Saturday, April 30, 2011

You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello


My kids and I went to visit my mom a few days ago at her assisted living facility.
As we left, I couldn’t help but think.
I hope that wasn’t the last time they would see her.
I realize that is a strong statement.
And a sad one.
And a negative one.
I just hope it’s not a real one.
The mom I know.
The bubbie they love.
Just wasn’t there.
When we left the facility, we said goodbye to a frail woman.
With tears filling up her 81-year old eyes.
The bottom line is she’s just not in a good place.
Right now.
And I’m not sure if she will be.
Again.
The news that she had been diagnosed with kidney cancer is more than she has been able to handle.
The news that doctors feel her prognosis is good is something she hasn’t been able to hear.
And it is clearly taking its toll.
Each time I talk to her I feel more helpless.
I can’t imagine how she is feeling.
Yesterday I stopped by her facility to drop off a few things.
And to say hello.
Not goodbye.
Although I wouldn’t be seeing her for about a week.
My 13-year old daughter and I are heading out on her 8th grade trip to our nation’s capital.
This is a trip we’ve been looking forward to.
Since she was in 7th grade.
I was hoping to see my mom before I left.
But unfortunately she was not around.
A few days a week she leaves her facility and heads to another senior facility to get some social time.
And medical care -- if she needs it.
As as luck would have it, yesterday she decided to stay at the other facility longer than usual.
And by the time she would be back.
I was gone.
To me that was not a big deal.
I knew I would see her again when I return to town.
In a matter of days.
To her it was catastrophic.
What I didn’t know when I left is what I found out when I got home.
That’s when I got a call from one of the administrators at my mom’s facility.
I could hear the concern in her voice.
Before I could hear her voice.
Apparently my mom had a very candid conversation with her a night earlier.
On April 28.
And in this conversation my mom said she was really hoping to see me before I left on this trip.
She said that she didn’t know if she would still be here when I got back into town.
Now even though I knew what that meant.
I still had to ask... “where is she going?”
At which point, the lady told me my mom said she was concerned she wouldn’t be with us anymore.
I quickly did the math.
And the math quickly added up.
Yesterday was April 29.
The day before April 30.
The day I was born.
On April 30, 1995 I celebrated my 28th birthday.
On April 29, 1995, my grandmother passed away.
Of cancer.
I can still remember my mom telling me that her mom died on April 29th so that she wouldn’t die on April 30.
She didn’t want her death and my birthday to share the same day.
So she chose to die on April 29.
And apparently my mom thought she would do the same thing.
This poor lady.
My poor mom.
Not only is she dealing -- or not dealing -- with the news of kidney cancer.
But she’s also trying to predict her own demise.

The tumor that she is carrying around with her is two inches long.

Unfortunately the pain weighs a thousand pounds.

Every conversation we have I remind her that the doctors are very optimistic.

And that we need to deal with the facts that we know.

And not the facts that we are making up.

Clearly it is not working.



Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Sweet Child O' Mine

Michael King.
One of the most important figures of our lifetime.
Well, you may know him as Martin.
Martin Luther King.
Jr.
In 1935, King’s father changed his name and his son’s name from Michael.
To Martin Luther.
In honor of the 16th Century German Protestant Reformer.
I learned this last week.
From my seven-year old daughter.
My seven-year old daughter who skipped first grade earlier this school year.
Yes, I probably should’ve known this about Mr. King before last week.
But they somehow forgot to teach us that information.
At my Hebrew Day School.
This morning she told me that the Statue of Liberty was modeled after the sculptor’s mother.
What kind of school is she going to?
What happened to extended recess?
My daughter is in a great time in her life.
Sure, she bickers with her older brother.
And sometimes with her older sister.
But at age 7, almost everything is perfect.
Oh to be seven again.
Tomorrow is a big day in her little life.
Maybe the biggest so far.
Maybe the biggest day of the 2,746 she has spent on this earth.
Tomorrow will begin like any other.
With a smile.

