Fear the Crab

I woke up at 0230 with a very disturbing sensation. I thought I had heard my mother’s voice calling my name. My mom, however, is living in another house over two miles away, and there wasn’t that much volume to the call. I would have had to really fuck up big time in order for my mom to tap into those motherly reserves of righteous fury.

So if it wasn’t my mom, what could it have been? I did not hear it again, rather just the typical night-time sounds of splintering wood and rushing mists normally associated with old houses. The dog decided at that point to investigate the rest of the house, and when THAT happens it’s usually one of two things: she was hungry, or there was SOMETHING that attracted her attention.

I pushed that latter thought out, but my mind instead began to ponder if there was some psychic connection at work. Perhaps something happened, and I heard her calling me for help. I began to imagine my father, collapsed on the floor, whilst my mother was in bed helpless. I imagined the frustration and rising panic, my mom unable to call for help.

Oh hell, I hadn’t seen them in a week! What if something happened to them on the day after I was last there? My mom would be trapped for so long without anyone checking in! The worry set solidly within me, weighing my stomach down to the bed, freezing my head to the pillow.

I should call them, I thought. If they were okay, my parents would answer the phone. But if they were okay, they would not appreciate being called so early in the morning. I would have to wait until a more reasonable time, but how early is acceptable? Perhaps I could drive by the house and check at a glance, before I go to work. But, short of opening the door, it would be difficult to determine if things were okay from the street, and entering the house would ring the electronic doorbell, bringing me right back to the first problem.

No, I would have to wait until breakfast, and give my dad a call under the pretense of scheduling a birthday dinner. The earliest that could be was not for another five hours!

If there was nothing I could do then, I would have to try and go back to sleep. I sat up and read a book for another hour, before becoming tired enough that rest was possible again.

* * *

Maile called me at work, before I had a chance to check on my folks, and asked what happened to me that morning. After I explained the events that preceded my worries, Maile said she had also woken up at that hour, having suffered very unsettling dreams and brewing a rather creeped-out feeling.

Great. Now in addition to my fears of parents in trouble, I have fears of paranormal night-time visitations!

* * *

A phone call to my parents left me in relief, as they sounded quite well and busy with their daily lives. Tentatively scheduled a dinner for a July Saturday, and I left them to their thing.  I suppose, in hindsight, I could have driven up to the house and checked if there was a big pile of uncollected newspapers.  That bit of oddity would be grounds for house investigations.

Regardless. That bit of wonderful news scratches Theory One off, leaving me with the disturbing possibility of Theory Two – Ghost All Up In My Business.

Maile told me later that I had probably heard the siren song of soul-sucking freakishness outside our window, in its attempt to lure me into its gaping maw of hideous doom.

Great. Thanks.

Maybe it was good that I didn’t think to go out for that drive.

I called home this morning at approximately 0700, hoping to catch Maile before she left for work. I punched in the number on the keypad and listened to the rhythmic drone of notification. I started to think about my question to her, that I wanted to ask if she felt like attending the annual high school alumni dinner (here, we take our high schools more seriously than we do universities). As the rings continued to be rung, I began to wonder if Maile was indisposed, perhaps in the process of disposing… things.

Suddenly the phone picked up, and this man answered! Who the fuck is this guy, in my house?! It almost sounded like my brother-in-law, and if he was there, why was he there so early, when Maile had to go to work? As these questions raced through my head, I endeavored to keep the conversation going, so I asked if Maile was there.

“You called the wrong house,” the man answered.

Holy fuck, it was my DAD! I keyed in his number instead of mine. I stumbled an apology amidst the bumblings of “oh crap, I forgot” and “damn it, that’s right.” He just said, “Bye.”

See, when my dad moved out, he took the old house number with him. This house number was the one I had been using all my life, and since I’m still living there, it stands to reason that the association would continue to exist just out of rote habit. In a moment of distraction I had forgotten the change and did not key in my new house number.

I told Maile this, afterward, and she couldn’t stop laughing.

At me.

So sad.

* * *

I think I will start using the term “keyed” when it comes to phones. It is so rare to find any phone that still retains the dial, so “dialing a number” should be changed to “keypadding,” I think. Or “keying” for short. Make a movie remake called “Keypad ‘M’ for Murder,” or something.

You watch, I’m going to own that term.

I think my dad is leaning towards radiotherapy. He seems willing to take chances on the possible side effects for what the doctor calls a “more complete procedure” that gives greater chance of cure. My dad would rather undergo radiation treatment than risk any microscopic cancer cells coming loose during surgery and entering his bloodstream.

I don’t know how much of it is seriously true, or how much is a radiologist looking for his next paycheck.

