Cairn Rodrigues's Blog: The Light Stealers Song, page 10

Cheers, Salud and L’Chaim

 

Woo hoo!  Just one more day until we put 2013 to our backs.  Since yesterday’s blog was devoted to purging the bad, today’s blog is devoted to making room for the good.

I have finally (FINALLY) approved the proof copy of The Last Prospector.  The next weeks will find me busily publishing the book and doing promotional work to find readers.  It’s fitting, a new year, a new start and nothing but possibilities waiting to be realized.  It’s all very exciting and terrifying.

Are you familiar with the old saying about how you spend New Year’s Eve will be a blueprint for how you spend the year?  I’m not big on noisy NYE celebrations and I suck at staying up until midnight, so our celebrations are pretty low key.  However, I’ve been thinking about that theory for a couple of weeks and decided it can’t hurt to hedge my bets a little.

Today I will purchase a nice bottle of champagne – not going to go crazy with Dom Perignon or anything, but definitely something a little pricier than normal for me.  Tonight, I’m going to shake that bottle up and toast to the success of The Last Prospector, because that is exactly how I want to spend the rest of my year.

You know what?  If someone wants to come over and dump an ice chest of Gatorade all over me, that’s cool too.  Let’s party, let’s publish, let’s win this thing.  

Prospector and I wish everyone the happiest New Year possible.  Don’t dream it, be it!

HAPPY 2014 ONE  AND ALL

Share this:

For Your Consideration: Vitriolicus

 

The new year is rapidly approaching and, for this woman, it’s not rapid enough.  2013 was just ghastly and I’ll be happy to see its portly rump getting hit by the door on its way out.  My circle of associates and I have seen enough tragedy and loss in the last 12 months to tide us over for another decade.  Here’s hoping that ’14 brings the happy.

But we’re not quite there yet.  No, there’s still a few more grueling days in that slack spot between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.  I propose we fill that week with a new celebration called Vitriolicus.  It’s the time to vent our frustrations, angers and vexations so we don’t carry them into the new year.  Seriously, all those things just weigh us down, they pollute our minds and keep us in bondage.   Too many people never allow for righteous fits of temper and they suffer for it, everyone in their orbit suffers for it.

Let’s clear the decks, clean out the closets and toss out all the gunk shoved beneath the car seats.  Let’s get vitriolic and unapologetic, if it’s an official holiday, you get a free pass. From December 26 – 30, we say all those things we’ve been suppressing.  All the rage and fear, all the confusion and disgust.  Let’s get it all out in the healthiest and safest way, with our words.  Vitriolicus isn’t for angry actions, there are plenty of those all year long. But words can set us free and speaking freely is cheaper than psychotherapy.  

Trust me on that last part, it is much, MUCH cheaper.

I realize that today is the 30th of December and this proposal is quite late in the game.  However, it’s not yet too late to get vitriolic, so here goes…

I’m completely pissed off with America, Americans and the American government.  What does it take for you people to wake up?  Our lifestyle, the very fabric of our society, is unraveling before our eyes and yet everyone pretends they can’t see.  We’re so busy denouncing and decrying every segment of the population that doesn’t agree with ours that we can barely be civil to one another.  We accept that our schools are churning out illiterates and imbeciles at an alarming rate.  The middle class is disappearing and that middle class is the only thing keeping this lot of rabble rousers together.  The newest iPhone or biggest car is not an all consuming goal, they are just things and the hunger for more things will be our undoing.  Our law-makers and politicians are beyond obvious about their corruptible natures and we do nothing as the very earth beneath our feet is sold off to frackers.  We have to stop pretending that everything will work out if we just work harder at our jobs or throw more barbecues or buy more inflatable reindeer for the front lawn.  We need to stop being consumers and start being producers.

Poverty porn is really setting me off lately.  How is it that the guy always begging for money to feed hungry kids on TV is getting fatter?  What the hell?  I say he spends most of his time at charity lunches gathering enough funds to make more commercials to siphon off money from decent folk.  And eating, apparently.  Howzabout he just uses the money spent on all those charity lunches to feed those kids he’s haranguing us about.  Oh, and while I’m on the topic, if Susan Sarandon got off her high pony and took a walk around America, she might find plenty of hungry kids here too.  I’m not saying to close our hearts to suffering around the world, but I would appreciate fatcats with over-privileged lives not pontificating with such pretension.  If you have a problem with it, Susie Q, retire from acting and go take care of business.  My donations stay at home, where I live, with the food bank and SPCA.

