A little over 2 month agos, on May 21st, I wrote a blog entry about wrestling with my kids.  A couple of days later, I heard Elizabeth Edwards being interviewed on the radio.  She talked about being on the campaign trail with her husband while dealing with her breast cancer.  At the time, I thought, “That poor woman…” A few days after that, on May 27th, my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. 

I wish I could write well enough to describe the feeling I had when the surgeon came into the room and said, “I’m afraid I don’t have very good news for you…” It was probably the closest I’ve ever come to having an out-of-body experience.  I went completely numb.  I felt as if I were observing someone else having the discussion that we were having with the surgeon.  Somehow, I was listening to that radio interview again.  It was someone else who had this problem and I wanted to be able to say, ‘Those poor people...” We had walked into the office that day fully believing the most optimistic of what we had been told: my wife is young…changes in younger women’s breast tissue over the course of any given month is normal because of hormonal changes…the lump was most certainly just a fibrous cyst, again, not uncommon…and now, suddenly, we were discussing mastectomy.

We were stunned.  I didn’t go to work for two days.  When I called my mom to tell her, I couldn’t say the words, “Tonya has breast cancer.” It wasn’t until I called my boss to explain my absence that I actually said it, but even then, I asked him not to tell anyone.  It was as if I believed that if I ignored it long enough, I could make it go away. 

Since that time, we have met with surgeons, genetic counselors, oncologists and social workers.  We have learned a new language: “hormone receptors, her-2 positive, BRAC” and so on.  We have seen a tremendous outpouring of kindness from our friends, family and community; as we rush to doctors appointments, dinners have appeared on our porch every night.  People have left bags of groceries, pies, cookies and cards. 

At the same time, amidst all the positive energy, it is a rare moment that we are not hyper-aware of the mind-numbing fact:  Tonya has breast cancer. 

In all of this, Tonya has reminded me why I fell in love with her.  While she is scared, she is funny, strong, determined and somehow still nurturing.

I realized early on that this diagnosis will change our lives for sometime to come.  It will, undoubtedly be what I’m writing about in one form or another for awhile.  So, check in next month.  In the meantime, Tonya has started a blog about her experience.  If you’re interested, it’s here:  Tonya at Caring Bridge.

One last thing.  We are wide open to advice...on diet, on how to tell the kids, on pre and post surgery things to do.  We are also loving to hear success stories; we have found them to be affirming and uplifting.  Thanks!

Our organization was holding its annual retreat, combined with a little strategic planning for the year. The kids were being well looked-after, with semi-structured child care. On the last day of our time there, the kids gave a little show for us. Nothing fancy, just a few songs with some minor choreography. You get the drill.

My son (almost 5) was participating. This was his first time performing in any sort of kids’ production, unless you count the time he was a pile of leaves for a fall festival. There he was, in the front row, singing and doing the hand and arm motions. I got out our camera and took a short video.

And then it happened. Sometime during the instrumental interlude between verses, Junior realized that he was performing in front of people. Realized that everyone was watching them. Assumed, perhaps, that everyone was watching him. And he froze.

For the next verse, Junior was a statue. His eyes looked straight ahead. His arms were frozen to his side. His mouth uttered not a word. In short, my son became that kid that features in every children’s concert, pageant, play, etc. The kid that everyone in the audience looks at. In some cases, we stare because the kid has stage fright, like Junior. In other cases, maybe the kid is overexuberant, hyper, overbearingly loud and out of tune, what have you. We stare because we can’t NOT stare. On that day, Junior was that kid.

I couldn’t have been more proud.

Ian is very prone to issues. He deals with the world on an emotional level, which doesn’t leave much room for logic. This means he’s a wonderfully sensitive and caring child, but it also means that he’s as rational as a drive-thru liquor store. Calm and reasoned explanations don’t go very far with Ian. It doesn’t matter that the roller-coaster is safe, designed specifically for children, quite slow, looks like Shamu, that no one has died or is harmed on a regular basis, and that people wouldn’t wait hours in line bathed in glaring sunshine if they had. He’s afraid, and that’s all that matters; all that is.