Still, in this case, it’s the results that matter. If this can give my father the best chance of survival, we ought to take it.   In addition, I’m fairly positive that with the number of physicians who are giving my dad good odds on beating this thing, he’s going to start believing it himself.  Mind over cancer matter, and all that.

The first day he told me he had cancer, my dad started off by saying, “I’m dying.”  My first reaction wasn’t the norm, I suppose, because I immediately thought, “Well… yeah.  We all are.  So?”  Instead of voicing it and earning looks from my mom, I let him continue, and he told me of the situation.

Looking back, my dad had already resigned himself to a quick and dirty fate.  I think the latest round of “good possibilities” should alter his mindset and help him sincerely believe he will get better.

* * *

Broken water main on my street last night.  Board of Water Supply tapped into the reserves so we could all take showers, so good on them.  However, they were making repairs all throughout the early morning, and the heavy equipment and constant construction did not make for a pleasant sleep.  Still, good on them for the fixing.

Coming off the initial examination last month, my dad got some X-ray and ultrasound tests taken last week. Today, he met his doctor in consultation with the latest results.

The prognosis remains the same; the cancer is still isolated to the prostate and has not spread to the surrounding tissue. Surgery is now a distinct possibility, but there is also the option for radiation therapy. My dad will consult with a radiologist sometime soon to get more details.

So now the consideration is whether or not to proceed with surgery or try chemo. The doctor told my dad (who told my mom, who told me) that the consequences of surgery on the prostate include a six-week recovery time, during which my dad cannot have any sort of strenuous activity such as lifting or physical exertion. After recovery, he will likely suffer “leakage” from physical activity. My mom may have stated what sort of leakage would occur, but I don’t think I was paying that close attention. I mean, the fact of leakage alone is enough to give it serious consideration. I guess it depends.

My dad still has to talk to the radiologist as of this point, so we do not know the pros and cons of chemo (which is what I assume the consultation with the radiologist will involve). I suppose once we have all the facts and given thought to life after treatment, my dad can make his decision of which path to pursue.

I told my mom this (and I believe my dad was listening in); whatever facts we acquire regarding treatment, I don’t want my dad’s decision to be based solely on my mother’s care. That is to say, if surgery would mean that he can’t do things like lift my mom out of bed anymore, I don’t want him to scrap that method of treatment simply because he wants to continue lifting my mom out of bed.  We can hire a caregiver or live-in nurse to do those things; it was an option he included in the house design, after all.

I’d rather his decision to pursue treatment be based on his “quality of life” after said treatment. I think he should decide whether he’d prefer feeling tired or whatever people who undergo chemotherapy feel, or if he’d prefer not straining his body with excessive physical activity.  I don’t think, as things are now, he should let the welfare of others take higher precedence over his own.

I’m not saying he should NOT consider my mom’s welfare; I’m just saying it shouldn’t be the determining factor, and it shouldn’t be given the most amount of weight in his decision.

I think it’s high-time we researched into a permanent caregiver to look after my mom, anyway. My dad can still be a part of my mom’s care, but at his stage of life, he shouldn’t be thinking of himself as the only person who can do this stuff. My dad should be enjoying his retirement with my mom and the rest of his family, spending time with people without worrying about giving my mom a bath.

Invited Maile’s family for a late Mother’s Day dinner. Today was the only day all interested parties could attend, in particular my mother-in-law. Besides the usual clean-ups of household areas, we made an adjustment to the arrangements of the house, that of putting the second leaf into the dining table, to extend it for the glorious occupations of more-than-six people.

Expanded dining table

If the table settings seem weird, it is because we only had six place mats and damn it all but for the unexpected but delightfully welcome guests. The flowers were a nice touch, considering we got them this very day. Had to get two more chairs from the parents’ house, but they’re cool with that, because they bought new chairs and felt no compunction to hold onto the old stuff. Why not let the kid have it?

The table does not look as different from the default setting of one-leaf, but trust me, this is naught but the longest table in the history of this one’s experience with tables. Look at the number of chairs, damn it!

I think Maile went into an overdrive of cooking. Consider the proportions of the entree to the dessert:

Mmm...

This is not a trick of the camera, but rather a documentation of the priorities given to consumables. Truly there was a distinct thought given to the order of magnitude for each dish, because as dinner progressed, Maile had much of one over the other. I leave the specifics of the selections up to the reader.

The conversations were excellent, of course, and much was to be said regarding the adventures of men and women, the complexities of living together, and the discomforts of Las Vegas outings.

I had wine. A lot of wine. ‘Twas not because of the company, no, and how rude of you to think so. I had the wine because it was an excuse to have the wine, something I have been sorely lacking as of late. The excuse, that is.