You know what else irritates me?  People who wear eyeglass frames with no lenses.  You do know it makes you look like a poser, right?  Are those fake lenses just too heavy of a burden to bear?  What will be next?  Fashion canes for those without limps or putting a cast on a limb that’s not broken, so you’ll look cool?  Over accessorizing is a national blight, because yeah, coordinating pencils and erasers will make you a happier person.  I saw designer chef’s knives recently, the blades had a zebra print.  One young lady sported purple zebra striped knives.  It’s a knife, it cuts food, IT’S A TOOL – just like the person who purchased it.

Well, I feel better now.  Happy Vitriolicus!

Share this:

Eating Cake With Jesus

Intolerance, do you tolerate it?

@BadWolfLil @studioexec1 @ibgeronimo @WBCSays Intolerance is saying that no one should have any cake because you don’t approve of cake.

— Quip Slinger (@CairnRodrigues) December 18, 2013

It’s not as silly a question as it seems.  There’s a line in the About Me section of my Facebook page stating that intolerance will be intolerated.  Sure, it’s an amusing way of letting potential new friends know how I roll, but do two wrongs make a right?

A tweet rolled by on Sunday, it piqued my interest so I checked the backstory.  It was a response to a tweet from that bastion of intolerance, the Westboro Baptist Church.  In that tweet they used the term “fag propaganda”, it’s ugly and I tweeted back that they should learn better words.  WBC hasn’t yet thanked me for that helpful suggestion, but they haven’t yet burned a cross on my lawn, so I’m ahead of the game.

The exchange prompted a discussion about intolerance that is ongoing, but the big IT has been rearing its ugly head on my Twitter stream a lot lately.  A couple months back, I made a conscious decision to start following and engaging with people on Twitter who are outside my comfort zone.  Not to troll anybody, not to grind axes, but to offer myself viewpoints and ideas from people who don’t think as I do.  Truly, how strong are our ideals and beliefs if they don’t get challenged once in a while?

It’s not indiscriminate following, there are still some basic guidelines such as reasonably good spelling.  But I operate on the life principle that we can all find some common ground with just about anybody else if we try to find that common ground. Just because I don’t agree with someone’s politics doesn’t mean we won’t agree on the beauties of spectacular sunsets and well made pizza.

It’s been an adventure, I’ve seen a lot of anti-Obama memes in the last weeks.  But there were breakthroughs, conversations have been started with several people and civil war hasn’t broken out.  The surprise wasn’t that some of these new follows are decent folk, it was the intolerance displayed by some of the more liberal folk.  People who consider themselves enlightened and of the world are slamming the Twitter door on anyone whose politics or religion don’t fall into the correct categories.

Several people who have seen my conversations with “undesirables”, have breezily informed me that they would unfollow and block other people just for having a dissenting opinion.  It makes me sad.  Their favorite response to something disagreeable is to cut it off, as if it will go away because they’re not looking anymore.  That’s intolerance too, and a fair bit of hypocrisy on the side.  What does blocking accomplish?  How can we establish a dialogue if we’re not speaking?

Often, I wonder how Twitter would play out if Jesus (Twitter handle: @J_Naz) was on the tweet.  How many petty disputes could be settled by a gentle, loving 140 reminding people to respect each other?  In my rich fantasy world, all of history’s important spiritual leaders are tweeting.  Buddha (@ZenWon) and Mohammed (@ProMo) would keep themselves busy reminding everyone that all major religions advocate tolerance and acceptance.  Things don’t get messy until the people reinterpret the meanings, so wouldn’t it be swell if there was a direct line to clarity?

Tolerance and acceptance don’t have to be fantasies, they can be realities.  Just because social media gives us an easy out with blocking doesn’t mean we have to use it.  We can choose to see past the rhetoric, to see the person buried beneath the rhetoric, and find that sacred common ground.  We all breathe, eat, love and laugh, we are all humans and all related to each other, so those commonalities are much closer than we suspect.