That’s how she begins every morning.
But that’s where the similarities end.
Sometime around Noon she’ll be on the steps of our State Capitol building.
Reading an essay.
An essay she wrote.
An essay voted the best in our state.
From anyone in her grade.
When I got the call a couple of weeks ago, you would’ve thought it was Ed McMahon on the phone.
With one of those giant checks.
I was so excited someone I had something to do with was so special.
Of course, I didn’t need the phone call to tell me that.
But it was a nice reminder.
This girl is truly something special.
And I am lucky enough to live it up close and personal every day.
She loves singing and soccer and school.
She even loves things that don’t begin with the letter S.
Like softball....
Um, swimming.
Let’s move on.
The point is, she loves life.
And I love watching her love life.
Sure, there are many days I’m home, wishing I wasn’t.
But there is never a day that I don’t want to be with her.
Or her brother.
Or her sister.
And that’s a gift Mr. McMahon couldn’t touch.
Now for most humans, including myself, a trip to the State Capitol would be the day’s headline.
But tomorrow, that’s just the beginning for her.
When we are done there, we are heading back to her school.
For the annual talent show.
As a second grader, she had to go through an audition process.
I’m guessing Simon Cowell wasn’t there.
But I know they didn’t let just anyone in.
My daughter has a lot of talents she could’ve brought to the table.
But she chose to sing.
And why not.
She’s been participating in a local choir for the last year.
But singing a song in English...

...that would’ve been too easy.
Instead, she chose a Spanish song.
Except she doesn’t speak Spanish.
But something attracted her to Cielito Lindo.
The legendary Mariachi song.
You know it.
Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Canta y no llores......
You know it.
Trust me.
And I know it too.
Well I knew it before the talent show.
But I  r e a l  l y  know it now.
She’s been singing it around the house non-stop for the last few weeks.
Who knew I had the words wrong all this time.
Let there be no doubt, I’m very proud of all of my kids.
That’s my job.
(My only job.)
And I truly celebrate every one of their accomplishments.
But there is something very special about tomorrow.
Now it shouldn’t come as any surprise that my kids are talented.
I won things too.
Um...
Like...
...In 12th grade.
In 12th grade I stuffed more marshmallows in my mouth than anyone else in high school.
34.
That’s a talent.
Right?


Monday, April 25, 2011

Who Are You?

The first thing I do every morning when I get up is check my iPhone.
Check for new emails.
Check for new text messages.
And check to see who has been reading my blog.
Yes, you are allowed to mumble “you pathetic soul”.
But the truth shall set me free.
The addiction to follow who is following me started about a year ago.
That’s when I added this software to my website called sitemeter.
No, this is not a commercial, but I do love their product.
Basically sitemeter lets me check how many people are reading my blog at any given time.
And how long they’ve been reading.
And what site referred them to me.
And in many cases where they are from.
Don’t worry, I have no idea exactly who you are.
But often times there is an IP address listed so I can tell what part of the world you are from.
Now if you are worried about Sir Bacon being aware of who you are.
Or where you are.
Or what you are.
Don’t be.
Not only am I a nice person, but I’m not that bright.
But you should definitely be aware that this software (and probably hundreds like it) is out there.
And who knows what smart people can do with that info.
Did you see the story the other day about the iPhone?
My beloved iPhone.
Well apparently she doesn’t trust me anymore.
Apparently she’s hired a private investigator to follow me.
Apparently she’s been recording my exact whereabouts.
For the past 10 months.
She must think I live at the grocery store.
Or the post office.
But the story is true.
I read it at wired.com.
They mentioned something about an unencrypted something or other.
And a consolidated.db.
Whatever that is.
But the point here is simple.
Big brother is watching.
And if you don’t like it... too bad.
I guess in this case, I’m sorta like your dumb little brother.
Because I am definitely watching.
But I have no idea what I’m seeing.
I just like looking at the pictures.
I don’t want to read the book.
For example, as I’m writing this blog, there is somebody at sirbacon123.com from Nova Scotia.
(I hope that doesn’t give away too much.)
Well, this person found my blog through Google.
By searching “Abbey Road The Beatles”.
And somehow those four words connected them to my blog on the Fab Four.
From two months ago.
Really.
So all you have to do is search Abbey Road and The Beatles and Sir Bacon pops up?
I’m sure it’s a little more involved than just that.
But still.
I see a lot of the same people reading my blog.
I mean the same IP addresses.
And that feels great.
Thank you.
I love the idea that something I wrote made you come back more than once.
And I love getting emails that you connected with something I wrote.
Even if you didn’t like what I said.
But as much as I love the return customers -- and I really do.
It is oh so cool to see new visitors.
Including someone this morning from New York City.
(I hope I didn’t give away too much.)
Well this person found my blog by typing “unemployed crying tears” on Google.
97 blogs later.
They made my day.
Hopefully I made theirs too.
A few days ago someone read 89 blogs.
There was a 22.
A 33.

A 24.
And each time it makes me smile.
It still blows me away that you found me.

