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.

Rolling it Out

I have found a new love: cinnamon rolls. These are not your average convenience store honey buns. These are rolled out, gooey, buttery, sugary, sliced up jewels of ecstasy. Amid my struggle of losing weight from menopause, these rolls have proven to be my kryptonite, and I'm okay with that. A bigger thing is hidden inside of these baked goods; there's a connection that I don't want to lose.
Dad is still taking chemo every three weeks, and every day is surely a struggle for him. Yes, he is still working, giving his time, skills, and know-how to the fire department, and still putting on a brave face every time he goes out in public. The most often heard phrase from people who see him is, " but he doesn't look sick." Most patients taking chemo lose weight. It's the trade off for having all of your cells bombarded in a battle to kill the cancer before it can kill you.

But that's not how my dad rolls.

He swears that he is much bigger than this tiny cancer, and therefore, it cannot kill him. As brave and courageous as that is, it's simply not true. This type of cancer doesn't care how big you are, what kind of person you are, or whether or not you still have things to do with your life. And speaking of bigger... that would be dad's pants size. He hates it, but I would rather see him look healthy and be a little bigger than the alternative. Here's where the cinnamon rolls come in.

I brought a pan of about 15 cinnamon rolls to my parents' house, and within two days, they had disappeared. Dad was eating them for every meal. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snack. Boredom. Just because.
Discovering how much he loves these cinnamon rolls lead me to the false conclusion that if I could keep him nourished with these rolls of yeast, butter, and love, that that would keep him sustained and living. Even if for only a little while longer. Even if I have to bake cinnamon rolls every weekend to keep his supply stocked, this I will do.

Out, Damn Spot

          Oh, Lady Macbeth, how true your words are. Whether it's the wine stain in the carpet or the tumors invading my dad's body, they just don't seem to go away. Unfortunately, this is a sad version of non-fiction that not even Shakespeare can rival: this is a tragedy of epic proportions. Despite the advances that modern medicine has made, this is the little cancer that could, and it's determined to kill him. On an even more disturbing level is my break up with reality. I've been swimming in disillusionment for the last year and a half. Wading in circles, not drowning, but never making it past the first buoy.
          I sat by the fireplace last night and just listened to the crackle. Listened to the flame eat away at the wood. It resembles the slight sizzle I hear as I inhale my cigarette, and I imagine it's doing the same to my lungs. I imagine it's what it's done to my dad.
          In this thought, a strange realization takes place, and it's what scares me the most about my habit. For years, I have marveled at how can everyone else not be ready to die and see His face in the same way that I am. There is a quiet solace and contentment that I get imagining flying through the air to meet my Creator and leaving behind all worry and anxiety. Sooner, rather than later. I am envious of my dad that he will experience this peace before me. It is this thought and envy that carries me through any attempt to quit, even when I had my first taste of anger at the cancer. I was mad at the cigarette in my mouth and the other nine still in the pack. I proceeded to take each one out and break it in half, determined that I was now, indeed, fed up.
          Each one had a letter: L-E-R-O-Y-A-N-N-A. I made it about three hours before my longing caught up with me.

Cosmos

       


 Today, I feel like crumbling, like a Roman statue lost to time, encapsulated in sand, dirt, and grit, until excavated, touched by the sun, and developing deep seismic cracks all over my surface from the top to the bottom, then toppling down into one big, dusty pile of forgotten clay. I want a soft rain to fall down and morph me into a pit of mush and be soaked simultaneously back in to the earth.
          Deep down, a desire to change is in all of us. Change forms, circumstances, thoughts, lives. Are we living the life we've been given or the life we've chosen, or both? There must be certainty in uncertainty. Certainly, we can say that our lives are a result of the choices that we've made, but how do we account for flukes, lucky draws, and chances? The person who smokes everyday for eighty years lives to be 100 and never gets lung cancer. The person who hates sweets and sugar, yet develops diabetes and has to have amputations above the knee. Rhyme or reason? Chocolate or vanilla?
          I loathe those philosophical know-it-alls with their mantras of "if you can think it, you can do it." Can I, really? If I just "think" hard enough, will the malignancy in my dad's chest magically disappear? I have that power?
          I am just stuck. I want to change so many things, but I know that changing one thing at all would topple my universe, but at what cost?
          Oh, to be a shining star in the middle of a black hole.

Brownie Mix

Today was one of those days that actually felt like Fall. When I come outside with my coffee, the first thing I do is take a deep-nostrilled breath in, and see if the smell registers. Usually, it reminds me of one of the first few days of a new school year back when I was in high school. It was the smell of grass and anxiety, dirt and nervousness. What will the day bring? That was today's scent. This evening, it has sprinkled off and on, not nearly enough to make a dent in the drought, but enough to get your hopes up that your car will get rinsed off. As I stepped out of the car, I could smell the warm pavement mixed with the clay of our topography. I could smell the singe of the oil on the road being gently kneaded out of the concrete.

What I smelled more than any of that was my childhood.

Walking barefoot in the dirt that resembled brownie mix on a beaten path around our home. The smell of wet bark and slick blades of grass.

 I stopped to listen.

Each drop of percussion sounded like home. I closed my eyes and imagined each tiny droplet settling into the fine dirt, not soaking in, just sitting around in a bubble. I imagine walking around that trail with wet feet and the dirt slowly getting caked in between my toes, making muddy hand prints on the side of our chalky-white house, and climbing the Everest of trees in our front yard.

Then the real rain came.

 Just like that, the quick thought of home was gone, and today came in curtains of precipitation. On days like today, I imagine the sky is crying for me in empathy for things long forgotten and memories that can't be remade or remembered again.