who really, prior to cancer coming into the picture hadn't met outside of my wedding. I loved seeing the people closest to me, who previously didn't have a relationship independent of their relationship with me, sharing inside jokes and interacting without me there. Relationships are growing. People are communicating with me and I with them about what we mean to each other. I hope that unlike cancer, there is an infectiousness. An infectiousness that prompts others to communicate the unspoken things we all feel, but without anyone actually having the disease.

Thank you, cancer...the great facilitator of communication. 
           
With love,

Brian

My Wife's Reality...TV Show Problem.

                  Last night Karen and I were laying in bed. We have an agreement that I think we are both very happy with. During football season, if there is a game on that I want to watch, I get the remote. The rest of the year, the remote is hers. Her taste in television is mostly "reality".  While the remote is hers, she does allow me to offer up preferences for which shows out of her selected recordings and which shows I would prefer not to watch. If you must know, the shows I cannot watch are: Project Runway, So You Can Dance, and the show about Dance Moms. The rest, mostly aren't as bad as I thought they would be when I just knew them by title alone.
                 Before Karen, I rarely ever watched reality tv. She has recently started watching a new show called, "Newlyweds: The First Year". Last night she wanted to binge watch a few episodes of this show. The show follows like 4 or 5 couples and shows the highs and lows the couples experience during their first year of marriage. I don't like the show. While most of what these couples are arguing about are common fights that most couples experience, I don't feel like the personalities of most of these folks are like Karen and me. Not saying we are better or worse...just saying we are different and handle things differently than most of them do, most of the time. Where is this going...
                  Last night Karen and I got home late (9ish) from our friends house. It was about an hour after we normally put Harper down to bed. We enter the house, quickly move to Harper's room, and begin to dress her for sleep. We take off her party clothes and she's down to a diaper that needs changing. I'm kissing her face as Karen continues the changing process. I pull back and am just looking at the baby squirming on the changing table and Karen says, "She's got my veins." I look at Harper's belly, and I see some blue veins just beneath the surface of her skin. I start to think about the veins and how I want to hold and protect every vein in her little body.- I think about the movie "John Q" where the father is holding a hospital under the threat of his gun because he wants them to take one of the organs in his body vital to his survival and place it in his son's body to save his son's life-
                  I can't say I connected or appreciated that movie then in the same capacity that I do when I recall it now that I am a father. As I stare at her little body all I think about is how much I've learned can go wrong with the human body since being diagnosed. I have to immediately change my thinking. I do, but I  my leap from that train of thought to the next isn't very far. I'm back to just thinking about how much I love this little baby and how much I hate cancer and the thoughts that come with it. Part of what is so frustrating is that death by cancer is just so pointless. I think we all want something to come or grow from the lives we lead on this Earth and even further, in an ideal world, our deaths would even have some benefit to those left behind. Unfortunately, cancer rarely leaves those it strikes with that opportunity. There's no John Q moment that allows you to demonstrate just how much you love your family as much as you do. So you have the present. You have the time God has given you to communicate/demonstrate just how much you love them.
                As Karen and I made our way to bed, we lay down and I look over and see the veins in her forearm and think about how they are as visible (as she said) as Harper's are on her little belly. My girls have the same transparent skin. She turns on "Newlyweds: The First Year" and a woman begins talking about how her husband forgave her for backing out of a flight because she was afraid to fly. She continued on by saying that if he can forgive her for that they can get through anything. I turn and feel the 18 inch scar under my right arm, and the scar on my head that runs from ear to ear. I think about the last two years and the punishment that my body has been through and about how much emotional pain Karen has endured during that time. Not just the worry of becoming a single mother, living life on her own, but the pain that comes along with loving your spouse and watching them go through the stages that cancer can put you through. Then I think about how Harper hasn't had the father she deserves (that I want to be) over that period of time.  I then decide that the veins i've looked at this evening make it impossible for me to maintain interest or devote time (of which i'm not sure how much I have left) to a show where couples would understand if the other wants to end the marriage over the fear of flying. I ask Karen to change what we are watching. She does, without complaint or argument. I then grab hold of her veiny hand and fall asleep hoping that asking her to change the show is something we can overcome.

"Hold on to the thread, the currents will shift"-Eddie Vedder

With love,

Brian