On this day, I am throwing down the gauntlet to all humankind.

I challenge you all to find some common ground with a person you would not normally associate with.  I challenge you to seek out the challenges and embrace them, build bridges instead of burning them.  In this world, teeming with rancor and intolerance, the only thing that can save us is ourselves.  

Let’s save ourselves, let’s eat cake and celebrate our differences.

Share this:

This is Jeopardy!

Growing up in the ’70s, I watched a lot of game shows.  As a kid, my favorites were Press Your Luck – No Whammy, no Whammy, no Whammy, STOP! – and Wheel of Fortune.  Originally, Wheel had the round’s winning player go shopping from a well stocked display of goods.  When the show went to cash awards, I didn’t enjoy it so much.  And I have a longstanding fear that Vanna White’s freakishly large head will detach from her body and go on a rampage.

While I do remember the early once weekly incarnation of Jeopardy!, the current nightly version has been on my watch list since its debut in 1984.  Alex Trebek was familiar to those of us on the game show circuit, he hosted plenty of programs before Jeopardy! gave him permanent work.  A.T. is a cool cat, it’s doubtful that the show would have lasted nearly 30 years without him at the helm.  But 30 years is a long time and Alex is showing signs of wear.

I haven’t been watching much lately and finally figured out why .  It’s not the game itself that’s off putting, it’s Alex.  Remember a few months ago when A.T. allegedly made a kid cry during Kid’s Week?  I didn’t see that episode, but did watch the clip later.  It was nothing out of the ordinary, just Alex being the new, crankier, Alex.  It’s been building for years, that poor guy looks tired and always seems to be frantically searching for the exit as he grinds out clue after clue.  

Trebek isn’t due to retire until 2016.  It doesn’t seem like a long time, but have you ever been forced to stay at a job you can’t stand anymore because of obligations?  Each day is a misery and each day feels like it lasts for a decade.  I’m trying to free Alex Trebek, that thousand yard stare of his chills my blood and makes me wonder what soulless automatons are keeping Alex prisoner.

But Jeopardy! itself shouldn’t end with Alex’s departure.  It’s time for some fresh blood, so I’ve done some quality thinking for the producers of Jeopardy! and came up with replacement suggestions.  

JEFF PROBST

Survivor fans already know The Probst is a smart guy and a strong rudder that would keep the Jeopardy! machine on a steady course.  Many Survivor fans don’t know that Jeff already has some experience under his belt.  He hosted Rock and Roll Jeopardy on VH1 from 1998 – 2001 and did a fine job.  Probst has finessed his people-managing skills during his Survivor tenure and he knows how to stay on topic despite wild distractions.  He doesn’t even have to trade his iconic blue shirt and khakis permanently.  There is no reason he can’t hop back and forth between suit/tie combo and his beloved baseball caps.  Jeff Probst is my premier choice to take over Jeopardy!  But I have a few back up choices, just in case.

KATHY GRIFFIN

I know, it might be difficult picturing her in the job at first glance.  While Kathy did spend most of her career being easily dismissed because of obnoxiousness, she got over herself a few years back and became watchable. The host of Jeopardy! needs to be someone with sharp wits and enough high functioning brain cells to scam the viewer into believing he/she already knows all the answers.  I believe Kathy Griffin can pull that off while bringing along a new demographic of younger, gayer viewers.  

JOEL McHALE

The snarky, sarcastic host of The Soup is a perfect fit…

Ha-ha, gotcha! Joel McHale would suck at it.  Plus Alex Trebek would commit felony murder before letting McHale anywhere near his kingdom.

JOE MORTON

Yes, I know this is a reach.   has been an acclaimed actor since his debut in 1984′s Brother From Another Planet.  He’s been in more movies than I can remember and might see Jeopardy! as a downward career move.  However, he is a very appealing human with an approachable vibe and a lot of depth.  An actor’s career is a tenuous thing, even if you are acclaimed, and a syndicated game show can certainly provide financial security in his golden years.  Think about it, Joe.

Those who know me already know that I’ve been wanting Probst to step in for a while now.  Jeopardy! is getting old and is desperate for some new blood.  Let’s do the humane thing and FREE ALEX TREBEK!

 

Are you on the Twitter?

