God

God. What kind of unknowable thing is he? Is he so isolated he doesn’t know how much I and my family are suffering? Through this whole ordeal we have been praying for divine intervention, and finally, with the facebook post and a liver less than 48 hours later that was the right size, the right blood type, and in Round Rock, it looked like God was coming through. Then we did the surgery and it turns out the radiation damage is too severe in my insides, the scar tissue too pervasive, the liver too tightly joined to other organs around it, and the doctors have to abandon the surgery. But not without all the follow-up difficulties a surgery like this brings.

Here we are 7 weeks later and I am still suffering with unhealed intestines inside. How long until they heal? Our doctors don’t know. They assure us it will heal, but they have only said, “It takes a long time, so be patient.” And so we are patiently dealing with the unpleasantness that this healing requires, including IV food, cleaning and dressing a leaking bowel that is supposed to heal up, and trying to force eat enough extra food and protein that my body can heal itself.

We also are dealing with their opinion that this could be one of the last stages I go through. We are having a lot of difficulty accepting that, and we fight it every day, multiple times per day.

I know a lot about suffering, more than I ever wanted to know. I know mental and emotional suffering. I have cried more tears with my wife than I ever thought I would. I have wrenched my belly from sobs of sorrow just in the past hours or days. My life has some very deep sadness in it right now, sadness that sometimes grabs me and demands to be acknowledged, to be dealt with, to be wrought up and held and evaluated.

I try to stay out of this sad place. I try to live in the light and the yellow joy of each new minute, but sometimes I fail and I have to sob and cry and hold onto my wife and dear friends for support. I thank them now and forever for their support and love. This sorrow and suffering is a burden I fight with several times a day. I know this suffering with an intimacy that not many do, and I do not wish it on anyone.

I also know physical suffering. I have hurt for a long time now. Some days are better than others, and some days just suck. All the time, my body hurts. All the time, my abdomen cramps. All the time, my various tubes pinch and sting. Sometimes, my body will hurt worse with no cause. It just does. Sometimes, I will retch for whatever reason and with new scars and seams on my belly, that hurts a good deal. Sometimes, my diaphragm will spasm, sending pain along my sides and front.

My body hurts. My brain hurts along with it. My family hurts. All these things bring me such sorrow and suffering that I am really just fighting with them most of the time I am awake. It is a miserable way to have to live right now. But as I said, Deb and I are fighting it.

I guess I am writing the above because Debra said people want to know. I am not sure. I don’t want to know about it. I wish it had never been visited on me and my family. I cry, but no one can do anything. It just is.

So back to God.

Does he know what it is like to suffer like this? I think he does. I think he knows physical suffering, and the fear of dying very well through Jesus, his son. Jesus told his friends and disciples many times that he was going to die. We know this from the historical writings in the bible, and so we know that he lived with the same longing appreciation for the beauty of the world and its glorious creation that I have when I walk my block. The breeze. The joy of sitting down. The absolute pleasure of seeing a cardinal flit from one branch high above to another. The comedic dance of a squirrel and my dog, the squirrel hanging inverted hurfing and chirping at Beau, and Beau, front feet on the tree, barking at the squirrel. Jesus saw similar things, knowing their beauty would be lost to him before long.

Jesus also suffered physically. It was not long and drawn out like mine has been. But it was a fine helping of physical pain through whipping with lead points embedded in the whip’s thongs, a crown of big thorn branches shoved on his head, carrying the crude, heavy board through an ancient town with all its steps and running sewage that he would later be nailed to, having his feet and hands nailed to the wood, and ultimately dying on that cross. Yes, he suffered physically.

And he also suffered another way that I haven’t. He lost all his friends, and even his dad when he died. His friends abandoned him one after the next as the time lead up to his arrest. And his father, whom he loved dearly, refused his request to “let this cup pass” from Jesus’s lips; said another way, he refused to let Jesus avoid all the suffering that was necessary to accomplish his goal: to allow us to be with God the father despite our imperfect lives. Then, when Jesus was hanging on the cross, his cry of “Abba, abba, why have you forsaken me?” shows a suffering that is so deeply felt. He has been abandoned by his dad. “Daddy, Daddy, why have you left me here?” Those words pierce my heart when I think of my boys in a similar situation.  

But God the father, does he know suffering? After realizing the above about Jesus crying out to his Daddy, yes, I believe God the father knows suffering; a kind of suffering that I don’t, and that I never wish upon anyone. The suffering of losing your son. Worse yet, losing your son because of a decision you have made. I can’t even imagine it.

When I think of Ben, crying out to me to save him, nothing could stop me from doing everything in my power to help him. But God, when his boy cried out to him, had to turn his back and let him die. That was the strategy that the two of them had built. Jesus would carry the gross actions of all the world to death, lose contact with God the father, and die. After which we would be able to be with both of them.

But there was deep suffering in God’s heart that day. In fact, the bible says that after Jesus died, the sky grew dark, the earth shook and rocks split apart. And that the heavy veil in the Jewish temple that separated God the father from his unclean, imperfect followers was torn in half from top to bottom.

The significance of that tear is quite important because it shows that we are no longer separated from God, but also because fathers who lost a son in that time would tear their robes using their hands, starting at the neck of course, and then all along the front. God was a father who had lost a son. He was grieving, and suffering.

So do I think God had any hand in my liver fiasco? No. Nothing. I don’t think God meddles in humanity very much, if ever. I think what happened, happened. I don’t hold anyone accountable. It’s life.

But do I think God knows what it’s like to suffer, and therefore can empathize with me and will welcome me to his arms when the time comes? Yes, I do. I think he knows my suffering and more.

I hope this note is consoling for you all, my friends. Deb and I are deeply fighting this cancer right now. It is a battle that rages by the hour. It is a long day the moment we wake up. It is hard. We so appreciate your loving dinners. They help us manage the day. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping take care of Debra. She is a diamond, hard and beautiful and highly precious. She is selfless in caring for those around her. Thank you for being here for her now and in the months to come.

I also thank those of you who care for Will and Ben. They are all seeing a part of life that no one wants to have to go through. It’s refining them in ways I will never see, but I know they will be more empathetic, loving individuals in the long run. Thank you all for being there for them when they need to talk, and for thinking of them when kids their age are gathering and helping to get them there so they can be part of the crowd. This helps so much to keep their lives normal. They are both working through this. They are going to be okay. But your support is so valuable and appreciated.

And Cate. To those of you who have opened your homes, your vacations, your closets, your children and your lives to her, it is a great support. Thank you so much for doing so. She is also doing well through this, but I deeply appreciate your on-going love and support to her.

And me… I can’t thank you all enough for the on-going prayers and Wadestrong bracelet snap shots. They are encouraging. Thank you.

I love you all. I will write again before too long.

Wade 

Son, I hope you get the chance...

A story of my walk with Ben, my 9-year old son, and how I hope he gets the chance to appreciate life like I do....