From Hong Kong and Italy and Alabama.

From France, Slovenia and Oklahoma.

And Hawaii and Utah and Brazil.

And I appreciate it.

Every time.

But I always wonder how you found me.

And who you are.

If you feel so inclined, leave a comment.
Or send me an email (sirbacon123.@yahoo.com).

Or tweet me.

Or do nothing.

The choice is yours.
No matter what... keep reading.
And THANK YOU!


Thursday, April 21, 2011

The Facts of Life

I’ve never met Tony Robbins.
I definitely don’t have a degree in motivational speaking.
When it comes to pumping things up, I usually use an air compressor.
My first experience with a psychiatrist was the Bob Newhart show.
I was sitting on my own couch.
My first pep talk came courtesy of Animal House.
“Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?”
“Germans?”
“Forget it, he’s rolling.”
But when it comes to my mom.
And her current battle with kidney cancer.
My job is pretty clear.
Keep her moving forward.
Any way you can.
We talk every day.
Or so.
And our conversations are pretty predictable.
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Good, how are the kids?”
“Good.   You sound good.   How are you feeling?”
“So so.”
That might not be exactly word for word, but it’s pretty darn close.
Our conversation usually moves on from that point, but it always stays on topic.
The topic of cancer.
From the moment she found out there was a mass on her kidney.
Two months ago.
That’s been the only thing on her mind.
And can you blame her?
Thankfully I have never been on the other side of the conversation when the doctor says you have cancer.
But she was.
Last week.
I’ve also never dealt with 1/900th of what my mom has dealt with in her life.
She has.
And she’s survived.
Every time.
Maybe that’s why I feel so optimistic about her survival in this battle too.
Well that and that fact that every single doctor I’ve spoken to is optimistic.
And that’s a good thing -- although it’s not always in their makeup to make you feel good.

Just the facts.

Exhibit A -- Me.
Circa 1994.
One month after I got married, I suffered a major eye injury playing floor hockey without a face shield.
I’m not the smartest bulb in the picnic basket.
17 years later, I can still remember the doctor walking into the emergency room and saying...
“You may never see again with that eye.”
Slow down Marcus Welby.
You ever heard of foreplay?
Fortunately a month later, when the swelling went down, the eye sight came back.
Well, most of it.
If both eyes are open, the right compensates for the left and I can see perfectly fine.
And as long as I wear protective glasses, I should live a long and miserable life.
As for my mom, she has already lived a long life.
81 years and counting.
And she has seen her share of misery.
Raised in the 30’s without a father.

The 1930's.

She lost a child to a terrible accident when the child was five.
She saw her first son battle cancer when he was in his 20’s.
Thankfully he won.
That same son suffered a brain aneurism when he was in his 40’s.
Thankfully he won that too.
And all along the way she has battled her own issues with a bipolar disorder.
And more importantly how it is perceived.
This latest news of cancer....
Take a number.
But even with all of her experience in dealing, or not dealing, with heartbreak.
My mom keeps going.
Like the bunny.
That’s probably why this time has me a little concerned.
This latest battle is wearing her down.
And the battle hasn’t even started yet.
A few days ago we spoke about the decision of what to do with this tumor.
The doctors gave us a few options.
But they only felt comfortable with two of them.
Try to remove the tumor with a shot of straight alcohol.
Really?
I tried that in college, it doesn’t work.
Option II -- do nothing.
Well nothing until the next cat-scan shows if the tumor is still growing.
That next cat-scan is supposed to be in four months.
Four LONG months.
Clearly the stress is already getting to her.
And the thought of sitting for four months.
Waiting.
Might be too much for any one to take.
Even her. 
The truth is the doctors don’t know how long this thing has been there.
And neither do we.
And that’s what I told my mom.
I’m trying to keep it as real as I can with her.
Always, serving up an extra shot of optimism.
I told her that doing nothing, at this point, might make the most sense.
Wait a few months.
See if it has grown.
If it hasn’t, HOORAY.
If it has, we go for the alcohol injection.
And deal with it then.
But this is only IF she can live and enjoy her life during those four months.
If the stress is too much to handle, it could do more damage than the tumor.
I definitely realize that the last 73 words makes this all seem very simple.
And I most definitely realize that we are talking about my only mom here.
And I absolutely most definitely realize what is at stake here.
But the more we can keep the emotion out of this.
And just deal with the facts, like Joe Friday.
The better off we will be.
Maybe those doctors are onto something.