@Jeopardy

@JeffProbst

@kathygriffin

@joelmchale

@JOEtheMORTON

@CairnRodrigues – I’m not throwing my name in the Jeopardy! ring, but at least I’ll tweet back.

Share this:

A Survivor’s Guide To Quitting Christmas

Wait…what?  You can just…do that?

Yep

It sounds hard, is it hard?

Yep

After spending my entire life hating Christmas, I stopped hating it last year.  In fact, last December was the best one I ever spent – so wonderful that I’m doing it all over again.  I said “No, thanks” to Christmas and freed myself from the beast that can never be sated.

There are many Christmas sufferers still out there, oblivious to the cure.  It’s because, as Americans (yes, probably other countries too, but I’m not from those other places so won’t speak for them) we are indoctrinated into participating in Christmas.  Sheesh, it’s a long word and takes up too much space, from here forward Christmas will be referred to as X.  Starting practically at birth, most of us are not given a choice about X, bows are taped to our bald baby heads until we’re thrown to the wolves of public school.  Where it only gets worse when we have to be in X pageants and learn the mysteries of Secret Santa.

First and foremost, I’m not a Christian.  I’ve got nothing against Jesus, but from what I’ve heard about the guy, he wouldn’t be so keen on how we celebrate his birthday.  Since I’ve got no religion at all, that leaves the secular trappings to deal with.  And I hate those too.

I hate X carols, all 6 of ‘em.  I hate growing trees for the express purpose of using them for one month and then tossing them in the gutter like unwelcome relatives.  I hate Black Friday.  I hate stuffing the landfills with more paper, ribbons, tinsel and vacuum-sealed plastic trays that need a saber to be opened.  I hate the hypocrisy of celebrating the spirit of giving by toting a gun to Toys R Us.

Prompted by an emotional upheaval caused by my daughter the summer before last, I realized I was putting myself through all the hell of X for the benefit of others.  Doing it did not benefit me, in truth it caused me great stress and depression.  Literally, I would start dreading X in July, not figurative dread AT ALL, but the kind that makes my belly ache.

Making the decision to stop is hard enough, the other people in your life will make it a whole bunch more difficult.  But if it’s best for you, then it’s what you have to do for you.  If it’s truly the season of giving, then give yourself the gift of peace because charity begins at home.  If you are wanting to make the break from X, here are a few things to think about.

Don’t make a huge announcement with lots of theatrics and pie charts.  Simply tell the people closest to you of your decision and let it go.  Arguing or defending your point is futile against die-hard X lovers, they will not understand.
Make clear to your loved ones that this was your well thought out decision and you’re not just seeking attention.  Your life is not an After School Special, you do not want to be attacked with carolers until you learn the true meaning of X.
Don’t submit to emotional blackmail.  ”If you really loved us, you wouldn’t stop”  Um, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t want me to be miserable.
Once you have formally stopped participating in X, stop bad mouthing it.  You’re not participating, remember?  Once you have officially opted out, you’re no longer entitled to an opinion.
Feel free to accept invitations to holiday parties.  But remember that you knew what you were getting into when you accepted and play nicely with the revelers.

Not everyone will accept your decision to opt out with grace.  Which is, by the way, NOT IN THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON and therefore MORE HYPOCRISY.  You can really nail those people to the wall by saying they can consider acceptance as a holiday gift to you.  If that doesn’t work, ask them why they want you to do something that makes you so unhappy.  If that doesn’t work, tell them you WILL do X and spend the entire time ruining it for them.  

Personally, I’m not out to ruin anyone’s fun.  In fact, I’ve become 1,000 times more benevolent during the holidays now that I’m watching from the outside.  It’s an ironic X gift, I’m filled with the spirit now that I don’t have any!

Since I’m a Whovian, I can’t eschew X completely.  The Doctor Who X specials are part of his canon and I live vicariously through the Doctor’s unfettered love for the holiday.  It is the very closest I can get to feeling the joy of the season.

I mean, other than the joy of not doing it.

Share this:

Dracullama – A #BlogCrawl Production

The two young Americans were crazy in love with each other and the open road.  Going to Peru was not part of the original plan.  But after Burning Man, they decided to drive down the California coast and just kept going.  Together, they explored Mexican ruins and marveled at the Panama Canal.  There was always something new to see just a little farther on, the car seemed to drive itself south as if called by a voice the lovers couldn’t hear.