Last week was “Dress-up as your favorite hero” day at Ben’s school. There was never any doubt: he would go as Michael Jackson. He watched MJ videos to prepare. “Smooth Criminal” was his favorite, with MJ in all white with a fedora hat and black shirt. Ben wanted to be just like that.

By the time the day arrived, he had found a suitable outfit with an open white dress shirt and a dark grey t-shirt underneath. His Papa Mac helped him paint his top hat from blue velvet to white and bought him a sequined glove that Gigi helped him size down to fit his hand. And he also bought the crowning glory: a sparkly fake mic.

The Smoove Criminal

I couldn’t see him the morning he went to school, so I went at lunch to see his outfit. As I walked down the school mall, kids ran past me in KISS outfits and fifties dresses. Other boys, uninterested in music heroes, wore Minnesota Vikings and Miami Heat jerseys. They played tag or chase in the green lawn.

Ben was not playing tag or chase.

To the right of the green lawn in the shade of an overhead walkway, one of the teachers had set up a wireless speaker and was playing songs by request for the “second grade dance party.” Here is where I found Ben, dancing like MJ in absolute abandonment and joy. 

He lip-synched lyrics into the mic. He twirled and finished in MJ poses up on his toes. He cascaded his top hat in a single fancy move from his hands down and up to the top of his head. He was overcome with the joy of the music and dancing. No one was especially watching him…. He was just dancing and “shingin’ shome shongs.” It was a pleasure for me to watch him.

Later that night, I was strategic in asking him to go on a walk with me. I had something I wanted to talk to him about.

We started the walk by playing with a new light-up lacrosse ball I bought for just such occasions. It’s super hard to catch at night because its light is hard to accommodate with nighttime depth perception. As we walked, I told Ben about when I had played with a similar ball on my friend Abe’s ranch one time when he and I and several other friends went out for his 40^th birthday. It still is a lifelong memory for me.

As Ben and I progressed around the block we talked about the light-up ball and making sure to catch it or it would go down the storm drains. We talked about Ben’s whistling and how he should keep at it no matter what, that it will bring him happiness and keep him company. And of course, we talked about which girls he liked. (It’s a secret!)

I let the conversation go along like that for a while, and then I got very serious. I wanted to make an impact with what I said next. I wanted to be very careful about how I said it. I wanted to make Ben absorb what I said, and to want what I would describe to him so badly that he could see the benefit through the work it would take to get there.

“Ben,” I said, “I want to talk to you about something very serious. I want to give you a gift that you will have your whole life. It’s a wonderful gift that you can share with friends that will make those friends even better friends. It will provide opportunities to you that you might not ever even know about otherwise. It will get you girlfriends. (We laughed.) And it might even make you money one day. But above all, it will make you happy. It’s a beautiful gift, Ben. Do you want it?” Of course Ben said, “Yes, I want it.”

I continued, “Do you remember at school today when you were dancing in front of that speaker?”

“Yes.”

“How did you feel when you were dancing?”

He thought a long while, trying to put words to how he felt, “Cool. Happy.”

“Ben, do you think you felt ‘joy’ at being able to hold that mic and dance around and sing, maybe even a little bit because some of the other kids watched you and you could tell that they were enjoying your performance a little bit?”

“Yes.”

“You gotta know something Ben: that is an amazing feeling, to get to dance and sing and have other people get joy from watching you do it. You were really lucky today to get to do that.”

I then stopped walking and acted like I was sitting behind a drum kit, drumming. (Ben has been wanting drums.) I asked Ben if he thought I could dance around while playing the drums. He said no. I said, “the drums are really, really cool Ben. And there are a lot of lead singers who can play the drums…like Jack White. And they play one or two or even three other instruments.”

He began to work this over with me, and quickly figured out I was talking about him learning to play the guitar, more specifically, the electric guitar.

I told him, “Dude. As the lead singer of a band where you’re playing the electric guitar, you can control a crowd, you can dance on stage, you can sing into a mic, you can sing and play songs you have written and people in the crowd will know the lyrics and will sing your song back to you, just like you do with Twenty One Pilots.”

“Ben!” I said. I let his name settle in the darkness... “Playing the guitar is a gateway to the joy you felt today on the playground! If you learn how to play now, you will never regret knowing how to play. Sometimes it will be hard, and you might want to stop. But if you remember how you felt today, you push though those hard times because you know it will make you happy in so many ways, including bringing you joy when you sing and play in front of an audience.”

He began to think of songs we know together that have a guitar in them: Juke Box Hero by Foreigner; Separate Ways by Journey; Panama by Van Halen … And then he got quiet thinking of other songs he knew.

We walked along quietly.

To my surprise he began to sing the chorus of a song we have only listened to together once: Tim McGraw's song, "Live Like You Were Dying."

"And I went sky divin'
I went Rocky Mountain climbin'
I went 2.7 seconds on a bull name Fumanchu
And I loved deeper (Here I joined in with Ben and we walked along singing together.)
And I spoke sweeter (Here he trailed off as he didn't know the rest of the words.)
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denyin'
And I said, 'Son I hope you get the chance
to live like you were dyin'.'"

The last line left my mouth clearly. I could imagine it floating away from us.… The night air around Ben and me was silent. Ben, who usually follows every verbal thought with another one, was quiet.

We walked along the damp pavement under the slow-moving branches… a newly built fence, oddly luminescent on the right side of the road. I put my arm around him, his warm shoulder radiating through his t-shirt up through my hand.

It was a beautiful moment, filled with sadness and longing and irony.

I broke the silence, “Ben, these are moments we need to remember. Help me remember to write you a note about these things we’ve talked about tonight. They’re special, and I want you to have this memory forever. The best way for me to give you that is to write you a note.” He reminded me the next day....

I don’t want Ben to ever have to face a life with a visible end point. But the rewards of knowing that it’s all going away before you thought it would are so deep and rich that I would love for him to experience it somehow.

To relish, savor and appreciate life while we have it colors it more vividly.

I want all my family members to live like they were dying, and to play the guitar. Ben is my last shot for the guitar. Here’s hoping the third time is a charm.

...

For anyone who wants to keep reading about the rest of our fun, fun night…

Ben and I were not ready for bed when we returned, and Will, poor guy, was doing homework. So Ben and I decided to hang out in the back yard while Will finished his homework and throw the light-up lacrosse ball back and forth.

We went out by the pool and were throwing it. It kept getting past me and landing in the bushes. As I would reach down to get it, its bright glow would silhouette the leaves between me and it, and it would spook me about something being down there beside the ball that I couldn’t see, like a snake.

I mentioned to Ben that I was happy there were no poisonous snakes here in our neighborhood because I was a little spooked by the ball being in the bushes. I could see Ben’s eyes grow a little wary as he thought of trying to get the ball out of the bushes and that there might be a snake there, poisonous or not. It was a perfect opportunity to play inside little Ben’s head. Any good father would see it, but only a really good father would take it… Or maybe not. Anyway, I took it.