I happen to think the wine was a pleasant by-product of the evening’s festivities, especially since I finished off the Boarding Pass bottle and moved on to the Fat Bastard. Before visions of general verisimilitude of tipsy party-goers fills your head, I was the only one drinking and thus the only one with the verbal thoughts of the true intentions of men and women, living together.

Sometimes I wish I had more drinking buddies, but other times I do not. I don’t think I would particularly enjoy it if everyone else were drunk with me. It’s hard to say when it’s been so long since I’ve gone drinking with more people than myself, but I’d like to think that I would enjoy an outing of tibbly conversations and general silliness. Unfortunately, it’s a lot harder to remember the fun-timey drunk-timey when one is deep in the nethers of shiraz.

I think there is a difference between sons and daughters, in terms of following orders from parents.

If the mother says, “Go with your father to his doctor appointment,” the son will dutifully accompany the dad to the office. There, the son will sit in the waiting room and watch cooking shows, read magazines, or listen in on one-sided phone conversations from the receptionist, whilst the father goes in to see the doctor. Once the session is finished, both father and son pay for parking and leave, figuring out what to get for lunch.

However, it seems that when the mother asks that the son go with the dad, what she is really saying is, “Go with your father, sit in the doctor’s office and listen to what the doctor has to say.” In other words, the son is supposed to act as reconnaissance, after which he is to relay all relevant information so that the mother can be assured the father isn’t lying.

When the son returns home, he will be asked, “Did you go with your father?” and the son can truthfully answer, “Yes.” However, the next question then becomes, “What did the doctor say?” To which the son would reply, “I don’t know, ask Dad.”

Daughters apparently have this inherent ability to append unspoken addenda to verbal requests, and by some indications it is not limited to bloodline. Both Maile and The Kimberly seemed to know that physically sitting with my dad when he got his imaging results was what I was really supposed to do.

Yet the failure of my inability to properly decode the secret order is chalked up to my not listening. Excuse me, but from what I understand, the idea of successful secret codes is that the decryption keys are pre-arranged. It does no good if the recipient of said secret codes cannot decipher and reveal the hidden messages, much less so if he is not made aware that codes are being issued in the first place.

The trouble is, therefore, not in the fact that I wasn’t listening (I was, technically, listening quite perfectly), but that my orders were not properly worded to give the correct meaning and intention. Maile says that it should be common sense that I “know” what my mom was intending.

I contend that common sense in these circumstances is like being asked to buy milk from the market, and going after the brand that’s on sale, or the carton that has a longer expiration date. I should not be chastised for buying 2% over Skim or soy over cow, when such important decision-making factors were not disclosed properly before said excursion.

My dad got his imaging results today. The bad news is that he still has cancer. The good news is that it appears to be isolated, and the doctor is rather confident that surgery can remove the malignant cells.

An x-ray and ultrasound session have been scheduled two weeks from now to make sure. Then the following Tuesday will be the consultation, where I imagine the doctor will outline the next procedures to take.

Something my dad mentioned, about the use of “robotic” surgery. I had visions of mechanical arms performing delicate operations on the human body and thought, “Wow, what an age we live in!” The doctors will probably use something called a da Vinci surgical system, which is what, apparently, is used in the removal of prostate cancer.

That’s news to me.

On Friday, my dad told me he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Six months ago he was fine, but between then and now he went from a 0 to a 4 on the 5-scale of cancer-ness. I don’t know what the 5-scale means, but in terms of severity, it’s pretty bad.

He has to go in for another series of tests later this week to determine the extent of the spread. I suppose those results dictate the number of options available, such as the possibility of surgery or radiation therapy. Someone told me if the tests show that the cancer is isolated, there’s a good chance they can remove it and increase the odds of survival. My dad feels this cancer is extremely aggressive, given its sudden appearance, so he’s pretty much resigned to the fact that it has spread. That basically shortens his life span dramatically.

It is, of course, a shocking turn of events. It was just this year that he moved into a new house, built from the ground up, to provide comfort and mobility to my paralyzed mom. This year he watched his eldest son get married and legally start a family. Now it seems like he won’t be able to enjoy the new house. He wonders if he will be alive to see grandchildren. He says he has some regrets, that he didn’t fulfill some of his life goals, but that right now he’s looking ahead, making sure things are put into place or set in motion that will address any long-term goals, or handle short-term affairs.

Outwardly, he’s expressed this concern for the well-being of my mom. She’s confined to a wheelchair and needs 24-hour care, so if my dad has to undergo any kind of treatment that leaves him exhausted or weak, a caregiver will have to be hired. He does have family help from my aunts, but they’re no spring chickens, either. A live-in nurse of some kind is required, at least for the physical care.