We were walking through the woods, looking for the deer we’d seen the previous night. Ian was holding my hand, standing slightly behind so that my face could break the night’s crop of spiderwebs for him. I was brushing strands from my eyelashes and hair when he suddenly pulled his hand away. He stepped back, bringing his arms to his chest.

‘There’s a spider on you.’

We looked, all over. Both my wife and I, scrutinized every inch of my body, looked down every sleeve, every sock. There was no spider. My shirt did have a logo that, in the dappled light of a forest path, might resemble a buggish creature if glimpsed from the corner of an eye. But no spider.

‘No spider, kiddo. Let’s go.’ I reached for his hand and he pulled farther away. His eyes were wide and his terror was growing.

‘There’s a spider on you.’ I reached, he retreated.

‘Really, Mommy and I both looked. If there was a spider, it’s gone now.’ He shook his head. I saw where this was headed. I flinched and brushed at my sleeve. I stamped my foot on the ground, twice, and ground my shoe into the gravel. ‘Oh! There, I got it.’

He took my hand and we continued our walk.

I want to apologize for the absence of posts.

On Sunday, May 25, my family was at a picnic in a local park and I somehow received a small abrasion on my left elbow. My elbow was quite tender through the first part of the week but I never put any antibiotic ointment on it.

When I returned to work after lunch on Thursday, May 29, my elbow suddenly began to swell and continued to do so through the remainder of the afternoon. The pain was intense. Later in the evening, I began to shake uncontrollably and could tell that I was hot with a fever.

After talking with my sister in Florida who is a nurse, I called my mother who took me immediately to the Emergency Room at our local hospital.

They put me to sleep, a doctor lanced my elbow and I was home by 3:00 am.

I remember absolutely nothing of Friday, May 30. By 5:00 pm, my wife had me back in the Emergency Room with the help of a couple of friends and I was whisked almost immediately to the operating room for more work on my elbow.

I didn’t return home until 12 days later on Wednesday, June 11.

From blood cultures, the doctors diagnosed me with Type A Strep in my elbow. The infection was serious enough that a lady from our county Health Department called on Friday, June 13. My answers to her long list of questions required by the government were to be relayed to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, GA.

I’m taking penicillin orally 4 times a day. The swelling in my arm continues to go down although my forearm is still red, tight and warm to the touch. I have very little range of motion in my elbow and I can only make half a fist.

But I’m home and DadBloggers will resume normal operation soon.

During our first year of marriage, I was overjoyed to learn that my wife liked Star Trek: The Next Generation. Her interest in science fiction goes as far as recognizing that I’m a fan, so it was a treat to sit with her each night, making fun of Deanna’s hair and Riker’s catty attitude. Out of this nightly ritual arose what has become a family tradition: making up song lyrics. During the opening credits we’d sing lyrics for the theme music, describing the show and its characters.

Data is yellow and gold / and he likes to whistle and tell bad jokes...

We didn’t have many friends.

We also enjoy word play in our house. We like puns and rhyming and silly songs. Soon after he learned the alphabet song, Ian started substituting the letter ‘G’ with non sequiturs—car, shoe, bus—to make us laugh. It usually worked.

These tendencies have combined with another disturbing obsession of mine—The Golden Girls—to become one of the strangest and, oddly, one of the most fun of our family games: Thank You for Being a Friend. In order to play you must be familiar with the following: rhyming, syllables, gerunds, and The Golden Girls theme song. But only its first line. The rules are simple:

1. Replace ‘being’ with any bisyllabic gerund
2. Replace ‘a friend’ with any bisyllabic, near-rhyming noun or phrase
3. The resulting phrase must make logical, if freaky, sense

It goes without saying that you must sing your mad lib. Believe it or not, this game has provided our family with literally minutes of entertainment. Actually, it’s very addictive and difficult to stop. It’s also turned out to be a wonderful way for Ian to stretch his linguistic flexibility. (I love Dr. Seuss, but you can see it coming.) Here are some of our more interesting entries, some of which are Ian’s:

Thank you for…

• ...waking the dead.
• ...wearing Depends.
• ...dredging the Senne.
• ...making your bed.
• ...shaving my head.

You’re already playing, aren’t you?