I said again, “Yeah, the poisonous snakes are all gone these days except the ‘Texas Yard Snakes.’ They live on the outside of the yards around a neighborhood under bushes and stuff, next to the fences.” I then proceeded to bounce the ball over his head and into the yard next to the dark fence.

As we stood in the safety of the lighted side yard, he and I went back and forth about how to go about getting the ball quickly out of the dark bushes beside the fence while avoiding any Texas Yard Snake bites. Once the ball was retrieved, I would tell him, “Whew. Okay, now we know there are no Yard Snakes there…,” as I would bounce the ball past him “accidentally” into another, unexplored dark section of the yard.

We both laughed so hard at ourselves being scared. And then at the end, I told him there were no such things as poisonous “Texas Yard Snakes,” and we walked the perimeter of the lawn to prove it to ourselves. (And a few days later we found “Barney” the Texas Brown Snake. Sure enough, he was totally harmless and fun.)

After we finished throwing the ball back and forth and talking, Will came out and it was time for shooting it into the lacrosse goal. Will and Ben would whip it in and I would stand a good five feet behind the net, having learned the hard way that the net gives a good bit when a ball hits it going 40-70 miles an hour. (Will threw it once when I was videoing and hit my ‘special purpose,’ causing me to utter words that are not-suitable for work, but which are captured forever on digital video.) 

The two of them throwing that light-up ball into the net was an absolute blast because the ball seems to come at you so fast. It was a great surprise gift for the two of them. And a great, predictable and anticipated memory for me.

Live like you were dyin'...

The Radiance

A drive-home experience with a podcast changed my outlook on God's presence. He met me where I was, and I realized it...

To set this story up I need to tell you that in early February Deb and I visited Houston Methodist hospital to discuss my pending liver transplant.

The doctor was kind, but as we have discovered about doctors in this line of work, he only told us the bad news.
-       The procedure for my type of liver transplant is new and its success is not quantified.
-       They don’t have a long history of statistics to rely upon.
-       They don’t know why some people live and some don’t.
-       They don’t know if my body will accept a perfect fit, or throw a perfect fit.

They can’t tell, apparently … much at all. Or if they can, they’re not telling.

Frankly, and I apologize in advance to my doctor buddies, that approach gets tiresome. I know it’s the result of our litigious society. But man it would be nice for someone to tell us something like, “It might work! Of course there are no guarantees. But based on my experience with this, Wade, I think you have a great chance.”

That would be a nice little nugget to carry around in my mind’s lock box. But under the current CYA system, we got dark news about my lack of a chance.

And driving home from receiving that news is where my real story begins. 

Who can paint this for me? I will buy it.

In November, a friend of mine recommended that I listen to a guy named Rob Bell.

Rob is a former pastor who has turned his passion for understanding God into a pursuit that goes outside the traditional religions most of us grew up with. Somewhere along the way he became disenchanted with the god we accepted from tradition as the “one we got,” and began pursuing a God that is more relevant to us today—at least that’s my interpretation :).

As Deb and I were driving home to Austin I queued up a pod cast from Rob. It was an interview with his colleague Alexander J. Shaia, a child-refugee from Lebanon who grew up in Alabama, gained a Phd in psychology, trained and practiced for decades in religion, and now pursues various other spiritual disciplines.

I had heard Alexander late last year talking with Rob about the four gospels and their application to life’s journeys. It was a new lens for me and I enjoyed hearing it.

This particular “Robcast” interview with Alexander was about the Christmas story. It was February, and I knew we were late to hear it. It was recorded for December; but better late than lost.

It was regarding the gospel of Luke; the “good news” for his audience.

As a quick aside, objective historians will attest that there is no reasonable doubt that Jesus lived in the first part of the first century. Likewise, there is no reasonable doubt that his life started Christianity and that his followers wrote several books about his life, four of which are the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

But that is where the objective certainty ends. People wonder…
-       Why are there inconsistencies between the gospels?
-       Why do some of the authors mention some events while others do not?
-       Why are some of Jesus’s statements different?
-       Why are there contradictions?
-       Why?

Ultimately, the questioning should lead to one thing: how do they work for “you,” the reader?

For me, I have come and gone from these books. In college I was fascinated by the apologetics, searching for historicity and accuracy to the original manuscripts. At another point I was caught up by their comparative study. At still another I searched for their relevance to “the big me.” In each case, my curiosity was satisfied on some level and I left them with more than I brought.

But lately, as a result of listening to Rob and his friend Dr. Shaia, I have gotten new insights that make the gospels more real to me; more commonsensical; more textured with the authors’ sweat and blood as they scratched at their parchments, pouring their creative minds and spirits out onto the pages.

It has become obvious that each one wrote for their specific audience—specific groups of early Jesus followers in specific times and specific states of maturation and distress. They wrote to minister to them, teach them, and encourage them. They likely wrote with some fear for their own lives. They wrote with inspiration and passion about their subject, and about their audience.

And let’s be clear: each gospel was hugely successful. Each one filled its readers with hope, encouragement, light, spiritual security, and any number of other requirements. And as a result, each was selected to be canonized and subsequently reprinted something close to five billion times.

But I digress.

On that day after Deb and I heard the dark news the good doctor shared, we listened to Rob and Dr. Shaia talk about the gospel of Luke.

Luke wrote his letter to early Jesus followers who were in deep, dark distress. Their families were not safe. Romans were rounding them up to be killed. They were ostracized from their mother religion, Judaism, for following Jesus. They were isolated and alone from friends and family. And Judaism itself was in shambles and trying to rediscover its way.

As the story goes, the times were dark. No one could be trusted. Secret signs scratched hastily in temporal dirt identified other believers. Tears were common. Corners were never just corners. Work and money were hard to come by.

When I think about Luke’s audience—meeting in secret in rooms with the shades drawn low, looking from face to face to see who was missing—I realize that while I don’t have it very easy right now, things could be worse. These people were who Luke was thinking about when he sat down to write his gospel—his good news. He wrote to them with their dark times in mind.

He starts by talking about the story of Mary and Joseph. She was from a priest’s family, an honorable thing. And Joseph, her identified husband, was from the kingly line of David.

They were like a former UT quarterback’s teenage son who is engaged to the beautiful teenage daughter of the First Baptist Church’s Lead Pastor. The two were like the Home-Coming King and Queen of Nazareth.

And then she got pregnant.

Now today of course, when we see this sort of thing happen and the girl says that she is, “pregnant by the Holy Spirit with the Messiah,” we all rejoice that the second coming is here.

Right. Maybe we think instead that the two teenagers got carried away and made a stupid choice and now their promising lives, poor things, are ruined.

The second thing above is what happened to Mary and Joseph. They were excommunicated.

When they traveled alone to Bethlehem, their ancestral home town, they found locked doors and frowning faces from relatives they would have known for decades.

They had to stay in an animal shed, owned by a stranger; an outright animal barn. They fell from privilege to poverty in nine short months.