Marcella and Duxelle never stopped to wonder why no one asked to see a passport.  They certainly hadn’t packed them for Burning Man, in fact Marcella didn’t even have a passport.  But all the border guards just smiled and waved them through, sometimes even thanking them.  Duxelle said it was because it was all America, so they didn’t need traveling papers.

When they arrived in Peru, many friendly people offered them maps to their destination.  The locals bought the ladies drinks and stuffed them with savory foods as they followed the route recommended by everyone.  They had passed no other drivers for at least an hour on the winding road.  The late afternoon sun was dipping behind the Andes, sending shafts of dark shadows to cow the passing greenery into submission.  Duxelle consulted the map, but every one she looked at didn’t say where the road led.  There were no towns marked, they hadn’t seen any road signs, but neither worried about that.  The car knew where it was going.

“What’s that?”  Duxelle peered through the windshield, pointing.

Marcella peered over her sunglasses before tossing them into the back seat.  Slowing down, she could just make out a large white form ahead, gleaming white and fluffy.  As Marcella stopped the car, Duxelle rolled down the window.  ”It’s a llama!  Take a picture so I can tweet it.”

Duxelle turned her back to the window, smiling as Marcella aimed the phone towards her.  The obliging llama stuck its head through the open window as the camera fired, Marcella examined the picture carefully.  ”Hmm, red eye, we should try another.”

After fiddling with the settings, Marcella finally looked back up, but Duxelle wasn’t smiling anymore.  The beast had its lips peeled back to reveal enormous fangs, dripping red with Duxelle’s warm blood.  Its red eyes glowed in the dusk, muzzle stained in crimson as Marcella sat paralyzed.  She should scream, she should run, but she was transfixed.  From the corner of her eye, she saw the friendly locals again, silhouetted against torches as they moved in close.

Finished with Duxelle, the llama licked its sticky lips and watched Marcella with interest.  Unseen hands shoved her closer to the body of her dead lover on the seat.  Marcella’s final act on Earth was to tweet a picture of the Dracullama.  

 

It went viral, so she died happy.

Share this:

A Blessing of cancer

Why is this post so hard to write?  It’s been in my head for weeks now and it’s heartfelt, so why did I sit here so long staring helplessly at a blank page? There is tremendous inner conflict as I try to get it out.  Knowing that I have to speak my truth is hitting hard up against not really wanting to acknowledge that truth.

But the truth sets us free.  I want to be free.

This is the day after Thanksgiving, one of my favorite holidays.  It’s the time we give thanks for all that we have for a brief, blissful moment right before we run headlong into acquiring all that we don’t.  Being thankful is a place I find myself in frequently these days.  Is gratitude an odd response to watching my father slowly lose his fight with terminal lung cancer?  I’m not thankful that he is ill, but he is ill.  He is dying and my feelings don’t cure tumors.

Adversity brings us gifts, if we are strong enough to accept them.

In my book series, the Song of Solstice, there are twin goddesses.  Most of the people in Solstice cling to the light goddess Ylumya, because she gives and creates.  One group of people worship the dark goddess Ynoirya though, she who takes and destroys.  But those people, the Yndigons, see the actions of Ynoirya as blessings and become stronger under her cruel tutelage.

A phoenix has to burn before it can be reborn.

I have been blessed by cancer, there I said it.  In taking away the father I love, it’s giving me a deeper, more profound relationship with him.  Even though his cancer is isolating me into a routine of doctors and care taking, I am surrounded by fellowship, support and love.  cancer taught me to wallow in what I have and distance myself from what I don’t.

cancer isn’t a death sentence, it’s a life sentence.  Live while you can.

In this time of giving thanks, I don’t want my gratitude to be empty.  I am grateful for all the pain, the despair and desperation because they are the pathways to inner peace.  If I don’t struggle, I won’t ever be strong.  So thank you cancer, you ugly, hateful bitch.  Thank you.  Just because you take my father doesn’t mean you win. 

