Saint Ken

For his 79^th birthday, my aunt and I took my dad out to his favorite Mexican restaurant, Ocho Café in West Hartford. After we gorged ourselves on delicious tacos and enchiladas, the manager and a group of staff brought out a complimentary dessert and belted out their best heavily accented “happy birthday” rendition. My dad thanked the manager and told him how much he and my mom loved coming here. He then told the manager that my mom passed away a couple months ago. The manager replied, “we know, and we wanted to tell you that all of us here really admired the way you took care of her and brought her out to enjoy herself.”

My first thought, was, “How often did my parents come here?” My second thought was *cries loudly on the inside.*

When the nurse who was looking after my mom in the ICU heard that my mom was still living at home at the age of 78, with advanced Parkinson’s for many years and in a wheelchair for 5 years, she seemed shocked, and exclaimed, “You never see that. Usually, the husband puts them in a home.” Doctors had recommended he do just that several times over the past few years.

But see, my dad is not usual. In his mid and late 70s, before and after his own knee replacement surgery, he was helping my wheelchair-bound mom dress, use the toilet, go out to eat, visit family, and anything else she wanted or needed to do. Never mind the mental and spiritual toll of seeing your spouse in this condition, the physical toll alone is something most people would avoid.

At my mom’s funeral, I heard a lot of people say that my dad is a saint. Saint Ken. 

If people feel that way, I won’t refute it. Maybe it’s just my secular worldview, but I wouldn’t call him a saint. He’s not performing miracles. He’s a good man who is deeply committed to his loved ones, and he made a choice to remain committed until the very end. He wasn’t doing anything that “normal” humans aren’t capable of, even though most would never choose to; he was doing the hard work of loving and caring for someone with an illness into their final years. His wife needed him, and he was going to do everything he could possibly do to support her, and more importantly, give her life value.

My parents saw the value in all life. Recently, as the Covid pandemic raged around the globe, it was obvious that many people did not. When the stats showed that most people who died from Covid were over 65, pundits and politicians told us all we need to get back to work. Grandma and Grandpa dying is a worthy sacrifice if it increases the US GDP by half a percentage point!

I heard so many people just dismiss the elderly entirely. Dismiss life past a certain age. It messed me up because two of the people I care for most were deemed disposable. Then I thought, well shit. I’m 40. I guess I only have 25 meaningful years left.

The pandemic was not a fun time!

Our society prioritizes…idolizes…worships youth. While at the same time, our society hates kids. Duality! We prize beauty and vitality over wisdom and maturity. We pay any amount of money to look and feel young. To most people, “aging gracefully” means looking good by simulating youth. And if it’s not possible to look young, have the decency to never show your face in public. Or at least not during peak hours. Stick to the early bird specials. 

Did that mean that my parents, both in their 70s—one in a wheelchair with a degenerative neurological disease—were simply living ghosts? The Walking Dead, or The Rolling Dead? It was hard not to be angry all the time at a society that kept telling you your loved ones don’t matter.

But instead of getting angry…or, rather, in addition to getting angry…I realized that the most radical act in an uncaring society is to care, to value all life. I didn’t make that realization on my own. As the infamous DARE commercial once said, “I learned it from watching you, Dad.” (Ironically, I did not learn about drugs from my dad. Thanks, UConn! Go Huskies!)

My dad taught me, through his actions, to dare to find value in all life; dare to love people (and animals) that are sick, or even close to death, those deemed worthless.

In 2021, a few months after defeating cancer, my parents’ beloved good boy Cody died after a long, happy life. Long in dog years. It's never long enough. My parents always had a dog, and my dad always had a very strong bond with his dogs. He was especially close with Cody for many reasons. One reason was that Cody was there for him as my mom’s health deteriorated and she had to go in a wheelchair and she spent more and more time in the hospital. So it was a huge loss when Cody died. But as usual, he didn’t linger on the death and sadness; he started looking for another companion. There are no replacements for a lost pet, but you can begin a new relationship that can help you cope with the loss and that can grow into something just as meaningful.

So there was no doubt my parents would get another dog, and that it would be a rescue. I figured a puppy would be too much of a handful, but I didn't expect a shaggy, half blind, 8 year old dog named Hobbs. 

The more I think about it, the more it made sense. It wasn’t just about getting a new companion. He wanted to give another dog, neglected for most of its life, discarded by his owners, a chance at a good life.

I know a lot of people never consider adopting an older pet. For most people, the point is to have a pet for as long as possible. And for a bigger dog like Hobbs, 8 is not too far from his life expectancy. And he was mostly blind. So why go through all the trouble? What’s the point if the dog is going to die soon?

This mentality is common, but that doesn’t make it any less problematic. For one thing, it means that a lot of deserving older animals never get adopted and never have a chance for a decent life.  But I've also been thinking about what it means on a philosophical level. This refusal to adopt older animals reflects a lot about our feelings towards older people, and how we feel about the relation between time and life. 