And then the baby came.

I can’t imagine how hard this was for them. Their baby, the joy of any new parents’ lives, and one they believed was the Christ, was born in a stranger’s animal barn, with no blanket or midwife or even a clean place to put him.

They wrapped him in whatever cloth scraps they could scrounge up and put him in an animal’s feeding trough so Joseph could tend to his wife, who was likely pretty worn out from the ordeal.

It was a dark place for the two of them. But Luke points out they each had faith.

But he wasn’t done with the allegory. He wanted to tell the story of faith in a dark place one more way, and so he reminded his audience of the shepherds.

Shepherds, according to Dr. Shaia, were dirty, diseased, outcast people in that society. They tended sheep because that was the only work they could find. If you saw (or smelled) a shepherd coming down the street, you ducked into a store front until they were gone. And you hid your kids. Shepherds were not acceptable society. 

These guys were out tending their sheep on the hills surrounding Bethlehem at night. There was no ambient light from the city. The Sun was long set. It was dark, dark, dark, with wild animals, and criminals, and stupid sheep.

And then a blinding light covered the entire scene and these shepherds fell on their faces, absolutely terrified. According to Luke’s story an angel told these outcasts about the Messiah first. Why?

Because it made a point for his audience.

The light was bright, but it was blindingly bright because of where it was—in the darkest possible place. The indescribable Light of the Gospel—The Good News—shown even more brilliantly in the dark fields outside a first-century town precisely because it was intensely dark. The Light of Hope for the world, entrusted to Luke’s persecuted readers, was announced in a dark, dark place—by design.

Kapow!!!!

In the same way I now believe it was no accident that Luke chose to make this point for his audience, I believe it was no accident that I picked that particular Rob Bell interview. The God Rob searches for found me and my wife on that road in that dark time, and by all that’s holy, he showed me a bright light; a bright and radiant light that still shines for me in the darkness of my days and nights.

Wow. That is a God I can love. That is a God I can appreciate because He loves me back. Not every time I need it, but sometimes. And when he does, it leaves a mark.

It makes me pause for a moment to let that sink in before I continue..........

Okay. Eyes dried. 

But for my doubter’s sake I just want to think through the set-up to determine something: Did “Today’s God” really put this content in this moment for me and my wife?

Here’s the set-up: This was about four weeks ago. I have not listened to a single Robcast since. (Sorry Rob, if you ever read this :) .) I have had time in the car to do so, and in very similar situations, but I have not done it. Nor had I ever played Rob Bell for Debra—or anyone—prior to this. In fact, I don’t recall that I have ever queued up a “sermon” style audio file for Debra to listen to, ever, in twenty-one years.

And yet, here we were in February, driving along in silence having heard some really devastating news, and out of nowhere I opened my pod cast app, found a Rob Bell interview about a just-passed Christmas season, and pushed play.

And it’s that one? So perfect for our moment? Come on! Deb and I won the spiritual power ball!

The message that found us continues to provide light in our dark place. I have leaned on my awareness of it many times since hearing about it. For me, it shines the brightest because it was no accident.

The radiance of that light on the dark hills of Israel is Hope in a hope-poor time. It tells us we are not lost. It shows us the way. It reminds us that God knows what it’s like to be alone and suffering. He knows, and so He gives us these beautiful messages and images. He is here, now, like He was there, then.

His radiance shines today. It is hope. It is light. It is relief. It is with us when we’re alone. It is for us in our struggles.

My family’s dark times are made lighter.

Thank you, Today’s God, for inspiring the gospel authors to write down the words of their ministry so long ago. And thank you, Today’s God, that the words are still relevant today.

How I Learned to Stop Walking and Just Be

I have written a lot about walking. It’s how I decompress. And how I exercise. When I walk in my neighborhood, I sometimes head to a north/south street called Las Brisas. It has no outlets. There are cul-de-sacs at either end of its long, dark, tree-lined blacktop. I walk undisturbed in the middle of the road. One night last week I was out for a walk with Beau. I had reached Las Brisas and was going north, downhill, and thinking.

Las Brisas looking north. Beau's in the shadows to the left. 

Walking along I realized that I was dwelling on bad things. I was hurting in my chest and abdomen. My job was presenting some stressful situations. My wi-fi wasn’t working…. The typical stuff we all deal with was in the way of my walk.

I stopped and stood still on the road. There were no cars. The moonless sky was dark and clear. A cool front had blown through and the air was crisp. As the moments passed I became aware that I needed to be present in their beauty, not missing them because I was mulling over my hurts and concerns. I needed to be thankful for my ability to be outside, and walking.

Honestly, it wasn’t so long ago that the best walk I could take was the eighty-three steps around the nurses’ station at MD Anderson, passing under fluorescent lights and across alternating shades of green and gray tile. Being outside, under the stars, walking on a dark street with Beau was so much better, with so many more pleasant things to think about, that there was really no comparison.

Consciously, I began to appreciate the walk more.

Beau was in the woods on my right side, the east side of the road. He is built low, maybe 12 inches tall, 30 inches long, and 10 inches wide, and he has big paws that flop around when he walks. His short, domesticated steps make a racket in the brush to stir the dead. He would certainly starve if left to kill for food. If I could hear him so clearly with my human ears, a wiley rabbit would be watching him from the safety of a thicket long before Beau’s snout even picked up his rabbity scent.

But in this case, his thrashing in the undergrowth made me pause. As I silently appreciated the fact that I was there at all, I suddenly realized I had been missing the things I heard too. So I decided to systematically step through each of my five senses, paying attention to what I was hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling, and seeing. 

I breathed deeply and heard the air pass through my nose and into my lungs. My troubled thoughts slowly became past tense, and I began to pick out each, discernible sound track of the night.

While it was cold, there was still some little living thing in the bushes singing for mates. It’s amazing that night calls in Texas are so pervasive and omni-seasonal that there is hardly ever a truly, silent night. Always, the click and hum of life surrounds us.

Above me, the cold breeze moved through the trees and across my skull cap. It shushed past, branch on branch, leaf on leaf, murmuring and whispering with indescribable sounds. Wind is as wind does. It screeches. It moans. It whispers. I heard it there above me. I drank it in, and imagined what made the sounds from its passing.

Air poured through my nose and down the back of my tongue as I inhaled the cool night's tastes and smells--the dense cedar fragrance of hill country and neighborhood run-offs; the tangled aroma of wood and bare brush and decaying, brown oak leaves; lingering mountain laurel and rosemary; the familiar smell of a wood-burning fireplace.

My fingers were cold. The thick barrel of the big, black police flashlight I carry sat in the curve of my hand, buried in the pocket of my old Carhartt, its scored surface and rubber push-button switch familiar. My other hand clenched in my left pocket. I felt my finger pads in my palm, and it was warm.