 

Back Stories:

Why I don’t capitalize cancer

My dad

Song of Solstice

Share this:

Cover Reveal – The Last Prospector

 

 

Book one of the Song of Solstice is coming soon!

Solstice is a world apart, created by a mysterious Boss and shaped by tempers of warring twin goddesses.  Once it was a playground for sisters Ylumya and Ynoirya, but then the wars began.  Now Solstice is the stage for the final battle between light and dark.  Everyone must choose a side.

The Boss sired the first prospector 1,000 years ago.  Charged to search for a treasure unnamed, an unbroken line of men have been caretakers, shepherds and warriors for Solstice since the misty times.  Now, Grayme Ceruleya is the last prospector, he is destined to find the treasure.  But what happens to Solstice when he does?

A runaway slave dies giving birth alone in the desert.  The nomads who find the baby don’t realize that the child is the pawn of the gods and wields more power than they can comprehend.  Except for one boy, broken-hearted Tonyo who makes a tremendous sacrifice to ensure the baby’s safety.

In Solstice the unlikely is probable, magicks are mundane and all the stories are true.  It’s a land of stunning natural beauty, filled with exotic wildlife and vibrant cultures.  Powerful factions like the whore’s guild make the rules, ancient enemies find new strength and dreamers are waking up all across the land with one message.

The Final war between the Twins has started.  A victor must be decided this time.

If you can’t wait to read it, please take a look a chapter one here on Goodreads!

So Travellers, what do you think?  Our journey is starting soon, pack those lunches and put on comfortable shoes because I’m going to take you places you won’t want to leave.

Share this:

What Once Was Lost

How many circles do we make during our lives?  How often do we set out on a new journey, only to find years later we’ve come back round to where we started?

Perhaps our entire lives are nothing more than a series of inter-connecting circles, without visible start and stop points.  We just zip around the curves and cautiously move through the intersections until we realize that the neighborhood looks familiar and ask, “Haven’t I been here before?”

After my dad’s first round of radiation therapy for his lung cancer, he gave me a little money with instructions to buy myself something really good.  So I did.  I splashed out for 50″ plasma TV – I even got a great deal on it!  How did I live without it for so long?  It’s a wonderful thing that I’m enjoying the hell out of lately, there just aren’t enough nature programs on to sustain my need for more high definition meerkats.  I’ve also been re-watching some of my favorite movies and shows on the big screen, just to see them with fresh eyes.

 

 

In fact, the very moment I selected the TV to buy at the store, visions of a Lost marathon beckoned.  Lost is the only complete TV series I own on DVD and I’ve already seen each episode many times.  Still, I got excited at the notion of starting all over again, even mentioned it to my dad.  It was a little surprising, the way his eyes lit up when he found out I owned them all.  Apparently, he was a fan when the show first aired, but dropped off when my mom got sick.  When he came back, he had no idea what was going on and stopped watching again.

He can’t be blamed, Lost is a show that needs to be watched in order.

I took the first two seasons over to him last week, when I picked him up for his first new radiation therapy appointment.  After we got home and finished lunch, he ordered me to go home – so he could get comfortable (no pants) and watch some TV.  The next morning on the way to the hospital, he chatted happily about the crash, the survivors and even shared some theories about the monster.  I was under strict orders to neither confirm nor deny, so mostly I just nodded and agreed it was a most vexing mystery.

But his enthusiasm was very familiar.  When Lost premiered – and for the six years it was on – I couldn’t pay a family member to be interested with me.  But not this time!  I’m up to season four and finding new things to love about Lost.  Rose’s cancer is much more poignant this time around and I hear Prospector’s voice every time Desmond speaks.  Hurley continues to be my hero and the following sequence is my absolute favorite Lost moment of all.  I urge you to click the play button if you haven’t ever seen it and watch it all the way through, just to hear Michael Giacchino’s amazing instrumental rendition of Three Dog Night’s Shambala.

 

 

Now, I have something new and very special to love about Lost.  Because he is bottled oxygen dependent, he doesn’t get out much except to go to the doctor and Andy has been bored.  Dad looks forward to his afternoon block of Lost and I’m thrilled he has something to look forward to.  Everyone needs a reason to get up every morning, everyone needs a little fun to anticipate.  My dad now has Oceanic flight 815 to alleviate the seemingly unending parade of doctors that come with terminal cancer – on demand and with no commercials.  It takes him away from the tedium of treatment and puts a smile on his face.  I think that smile does as much healing as the doctors and their treatments.

