Proud Mary

I have resumed my daughter duties of being the queen of cinnamon rolls. The only negative to all of it, is my pursuit of perfectly coiled rolls with just the perfect amount of butter, cinnamon, and sugar, each delicately placed in the pan to rise. It just so happens that when you use too much butter, you wind up with a cascade of cholesterol going over your counter top and you subsequently slam-dunk the entire ball of dough in the trashcan. Maybe my perfectionist tendencies have gone a tad bit over the top. Maybe.

But, I trudge on. Each roll of dough produces roughly 30 rolls, which, unfortunately, is a lot more than your daily recommended allowance. So I have a lot of rolls to give, and for good reason. This  
post discusses my need for making these rolls, and the reasons are piling up.

Dad got to take a two month break from chemotherapy when he was told that his tumor markers had gone down to nearly five, which is a normal base-line number for a smoker. The doctor said he could stop the treatments since his numbers had gone down so much, but Dad said "no." He wanted to do one more just to make sure. And he did.

Fast forward two months later...

Routine blood work revealed that his tumor markers had increased from 5 to 11. Okay, Not too bad. Just monitor and come back in a month.

One month later...

Routine blood work revealed his tumor markers have gone from 11 to 45. Okay. That's not good. Dad started back on chemotherapy on October 19th, slated to go every two weeks instead of every three.

Dad usually calls or texts to give an updated report, so this time, I responded with, "I guess I need to make some more cancer-killing cinnamon rolls." Dad told Mom, "Well, I figured out how to get some more of those cinnamon rolls." I can only imagine the sly grin that crept across his face.

Two weeks later...

Routine blood work revealed his tumor markers have gone from 45 to 107. Dammit. How will I have time to make all of the cinnamon rolls necessary for this one?

It's in these moments that I come to face the reality that nothing I can say or do or bake will help. I cannot kill this cancer. What a sobering thought. Stone-cold, bathroom-floor-when-you're-sick, polar plunge sobering.

But I keep on rolling out the dough anyway. The real thing here is that while I can't kill the cancer, I can comfort my dad. I can pray for my dad. I can see the happiness on his face when eats them, when he licks the icing from the pan, when he tells me that he likes more butter rather than sugar.

So now, it's my mission to comfort and console with these rolls. Who is unhappy when they're eating a cinnamon roll? Well, I'll tell ya who... no one! So who makes the cut to get the rolls? Anyone.