I explored the feelings of my face. We are normally not aware of how our faces feel. They generally are a one-way message out from us, “I’m busy. I’m stressed. I’m happy. I’m sad.” But when I paid attention, my face was letting me know the air was cold and my hat was tight and warm. My ears bristled as the cold breeze swirled in them. My cheeks couldn’t decide whether to be cold or hot, and so teetered on both sensations from the corners of my mouth to the sides of my eyes. The cold on my forehead stopped where my black hat started. Below that line, I could feel coolness tingling, above it, the pressure of elastic.

When I paused to concentrate on my legs I regretted not wearing my long underwear. But my feet, ah! my feet were toasty warm in my new boots from Mac, my father-in-law. Taking steps now, I could feel my weight and the scrape of their soles on the asphalt, and I knew I was going down a hill without even being able to see the slope.

Darkness enveloped me. There are no lights on Las Brisas, and the house porch lights sit back by 50 to 100 feet. I have been on Las Brisas when it’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. This night was not that dark, but only starlights pin pricked the sky. There was no moonlight filtering through the woods on either side of me. Branches above me were coarse, dark brushwork on a deep blue canvas. The white curbs of the black road were only notions of a border.

Beau came out of the woods and found me. I knelt down on one knee and scratched his neck in the deep folds. He looked up. I looked down. We made a visual connection, imprinting that we were two in a pack, safe, no danger. Off he went, and me too, further on our explorations.

Lights from a home I had never appreciated before shone through the bare undergrowth. It sits twenty feet higher than the street on a carved-out hillside to my left. Party lights swayed over a large, Spanish courtyard above me, encircled by a low stone wall. I imagined a bustling party there: waiters with trays of drinks and hor d’oeurvres held shoulder high, and I wanted to be standing in a clutch of friends, sipping a margarita with salt and laughing at long-known insider jokes.

I circled the cul de sac and began to walk back up the hill. I was so far from where I started. Quiet. I was struck with the word "Be." "Be. Be. Be....." I breathed it in.

Be. Where you are, Wade.
Be. With who you're with.
Be. And don't miss the joy of being.

Yes, there are unpleasant things that I and everyone else must deal with. They are the facts of life. But not the only ones!

There are spikes of pain in our lives that pinch and crimp and wake us up. We all face demons at work, whether in an office or an SUV. Each of us has daily opportunities to mull our injuries and pet peeves, nursing them into brimming wards of 24-hour-care patients.

But stop. Hang on. Don’t do that. You don’t have to. We can do something else.

Spend time being without those hurts. Invest your observation power by walking through your senses one at a time. Find yourself in places that are rewarding—the woods, a basketball game, a lake, a dinner table. Dwell on hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling, and seeing. Soak up the cold, the hot, the sounds, sights, feelings—the sensations of life. Absorb each as a chorus and then in their individual voices. 

Beaches become so much more than broad strokes of sand, sky, water and bodies; forests, more than trees, dirt, stones and trails; roads, more than the fastest way from one thing to the next; people, more precious; time, more rich, and maybe even a little slower.

Hope Revealed

I have been thinking about Hope. The real meaning of the concept, for me anyway, is easily missed. The word is too easy to say as a throwaway thought: “I hope it rains today. I hope you have a good time.” But in a greater sense, it requires a pause, and a careful new thought to appreciate its strength--and its weakness. I have lived with “hope” in my vernacular for 48 years now, and I think I really only understood its subtlety a few weeks ago.

I have been talking with a trained therapist about pain. Since the bowel obstruction occurred in late October, pain has been constantly with me. I don’t know why this is the case, because it was supposed to go away after my surgery. But it pulls on my abdomen all night. It nags after meals, and if I haven’t eaten and my stomach is empty, it sends sharp messages to let me know I need to put food into the process. And the damn tube is aching as well, more later in the day after sitting for awhile. These days, pain is hardly ever not with me in some form. It’s so tiring.

So I have been talking with someone trained in how to manage it. Her specialty is post-traumatic stress disorder. She sits across from me in a classic therapist’s office with comfortable couches and Kleenex, and asks me to describe the pain in a single word. “Weakness” comes to mind among five or so other words. We decide “weakness” is the word that most describes where my thoughts go when the pain takes a mental front seat.

She then asks me to dwell on that feeling and its effects on me. She tells me, "Hold them for ten seconds in my thoughts, and then let my mind go, noticing the words and images that come." I am not yet sure where this is going, but I comply. My mind tumbles forward, building on the word “weakness.”

After two or three minutes, she breaks me out of the thoughts. We talk about them for a short time. And then she asks me to pick up where those thoughts ended and let my mind begin again from there.

It’s surprising that it doesn’t cover ground it has just run across. It leaves it behind and finds new articulations of my situation, each time deeper inside my psyche than the last. And each time looking at the original pain from a different vantage point, showing me how it affects me in ways that I haven’t uncovered until now.

We do this maybe seven times until Hope comes into my mind. I find it buried several minutes beneath “fear.” It is the guarded hope that this pain will one day be behind me, and I will feel physically normal again, able to be present without feeling my body under me. Able to be happy and with my family without first making the conscious choice to do so by ignoring the pain and all it signifies.

And I realize for the first time in my life that without pain, fear, sadness, failure, death…, there is no Hope. The concept of Hope depends on undesirable outcomes for its very existence. Without the very real possibility that I will never be whole again, the hope for a revitalized life is not necessary. 

It hardly ever crosses our minds when we are healthy to hope that we stay that way. We may pray for it. We may be thankful for it. But we don’t hope for it.

Somehow this realization that Hope depends on imperfection and uncertainty helps me appreciate what it means to have it at all. Because it’s uncertain, I appreciate its presence with me and my family. I can grasp its importance as a buoy for my drowning thoughts.

There is good news on this front. I have recently been added to a very unique liver list. It’s not the classic liver list that we are all familiar with in theory. That list is called the “in-criteria liver list.” An “in-criteria” liver is one that comes from a healthy individual, under sixty, without a jail record or history of drug use, etc. These livers are jokingly called “prom-king livers” because it immediately conjures the concept of a young kid, drinking and driving on prom night who unwittingly saves someone’s life through the loss of their own. It’s a tragic moniker, but now that we know it we will never forget it.

I am on the “out-of-criteria liver list” because my cancer was slightly too large when they found it. These are the livers from the people that Jesus hung out with. They are the drug abuser livers, the chronically-ill person livers, the jail-bird livers. They may also be livers from an older person, or a person who has too much fat. These are commonly called the “ex-convict livers.” I am honored to be the potential recipient of their gift of life.  

Classic liver recipients are not generally healthy enough to receive these livers, and a liver transplant using one of these livers might not be successful with someone who has cirrhosis and is close to death. But I, I am a great candidate for these ex-convict livers. My body, ironically, is healthy enough to receive one of these livers and live through it. I can tolerate the time it takes for the liver to adjust to a healthy person’s body.