When people think of age and life, most people value quantity over quality. They want to live a long life. Living longer means you won! But at the same time, as a society, we don’t value those people who live longer. We put them away in nursing homes or other facilities, which wouldn’t actually be too bad, if we properly funded those facilities. But once we place them there, if the healthcare services aren’t adequate, hey, that’s not our problem. We are young and full of life! Not like those old people. We’ll never be like those old people! Then when an old person dies, our fascination and respect for higher numbers comes back, and we say “oh they lived such a long life! 95 years…can’t ask for much more than that!” As a society, we have issues with age, is what I’m saying.

But my dad, and my mom, always valued quality over quantity. They cherished life, and they gave value to each other’s life and everyone they met. Every animal they met, too. Hobbs could have spent his last days or months in a kennel, waiting to die or be put down by strangers. Instead, he had a great last 9 months with my parents and their cat, Max.

Max, another rescue, another pet with an eye problem. My dad got Max about two years after my parents’ sweet cat Kay  passed away. It was soon after my mom had The Incident that kept her in the hospital and nursing home for a while. When she was in there, taking all types of new drugs—and often missing her regular Parkinson’s drugs because the nurses were not trained for that because of the lack of proper funding for the facilities that I mentioned earlier—she kept hallucinating and seeing cats in the room. She told everyone she was trying to save these cats and she even tried to recruit people who visited her to help her save the cats.

So, when she finally came home, guess who was waiting to meet her? Literally the cat of her dreams. Well, one of the cats from her dreams.

Then, Max almost immediately clawed her arm to shreds. But it was out of love! And they became inseparable friends. And my dad loves cats, too, so it wasn’t an entirely selfless act, but it was just another example of the thoughtfulness behind his actions.

After Hobbs died, the search for another companion began, and shortly after, Archie arrived from Louisiana. Now, outside of New Orleans, Louisiana is as backwoods as you can get, and their views on animals are a little different than in New England. The story goes, his owner kept him outside and at some point even the minimal effort to keep a dog alive was too much, so she decided she would shoot him and open up her schedule for more Dr. Phil reruns and Miller Lite. Thankfully he was rescued and eventually paired with my father. Another disregarded life my dad would take care of.

Archie arrived thin and scared, with fur falling off and his tail between his legs. He would slink away from most people and barely eat.

That lasted a few weeks. With the love and care of my dad, he was soon flourishing, greedily eating the crumbs off my mom’s lap, prancing over to meet me at the door when I visited. No surprise at all, really. Another soul saved by Saint Ken. 

  

Technically, anyone can do what he does. It’s a choice, followed by determination and commitment. Many people choose not to. They choose not to rescue animals when they are looking for pets, opting for the popular, specialized, expensive breeds. They choose not to take the older dogs, the disabled dogs, the difficult dogs. They choose not to stand by their wife as her body fails and her mind slowly deteriorates. They choose not to help their spouse eat and dress and wash, day in and day out. They choose not to sit by their spouse's hospital bed until the very moment that cherished life leaves her body in gasps and then whispers. They choose not to confront the most difficult aspects of life head on with kindness and humility.

And it’s not that he never lost patience. He just never let a bad or weak moment extend into a habit. It’s not that he never made a mistake. He just never gave up. He was inspired by my mother’s resilience and determination, but she was just as inspired by his. Her life was literally extended by his resilience and determination and support. 

Not only was it extended, it was enhanced. Even when she was confined to the wheelchair, her life was enriched because my parents chose to give value to life. I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I know it is not to simply live a long time. We, as individuals, as family and community members, give it meaning. For my dad, giving to others, helping others, gives meaning to his life. Whether it’s in his role as a husband, brother, father or grandfather, he is a provider, someone who can always be relied on. He was a coach and a father figure to countless kids, including all my friends and my brother’s friends. 

I’ve learned so much from my father throughout my entire life. He’s taught me some things directly, but mostly he teaches by example. For the last few years, he’s taught me one of the most important lessons of all: how to age gracefully. Although I don’t look forward to the golden years of knee replacement surgeries and arthritis, I can only hope to always emulate his approach to life. I hope to be able to provide my wife with the love and support and quality of life that he provided my mom. I hope to be a person that my family and friends can always rely on. I hope to always find value in life, despite any disability or illness or the proximity of death.

I often doubt my ability to do what he did for my mom. I hope I never have to prove myself. Maybe I am capable. Maybe we all are, and when we are faced with those situations, it really does come down to choice. Or maybe most people are simply incapable and he really is a saint. Regardless, I hope to live my life the way he has. I hope to give value to the lives of those I love. He didn’t pass on his good hair genes to either of his sons, but maybe he passed on the dedication and commitment and thoughtfulness genes. 

And since I still need the lessons, hopefully he can continue to teach me by example for many more years. At least until he's 95. That's a good, long life. Can't ask for much more than that! 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Many Faces of Heroism

Superhero movies have become a dominant fixture of American culture in the past 20 years. As the world makes less and less sense, and as the dangers in the world take on more and more complex forms, we tend to look for simple solutions and heroes who can punch the evil away. Iron Man can defeat terrorists and aliens with his incredible technology! Captain America can defeat Nazis and aliens with his pure heart, incredible courage, and steroids! The Hulk can smash evil Norse gods and aliens with his bare hands! If only life were so simple. At least we don't have aliens. 

Instead, we have invisible viruses. We have degenerative diseases. We have systemic racism. And although our technology has reached an almost miraculous level, we haven’t found the solution to these problems, and no matter how much we hope for it, the Hulk isn’t coming to smash them away. 

In real life, heroism doesn’t look like The Avengers. Sure, sometimes a person does a heroic act like pulling a baby out of a burning building or taking down a mass shooter before he can kill more. But for the most part, in real life, heroic acts are smaller gestures that express the beauty and the intense goodness that exist within life all around us, coexisting with all the ugliness and negativity. Extending a helping hand, supporting a friend in need, speaking out for those with no voice, pushing on in the face of adversity. These heroic acts often aren’t considered heroic. Maybe they aren't equivalent to saving the entire planet from destruction, but they are real, human moments of heroism in the face of the most uncaring, inescapable, undefeated villain the real world has to offer: death.

Unfortunately, that villain got its sickly paws on Chadwick Boseman, who became a literal superhero, the Black Panther, and helped ignite a worldwide phenomenon. All while battling colon cancer. It is almost inconceivable to think of what he accomplished after getting the diagnosis, receiving chemo treatments, and ultimately knowing he would soon die. 

It’s honestly so inconceivable that it moves beyond inspirational. Nobody should feel like they need to accomplish so much while going through something like that. It's ok to rest! The fact that he did what he did is commendable and amazing, but too often we use the unique, incredible accomplishments of one person to shame others. If he was the Black Panther and made Avengers Infinity War and End Game and did all the red carpet appearances and interviews and met with sick kids and loved his family and gave black people around the world a moment of happiness and gave black children representation in an area where it was severely lacking, all while fighting cancer...HOW DARE YOU TAKE A DAY OFF FROM WORK BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT THE SNIFFLES! How dare you feel sorry for yourself even for one second just because you have a disease or disability! 

As a culture and society, we feel pressure to not only praise this great man for doing great things in the face of adversity, we have to use his death as a lesson. We often call people living with deadly diseases "heroes," and rightly so, but sometimes it seems like that we do it just to make ourselves feel better. To ease our own fears. We don’t want cancer, so someone who has it and perseveres is a hero. But we don’t truly consider what that means or what that person is actually going through. They're not even their own person anymore, they become a character in a story. They’re not a regular person with everyday issues and fears: they are CANCER WARRIORS! 

There is good intent behind this characterization. People fighting cancer are fighting a heroic battle, to save their very lives. They should be praised. But this characterization can dehumanize people, or glorify people at the expense of others. This person won his battle against cancer! Well, this other person lost his battle against cancer. Does that mean one was stronger than the other? Did one simply fight harder? Maybe both fought equally as hard, but one had better treatment. Maybe the one who died actually fought harder. Maybe it was all just pure, shitty luck. 

Chadwick Boseman didn't "lose" a battle against cancer. He died from a horrible disease. And before that, he lived as well as he could. But not everyone can do what Chadwick Boseman did--embody the literal role of a superhero and inspire millions of people across the globe while fighting cancer--and they shouldn't feel bad about it. Courage looks different on each person depending on their circumstances. Heroism looks different on different people. For some people, simply getting out of the house is heroic. 

Recently, my mom went into the hospital. She’s been in and out (mostly out, thankfully) for the past 2.5 years. Parkinson's and Parkinson's related dementia has taken its toll on her (and us) but once again, it has not broken her. After being in there for about a week, with no visitors allowed, she came home and was ready to live. It was her 75th birthday a few days after she got home, and she insisted on going out to eat. Every time she has gotten out of the hospital, she has wanted to go out soon after. She is more willing and less hesitant than me. I can't help thinking of everything that can go wrong, whether it’s a good idea, what about Covid or this or that…but she's adamant. She wants to go out. So we put our masks on and ate on an outside patio.

Through it all, she hasn’t given up on life. There are probably moments when she wants to. Just like in the superhero movies, there's always a moment when the hero is ready to call it quits. They are defeated. They are exhausted. Batman retires and hangs up the cape. The Black Panther gets tossed over a cliff and falls into a coma.

There are moments when we all want to give up. And some people do. That's not a sign of weakness. There's only so much pain and anguish one can bear. Honestly, sometimes giving up is a rational response. 