The worry my dad has over my mom is understandable; he’s had to care for her since the car accident 10 yrs ago left her paralyzed. And it’s fine that he wants to spend his energy on her. It just might give him a purpose, a reason to continue fighting this cancer. It’s a hope that everyone has, and while he tries to prepare for the worst-case scenarios, he shares in that hope.

He just has to let me, or other people in the family, spend our energy on him. I tell my dad that he can worry all he wants, he just has to let me worry about him. It’s a lot easier to prepare together, as a group, than it is by oneself. I learned that just through the planning of my wedding.

Let me drive him to his appointments, or maybe take care of whatever paperwork needs taken care of. I can buy dinners or pay bills so that his limited income can be reserved for treatments and medicines. And hey, if the results come next week that the cancer did not spread, and surgery is able to take care of things, and therapy is enough to put it into remission, the time everyone spent will not have been wasted.

It’s like in baseball, even though the pitcher is the only one that throws the ball and starts the play, he still needs a catcher at the plate, fielders at his back.

I’m not going to just sit on the bench and watch him struggle on the mound.

During the initial wedding plans, Maile’s brother was tapped to help out on the registration table. An easy task to involve him in the event.In the months following, there was a bit of hemming and hawing about how he wasn’t going to go, then he was going to go, and back to not going. Shiny, just let me know a decision before it’s too late.

Soon afterward, he relapsed by taking a hit of crack. He felt guilty about it afterward, and turned himself in to his PO, and spent a couple of nights in jail.

At that point, we took him off table duty. I asked two of my friends if their daughters would like to help, and they all agreed. I then had 4 people on the registration table; more than enough to handle the crowd.

Turns out the hemming and hawing by Maile’s brother and other concerns stemmed from issues unrelated to the wedding, involving mainly the immediate family and their relationship with his girlfriend. As that came to light, there were talks and discussions and I guess everything was worked out, so that’s fine.

But now I am being told that he wants his “job” back. He felt hurt that he was taken off table duty because he really wanted to be involved and help out. Maile’s mom has suggested that I put him AND his girlfriend on the registration table, and from what I can gather, Maile agrees (though I don’t know if it’s just out of agreement or any other reason). At the time this was brought to my attention, I sorta acquiesced, without really saying anything or suggesting alternatives. I had to think about it.

Last night, I spent the better part of an hour considering everything. I believe I have come to the conclusion that I will not be changing my mind. It’s not because I don’t feel that I can trust him around the gifts; I feel I can’t trust his reliability.

It’s quite possible that he can do an excellent job at the table, and that there would be no problems and everything will go smoothly. However, at this point in the wedding plans I cannot take the chance that something will happen between now and then, leaving me stranded. I do not expect any amount of vouchers from either Maile or her mom can sway me in this, too.

He feels hurt that we took him off the job. My thought is that maybe he needs to remember this “hurt” and turn it into “experience.” Take it as a lesson in how his behavior can have an impact on others, and how sometimes, certain actions cannot be undone. Perhaps if he remembers this, if he remembers how he felt when he had to suffer the consequences of what he did, it can serve him in the future when faced with the temptation to use drugs again.

The drama is in trying to convince him of that, and in a way that he doesn’t use it as an excuse to go back to drugs (the old “woe is me” attitude). And, too, I will most likely be suffering the consequences of this decision. Whether it’s from him, or Maile or her mom, I can’t tell.

My dad expressed an interest in a sushi bar for the wedding reception. Turns out, however, that to get the sushi bar one has to arrange for a different dinner menu. We considered both selections and decided to stick with the original buffet. Even my dad said that he doesn’t want to sacrifice the whole meal just for sushi; it’d have been neat, but not important.

Maile and I will probably get the van when it comes in. Her old car will be used by Keoni for work-related purposes, until he’s established enough to keep paying for it. I think the functionality of the van will serve its purpose now without sacrificing future use, so it ends up being a good investment. It’s too bad the value drops dramatically once Maile drives it off the lot.

It feels like I am supposed to do something this week. I installed free Rainlendar software, which is basically an electronic planner that sits on your computer desktop. It’s kinda neat as far as its functionality, but there are some things that could be improved. For example, the alarm feature which notifies you of an upcoming event or task can be easily dismissed. I’d like it more if it needed a few more involved steps to dismiss, which would increase the chances of you actually doing what it is the program is reminding you to do!

I liken it to the alarm clock you put across the bedroom, forcing you to actually get up to turn it off.

Anyway, despite Rainlendar, I still feel like I’m forgetting to do something.

I have veggie stixs. They’re supposed to be good for me. Maybe I will eat the whole bag for lunch.