I’ve come around again, back to where I started again.  I am lost again and yet more found than ever.   It’s not a bad thing, it’s not a step backwards.  If life is a circle, you don’t go backward and forward, you just go round and round.  Enjoy the ride!

Share this:

Auld Andrew’s Hearth

I’ve seen that look before, the one doctors and nurses give you right before the worst news is delivered.    It’s the very briefest of glances, perhaps lasting less than a full second, but it says more than a thousand spoken words.  The first time I saw it was after our oldest daughter collapsed at school.  We were all in the waiting room at the ER, not knowing why Brianne collapsed or what her fate would be.  I saw a man talking to one of the nurses quietly, then they both gave us that quick look simultaneously.  The man was a chaplain or priest, I can’t remember, but he came up to our family and guided us into a private waiting room just off the ER.

Even though, very deep down, I knew the truth they were trying so hard not to say, I went into the room anyway, hoping against hope that I was wrong.  But I wasn’t wrong, Brianne didn’t ever wake up again and that look between professionals was the equivalent of  ”Only a miracle can change this”.

Shortly after my dad finished his course of radiation for the mass in his lung, he went in for an MRI of his brain.  Two days later, we went for a scheduled appointment to discuss chemotherapy.  After I reminded the doctor of the MRI, he pulled up the results and he was looking at them for the first time.  His back was to me, but I could see the computer screen clearly.  He scrolled quickly through the images until one of them made him stop cold.  His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, he turned his head quickly and gave me that look.  It took a nanosecond, but I knew something really bad was coming.

There is a large lesion on Dad’s brain, officially taking his cancer from stage three to stage four.  Terminal.

Frankly, the news wasn’t a big shock.  We both saw it coming, but it was quietly devastating to have it confirmed anyway.  Chemotherapy will have to be delayed again, until another round of radiation treatments on his head is done.  We had to decide between Gamma Knife surgery, which is targeted only at the lesion, or whole-head radiation.  They both have advantages, both have repercussions and neither will cure him.

Andy is not the type of person to dwell on things he can’t change.  He knows he is dying, he’s 83 and he’s tired.  But right now, he is still very much alive and he has business to finish.  On the way home from getting the news, we discussed the options.  Gamma Knife is only one appointment here in town, while the whole-head would require us to resume our daily pilgrimage to Travis AFB for another two weeks.  I was in favor of the whole-head radiation simply because I think it offers my dad the best chance of maintaining what he still has.  He can still live on his own in his own house and that does more for his peace of mind than anything else I can think of.

But, he has business…Or rather, I do and he’s very intent on getting that business conducted.  To me, publishing The Last Prospector is not nearly as important as my father’s health and well-being.  Truly, as anxious as I am to publish, the book hasn’t been a factor in making those decisions because it’s just a damned book.  I love it, but I love my dad approximately one billion times more.

He sees things differently.  From his perspective, the book is much more important because it will outlive both of us.  He never fathered any children biologically just as I never mothered any biologically.  We are both step parents and he already knows that my step kids won’t be there for me when I get old.  He is dying and he wants to know that I’ll be okay when he’s gone, that I will leave a legacy we can both be proud of.

There was a lot of arguing back and forth.  A lot.  Over the last week and after flooring the accelerator on publishing, The Last Prospector is very close to ready.  He can no longer argue that his illness is keeping me from my work.  So, after taking that out of the equation, Andy decided on whole-head radiation and we start Tuesday.

Many of the people and places in The Last Prospector are named for people I love.  When it came time to name the ancient home belonging to Prospector’s family, I really wanted a name with a lot of resonance and meaning for me.  I named it after Andy, after the man who became my father and showed me that all father’s aren’t like the one I was born with.  Auld Andrew’s Hearth is my insurance policy, it guarantees that my dad will be with me forever.  

Everybody dies, but it’s not how we die that defines us.  It’s how we live and the legacy we leave behind after the breathing is finished.  Andy’s legacy is me, I am his shining accomplishment and I want to honor that legacy by making sure he lives forever.

 

Share this: