Sharing

I want to share a few excerpts from an email my dad sent my brother and I. He sent this 5 days after our return from Arizona.

"What a difference a day makes.  Two nights ago I wanted to call jamie and tell her to come quick because the alien in me was fighting me and he was definitely winning.  Every breath I took was an incredible effort. Breath is supposed to give life but mine were just making me feel weaker, breath, after breath, after breath.  I really did not think I would be here this morning.  And it really pissed me off.

Then yesterday we walked.  It felt good, two miles. I still puffed like an old steam train climbing a long grade but I walked with confidence and I even think close to a normal pace.

So I looked at my vial of morphine, and looked at my vial of morphine and thought, well nothing ventured, nothing gained.  I am so drug adverse.  I was convinced that even touching it would turn me into a scab infested drug addled addict.  Took the minimum dose and felt within an hour much relaxed
breathing.  I felt nothing different.  Pretty cool.

I even walked to the library after I got home from the hike yesterday. Walked three miles total between the two excursions.  It was so nice to see so many people walking, enjoying the blue sky, the mild day and a city filled with white and pink dogwood blossoms.  I now have a good book to read.

So I have put the alien at bay.  I can hear him cowering in some dark corner of my closet.  I do not fear him now. My couple of days of hospice were good because they provided me with some very low dosage, but for me, very effective comfort aids. Now is Sunday pancake time.  And I have an appetite!

Love , dad"

Grand Canyon

As we drove along highway 64 towards the Grand Canyon, the temperature hovered around 30 degrees, the fog lingered and snow pelted our window. We anticipated small crowds and limited visibility. The walk to Mathers lookout was flanked by detour signs, construction vehicles and grumbling tourists. We kept our heads down and our ski hats pulled firmly over our ears. My dad relied on two walking sticks and my brother and I shortened our gate to accommodate his pace. This was not how I envisioned our first day at the Canyon.

However, as we approached the lookout, the snow grew tired and stopped. When we reached the edge, the Grand Canyon was dramatically unveiled as the fog was overwhelmed by blue sky and young sunshine. To describe it as amazing is a gross understatement.

This moment is the perfect metaphor for my dad's illness. Some days the fog is heavy and unwavering, limiting our ability to persevere and remain hopeful. There are numerous, unexpected bumps in the road and at times we must proceed with caution. We have to keep our head down and keep moving forward, because if we stop, we may never see the amazing view at the end of the ride.

We spent the next 6 days driving through Navajo land, watching the sun set, taking in Monument Valley, Canyon de Shelley and Sedona. We took small walks through Oak Canyon, discovered the whimsical town of Jerome on a hunt for an In-N-Out burger, and revisited the Grand Canyon. Our eyes were opened to a bigger world and we hungrily took in as much as we could.

The elevation made it difficult for my dad to breath, his hands shook more than I'm comfortable with, he was much quieter than usual and unable to accompany my brother and I on the hikes. But, you know what? He never complained. He did as much as he could and he witnessed our mouths drop when the Grand Canyon appeared from behind the fog.

We share these memories. They are ours for the keeping and no illness or detour sign can ever take that away from us.