The good news here is that the out-of-criteria list is relatively short: I am already number two on the list with my blood type and body size. They’re also only allocated on a hospital-by-hospital basis instead of a nation-wide, government-regulated regional list. The Methodist Hospital in Houston is one of the only hospitals in the South to transplant convict livers, so they get all of them in the area; Fat Southern Ex-Convicts Give Good Liver!

More good news is that my  doctor, Dr. Ghobrial, is very experienced with ex-convict livers, having used them for decades now. And even better, he has a good record of success with them.

And the final piece of good news is that he and his physician’s assistant, Dawn, are deeply kind people who want me to live. They want to save me. In fact, they have—gasp—proactively reached out to me with emails telling me they are praying for me and rooting for me this Holiday Season. They want me to live. I am glad to have them on Team Wade.

But because I understand I may not get a liver, or may not get one in time, I can also appreciate what it means to hope for one.

To hope for one means to hope to remain present on the sidelines or in the stands, to remain cheerfully in the snow where a sled track runs down a hill to a kick-ass jump, to remain quietly on a walk through a forest with my kids looking for critter trails, in the auditorium for a dance recital, or at a special dinner with my wife. It means getting to be a dad and a husband. It means walking through an autumn field, sitting with friends, petting my dog, driving my jeep…. In short it means living, and enjoying it for a few more years if not decades—and without pain. 

Hope is the longing and determination to achieve a triumphant survey over past obstacles and struggles. Like a hike up a long, steep and rocky mountain trail, hope is the vision of standing at the summit, looking out over the checkered valley below as clouds cascade upward one on top of the other against cliffs that fall thousands of feet beneath me. Being there on that crest is the point of beginning the trail at all—reaching the summit. And for me, my reward is so much richer than a view and sense of accomplishment. It’s a beating heart and an evolving mind.

I live with the pain for now, such as it is. But I know the reward as well. It is a normal life. And I have tasted that before. I know what it’s like to feel good, to throw a ball a long way and watch it spiral into my son's hands, to stay up late talking, to sit through a movie. I know that is what I am hoping to regain. Without the pain of today, hope would remain foreign and intangible; lost because I wouldn’t need it. Without pain, I wouldn’t have these thoughts at all.

From the mud-soaked arms of the fighting soldier, hope is warmth and home.

From the tired legs of the cyclist, hope offers the cold beer and warm burn of accomplishment.

From the red eyes of the post all-nighter, hope holds honor roll and college admission.

From the anxious sender of a secretly passed note, hope may be a girlfriend or boyfriend.

… Without the black, sad version of the above, the lighted Hope doesn’t exist.

This “Wade revelation” may not apply to everyone’s experience with Hope. My wife has lived with an appreciation of Hope for decades. It wakes her up in the morning and keeps her infectious smile in place throughout the day. Thank God. She hopes for the same things I do, but her hope lives without the burden of seeing the potential negatives.

Maybe it’s needless to say, but I am a little jealous. Her version is an upbeat soundtrack that starts with coffee. My version is a bleary-eyed walk across a hard-packed dessert, focusing on water and bootless, stretched out relaxation at the end.

Nevertheless, we hope for the same things.

And I hope Hope makes a difference.

Pain by Request

Tomorrow is Debra’s birthday, November 16th. Each year it sneaks up on me. I set reminders. I send myself notes. And like a bad sitcom character from the 80s, it still surprises me in the last few days leading up to it, “Wha??!!”

Each year in the past, I have run down to the car wash to get a card. Which is curious. Why are all the good cards at the car wash? But they are. They are far better than anywhere else. Anyway, I go there and get a blank card. And I write a note to her that is always intimidating to start, but once in process makes an attempt to express my appreciation that she picked me, and that she stays with me as a best friend. Even now, with all my ailments, she is with me. What a beauty both inside and out. 

This time was different though. I really did have a pretty good excuse for not getting a card or writing something in advance. 

A few weeks ago now, I was sitting on the front porch of a friend’s house and he told me something that made me stop and think. He said he liked my writing but that I was only giving him (and anyone else reading what I write) “half the loaf.” He felt that I was short-changing anyone reading my various notes because I wasn’t sharing the pain that accompanies these experiences; the pain for me, for Debra, for my family. This input is from a thoughtful guy, and the feedback was unusual. It wasn’t expected. And I have been mulling it over. 

So I decided to relay the last few weeks of our experience in an unvarnished style to see where it takes me; takes us. I want to see what it reveals about what’s inside, going unsaid, to me and others. What am I denying to myself? And what am I denying to others? 

I thought I was being pretty honest, but learning these days is never boring, so I am diving in. I apologize in advance if this is tedious. It’s kind of a “stream of consciousness” account of the past few weeks, hitting on painful points. 

On Tuesday, October 20th, I started up with chemotherapy again. I have been off since June 24th of this past summer. Tuesday I got an infusion of Gemcitobine that kicked me flat. I was out that night with nausea and fatigue by 8 pm. It was a harrowing night with dramas for Debra and Cate, but I was too sick to help or be present. I could hear the discussions and tears but I could not rally myself from my bed no matter how many times I told myself that these are moments I don’t want to miss. That was the beginning.

Deb was amazing and wise with Cate, and Cate came through as strong as ever after a long night. I was nauseous all day the next day, but worked a few hours. I worked again Thursday and Friday, again nauseous and uncomfortable, but pulling together various things to keep my job in place and avoid any income disruption or family health coverage. My job is important to me, and so I work hard to put in the hours and value when and where I can. It’s a contract I hold dear. 

The weekend came and with it some relief. Since I didn’t have to sit and work, I was able to keep busy walking around doing various things and that helped distract me from the constant belly cramps and discomfort I had been feeling since the Tuesday before. 

I don’t make notice of these discomforts to my family, but Debra sees. It worries her. I can tell her stress is aggravated by my pain and hurting, so I try to suppress it as much as possible. Sometimes I scratch my belly to change the sensation I feel. She catches me sometimes, and I see her worry. 

We support one another though, me through my slight of hand tricks to hide my discomfort, and her with a little bit of supportive belief that it’s not hurting much. 

On Monday, October 26th I went into work and worked a full day. Again on my birthday, October 27th, I was in the office and working with people to pull together articles and product information. I left at about 6 pm and went home to relax with my family. 

My birthday night was wonderful. We carved pumpkins. Ben’s was Frankenstein and he did most of the carving himself with my hacksaw. He was aggressive, but careful. I was careful too ☺. Cate’s was nicknamed “Cleveland.” And Will’s had pumpkin barf hanging out the mouth. 

When Ben touched his own pumpkin’s “pumpkin barf,” Ben barfed some in the trashcan and we all laughed, including Ben. It’s a long-standing tradition to carve these pumpkins, and always generates a set of pictures that we cherish. 

Wednesday, I went to work again and had a working lunch with a new colleague. At lunch my stomach began to really hurt; cramps would crawl across the front of my abdomen from left to right, making me stop walking, or talking, and bear through them.

I worked in the office until about 3:30 and then returned home to work in my office. I kept after it until after 5, but ultimately had to come downstairs to let Debra know what was going on. “Deb,” I told her, “I know you will want to take drastic action, but just let my stomach work through this. I will be okay. But I need to lie down.” She agreed to let me lie down to see what happened, and I laid on our bed, ready to bear it out.

The pains continued but worsened and intensified. Each two minutes, I would be wracked in pain up and across my abdomen and have to breathe through the ensuing 30 seconds while my guts contracted and moved, causing me face-twisting pain and labored breaths. This was not normal.

About an hour later I called to Debra to tell her I didn’t think it would stop, and that as much as I hated it, we needed to consider going to the ER. She called our dear friend Julie Sweat and she confirmed that we should head in.

We arranged the kids to be with Deb’s parents for the night, and left for Seton. At Seton I received dilotid (synthetic morphine), which did nothing for the pain. Next I received morphine, which stopped my pain cold, along with my bowels.

It also sent me to kooky land where I lingered and conversed with my poor wife, holding my hand by my ER stretcher at midnight on a Wednesday. We had already been through a lot. But this pain was new, and we were uncovering some new issue with my broken body. Her high stress was made even higher, and I was lying next to her, totally unable to do anything but look at her and tell her I was sorry she was having to go through this with me. Sorry that my body was screwed up, causing us so much uncertainty and anxiety.

Seton was a short stay. I was in for Wednesday night through Friday night. I worked half to three-quarter days on Thursday and Friday. Health wise, we discovered that the pain was from a small bowel obstruction, and that they generally dissipate over a few days. I ate soft food for a day, and went home in time for the kids’ Halloween costumes.

I got to drop Will at a friend’s house for a Halloween party. He wore his Kyrie Irving jersey. And then I got to go sit on the front porch at the Donovan’s on Spring Street and engage with hundreds of trick or treaters and several dear friends. Halloween is my favorite holiday for a lot of reasons. It always has been. My birthday falls so close to the day that I always had Halloween-themed parties. And I have always loved the cool weather, fall colors, late nights, candy, and costumes. That was Saturday.

Sunday I awoke with the same terrible pains at about 5 in the morning. Debra went about arranging for the kids to be in various places, which is hard on them and us, and then she and I left for MD Anderson late that evening to see if we could get to the bottom of the issue. That was November 1.

I entered the ER here at MDA, and had to stop several times, gripping the handrails while walking to my room because of the pain, which was now nearly constant at very high levels (5), with points of severe intensity (8). The nurse helped me onto the stretcher and I immediately threw-up. There was nothing except digestive juice, but there was a lot and it alarmed the health staff to move quickly into action.

They numbed me up with morphine again and put me through a CT scan, which provides images of your bowels. Again, the analyst saw the small bowel obstruction we first saw at Seton, but this time it was fully closed, causing intense pain as the bowels tried to push whatever was in my intestines through from one side of the blockage to the other.

To solve the situation, the ER staff shoved a 55 cm tube up my nose and into my belly to suck the contents of my stomach out to relieve the pressure and pain. This is called an NG tube. The process takes about a minute and a half, and is very painful and uncomfortable as the nurse advances the tube and the patient tries to “swallow” it. Deb left the room as I struggled through the process. Afterward, they tape the tube to your nostril and apply suction through a container on the wall.

Over the course of the next two days, it pulled two liters out of my belly and intestines. The pain was still there, but had eased relative to its peak. I was fairly numbed to the world with morphine. I was down to 138 pounds from 151 at the beginning of the ordeal.

We had various doctors stopping in, and late in the second day of being at MDA, we had a superb doctor named Dr. Bednarski come by. It was dark outside and Debra and I were exhausted from suffering and stress. I put that Dr. B is superb because indeed he has turned out to be just that. The first night we met him though, he bluntly told us that I might have cancer throughout my abdomen, and that as a result I might need to have a large chunk of my bowels removed leaving a “stoma” bag on my hip for the rest of my life. This is a bag to hold your intestinal output because you never use the bathroom again.

After all the physical suffering I had been through and all the stress Debra had been through, this information was just overwhelming. We wept.

I am active and involved with my kids. To have a bag of intestinal fluid on my hip would just be devastating. To have cancer throughout my bowels would be a death sentence, and a long and painful one. It was a dark, dark night.

The morphine ultimately delivered me to dreamless sleep, but Deb had to go home alone. Through my morphine haze, I can still remember being deeply troubled for her as she left the hospital, and I lay helpless and drugged, unable to comfort her or help her in any way other than to pray for her comfort and strength from family, God, and friends. All of those people came through for us. But that was a long night we won’t forget.

Over the course of the next few days, we waited to see if the bowel obstruction would “just resolve,” as some 90% of them do. Of course it didn’t. But the fluid coming out of the NG tube reduced and changed color to something less alarming, so the staff decided to remove the tube. It felt wonderful coming out, and I had relief for some time.

But within a day, my stomach was cramping with intense pain again. I took a shot of morphine and immediately threw-up. The doctors decided the blockage was not open, obviously, and they needed to reinsert the NG tube.  

I had to go through the whole process again, but this time with the tube advanced to 65 cm instead of 55 cm since the last tube was hurting me pretty severely. The new tube took three tries to get into my stomach. I was on morphine, atavan and dilotid. (Today, November 15, the scab from the first tube is finally coming off my nostril. The second tube did not hurt me nearly so badly, but was very uncomfortable. My lips peeled and my throat was constantly in pain. Swallowing hurt.)

Since Sunday, November 1, I had not been able to work due to pain and / or nausea. This was very stressful since I feel obligated to work every moment that I am physically able to do so. The company is taking care of me and I need to honor their commitment. This added a great deal of stress to Debra and me about my job security.

Meanwhile, the surgical oncology team decided to take me to surgery on Tuesday, November 10^th. The surgery turned out to be successful – no cancer and no stoma bag!! Thank you, God! I heard from my other doctor, Dr. Bellister, a fabulous person, that as soon as I was wheeled from the operating room, I came out of my anesthesia and said, “Stoma? Cancer?” To which he replied, “Nope. Neither one.” He said I was the earliest patient he had ever seen who asked these questions. We laughed about it, but the stress of those two dooming outcomes loomed in my head even as I slowly pushed my way into consciousness.

I have been once again rerouted inside. However, I could not go to the restroom by the allotted time that night, and without going into details had to have a procedure that hurt terribly to allow me to empty my bladder. I worked all night to use the bathroom after that, and finally did at about 5:30 am. If I had not by 6 am, it would have been the procedure again. Suffice to say I was motivated. I slept most of that next day with Debra by me.

Over the course of the next few days, I developed a cough and sneeze from the NG tube. As you can imagine, with a new scar on your stomach, stapled closed, coughing and sneezing is very painful. I still have it, and continue to awaken many times at night just before a coughing fit or a sneeze. Drinking water helps, so I keep some handy.

And we also discovered that the reason morphine is so effective at bowel pain relief is because it completely shuts down my bowels. Since I was trying to get them moving after surgery, I greatly stepped back my pain medication so the bowels would not be paralyzed. That increased my surgery pain of course.  

Then my biliary drain came loose, moving out of my exit wound by about 3 inches, and bile began to leak down my stomach while I was walking the halls to get my bowels to wake up. (This was one of those moments where I just felt like the world was against me and my family. I mean seriously. What next?)

The surgeon Dr. Bellister showed up late in the day to take a look. I told him I was worried about walking with the loose drain. He absolutely wants me to walk, so he opened a surgical kit, took out a needle and suture, and inserted a set of retention stitches with no topical anesthesia. I don’t resent this, but I tell you simply because it happened and I want to honestly portray all we have been through. I love that surgeon, but those stitches hurt. As fate would have it, Deb was grabbing a chicken sandwich downstairs. She missed the whole thing, and I am happy for that. My nurse, Camille, was a stand-in hand to hold. She was a great stand-in.

Then the surgical IV placed on Tuesday came loose and we had to replace that. Removing it was terribly painful because the tape had folded over on itself in several places, trapping my wrist hair and taking large chunks of it out when we removed the IV.

The surgical anesthesiologist did not shave my arm even though she assured me she would. If I ever see her I will tell her that she should have kept her word, after I refrain from punching her in the chops. Pulling that IV out hurt a lot and it would have been so easy to shave my arm. It would have helped me avoid so much discomfort.

The nurse that showed up to put in the new IV used a sonogram machine to do it. I have never seen that before, but somehow, it took twice as long to do it and hurt twice as badly. I am not a fan of the “new method.”

Debra finally went home Saturday morning and was reunited with our kids. They have been with her parents and friends for two weeks now. Each one is doing okay, but it’s hard to not have a dad around. Cate is living with the Mouritsens and studying for finals. She has been doing well, and the Mouritsens have been a wonderful stand-in family. It has been very reassuring to talk with Cate and the Mouritsen family during our absence.

Will is doing well too and showing no visible signs of the stress. He went through tryouts and made the basketball team while I was in the hospital. This was so hard for me. He and I take walks and talk about his days. These tryouts have been on both our minds for weeks and I was absent for the whole ordeal. I think maybe Deb and I were happier to hear he made the team than even he was.

Ben has been doing so well. He talks with the wonderful Jennifer Dugan at Trinity and she sends Deb and me updates on him and how he’s holding up. But he cracked a little on Saturday after a pretty tough basketball game. His opponent gave him an “Indian sunburn” while guarding him, dead-legged him, hit him in the head, and punched him “about five times.” I talked to him on FaceTime and he showed me where his arm was red. I told him I wish I had been there to see his toughness and how he fought through the aggressive behavior.

But later he broke down to Debra and told her he wanted things to go back to how they were before I had cancer. He wanted me there at the game cheering for him. That is so hard on Ben, but it’s also hard on Debra and me. I miss those opportunities as much or more than any of my kids. I cherish them, and in a strange way, it’s reassuring to hear that Ben wanted me there. As I have experienced, that will not always be the case. So, while it hurts now to be absent when I was needed, it is also dear to me.

Debra is staying again home Sunday and Monday night the 16^th to be with our kids. She will be with Ben at Trinity Chapel for her birthday, which is a big deal for Ben and her. I will get snaps from Deb’s supportive friends in the audience. I am so happy she is going to stay.

I go in tomorrow to have the biliary drain evaluated. They will likely replace it, and I will be sleepy and loopy the whole day. Deb’s absence will be a welcome gift since she will be with our friends and kids tomorrow night instead of beside her loopy husband. How I wish I could be there. That is painful for both me and Debra.

The NG tube came out two days ago now. And the doctors tell me I may be able to leave by Wednesday, November 18^th. I have progressed from “clear liquids” to “real liquids” diet, and so far I am keeping them down with very little nausea. My hopes are high that I will be home soon. My physical pain has diminished, and I need to nurse the mental and emotional pain to get healthy again.

I have written my letter to Debra, my very best friend ever, for her birthday. I will send it late tonight so she gets it first thing. I am finally feeling better. I can’t wait to get home so I can try to relax.

But first I will have to resolve work so I can be sure my family remains safe. I will try to get back there by Thursday so I can put things right. Until they are back in place, my anxiety is high.

I am not sure what this note has done for me, if anything. I will put it out there and see what different reactions come from those who read it and pray for us. The reactions always come from both expected and unexpected people, in both expected and unexpected ways. We are always grateful for them. They are a wonderful “narcotic” that has only positive side-effects. Thank you in advance for anything you want to say to us.

If this has helped you in some way, I am grateful. If it’s not been helpful, please just disregard it. My family and I are not seeking sympathy in any way. I am feeling around in the dark a bit here, following some advice that I hope will minister to some. I don’t generally talk about pain, and probably won’t too much anymore. It teaches me lessons. It helps my family move forward by watching it leave. I put it out of my mind and it recedes behind life’s forward momentum. Go Life.

Behind me and my family there is so much physical pain, mental stress, and emotional pain. Ahead of us, there is more. Some of it is too big to get my head around. It hulks darkly beyond the horizon and will punch us in the gut before we’re ready. We’ll reel and teeter, but recover. It will not conquer us. It will fall!

Thank you for praying for us and sending us your positivity. We can use every focused and fleeting instance of goodness you send. We are weathering this, and we will triumph over it in one way or another, but your support is so precious and crucial. Thank you for helping us. Your friendship to me, and to my loved ones is a gift that I never fail to appreciate. Just know that whatever you do for us helps. All of it. Thank you.

Need Some Prayer

I started chemotherapy again the Tuesday before last. It was a very hard week following. I was nauseous and fatigued. I didn’t feel good at all. It was far worse than the previous treatments in terms of after effects. But I made it to the following Tuesday.

That Tuesday, Oct 27, was my birthday. I received the most beautiful cards from Ben, Will, Cate and Debra. Each was so special. I have them here and will put them in a folder for later. I am so fortunate to have a family that loves me.

Then Wednesday rolled around, a week and a day after chemotherapy. My stomach begin to hurt very badly. So badly in fact that I ended up in the ER on Wednesday night with cramps that would just stop me cold.

Seton doctors think it could be a blockage in the small intestine or an infection or, worst case, an adhesion (scar tissue) from my previous surgeries. I got an IV and stopped eating to let the bowel rest and not process any food. I was like that all day Thursday and most of Friday.

I came home Friday night. Doctors recommended a “soft diet” of food that absorbs quickly into the intestines. This includes fish and a few other things. But I am still in a lot of pain.

This is taking a toll on me and my family. We need it to stop. Can you please pray and concentrate on my bowels healing and returning to normal function? I believe we can make a difference, and I am praying and concentrating myself. But more brain power is better. Thank you in advance.

Wade