And that’s exactly why not giving up is so heroic. Life is fucking hard! Those who keep going in the face of adversity and death are so admirable because it's not a logical, rational response. You're going to die anyways, why fight it? 

Because what else is there? Life is fighting death. That’s the whole thing! 

In Boseman's situation, a rational response to finding out he had colon cancer would have been to stop working. Stop visiting sick kids. Stop doing talk shows and meeting fans. At the very least, tell people why you’re losing weight and looking frail so you don't get attacked on social media! Instead, he just took it all upon himself. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him, or just didn’t want the parasitic entertainment industry sucking his life dry for “heartwarming” interviews. Maybe he was just a private person, but I truly think he understood that he had become a symbol, and he wanted to represent a sense of power and nobility and grace, and joy, without the element of pity. 

People thought he looked tired doing the Wakanda Forever pose for everyone who requested it, but maybe that was the only thing keeping him going. 

He didn’t ask for pity or praise for dealing with his sickness. My mom never has, either. (My dad hasn't either, for that matter, and what he does on the daily basis is heroic, too.) All she wants is to feel normal. To live her life without the crushing weight of her disease, even for a few moments. 

So she asked us to take her out to dinner.

And yes, in the face of Parkinson’s and dementia and Covid, that is heroic as hell. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Fifty Years, One Reason

When my mom came home from the hospital earlier this year, she was frustrated with her slow recovery. One night when I visited, she was in the den, looking at the computer and crying. My mother has always exuded strength, so the few times I've seen her cry have been devastating.

I asked her what was wrong and she told me she couldn't remember how the computer or any of the other technology worked. She felt dumb. Thankfully I was sitting because a sense of sadness and fear nearly knocked me over. Deep in my soul, I felt her frustration at realizing that her cognitive skills were impaired. It is literally my biggest fear (recognizing your own loss of cognizance with no power to stop it) and my mom was experiencing it in front of me. It still haunts me. It was one of the most heartbreaking things anyone has ever said to me. I always knew losing a parent would be hard, and I dread the moment it happens, but I never realized how difficult it would be just to see them getting old. Even though she had expressed to me many times in the hospital how much she loved and appreciated my Dad for being there (along with other family members and friends) in that moment, she seemed so alone. It really hit me that although the whole family was going through a tough time, she was the only one physically going through it.

So I did my best to let her know that she's not alone and that she's not dumb, she's just still recovering. Overcoming my own desire to curl up in a fetal position and cry, I told her she had come so far in a short time, and that considering how much she had been through, it was amazing she was even here.

She thanked me and then said something else that truly melted me. She said that when she was in the hospital, thinking of me and my brother gave her the will to live and was the only thing that got her through it all.

I've always felt loved by my parents. They have gone out of their way to support me my entire life. But until that moment, I don't think I ever realized how much my brother and I really mean to them. When she talked in the hospital, it was usually a mix of hallucinations and memories. The constant was that she talked about me and my brother. There was confusion some times (she often talked about me on the swim team, but that was Mike) but it was clear we were on her mind. She didn't simply love us, she lived for us.

When she came home, she improved a bit, only to relapse and go back into the hospital and nursing home for a couple weeks. There were a few days where she was almost completely unresponsive. I was sure that it was the end. And yet, her condition improved again, and she came home again. Since she came home that second time, she has continually gotten better and stronger. She is incredible. Her strength is unbelievable.

And yet, I don't know if she would've made it without my Dad. Thinking of me and my brother may have helped her get through emotionally, but my Dad has been the physical embodiment of love and support. I don't want to romanticize a very difficult time, because there were moments when they were both extremely frustrated and tired and upset, but I've learned more about love and family in this past year than my entire life.

My parents have been through a lot since they got married in 1968, and this past year, their 50th together, may have been the toughest. Many people say "I'd do anything for you," but how many really mean it. Will they go to the hospital or nursing home for hours every day, week after week? Will they help their partner go to the bathroom and eat and get dressed every day?

Through my parents, I have witnessed and felt real, deep, enduring love. Sometimes it's intimidating because I don't know if I'm capable of it; at the same time, it is illuminating and inspiring. I'm lucky to have an amazing partner in my life and I can only aspire to give her as much love and support as my parents have given to me and to each other. 

Last year around this time my mom was getting surgery on her spine. She was still walking then. At the time, I couldn't help but focus on the unpleasant possibilities. I was scared and knew it would be a tough recovery. I had no idea how rough it would get. She hasn't walked since. 

6 months later, when I wrote A Coma for Christmas, I was even deeper into negative thoughts. However, seeing my mom fighting to recover forced me to overcome that negativity. I tried to end the poem on somewhat of a positive note; I thought if I put it out in the public, maybe it would sink in privately. I honestly didn't share the subdued optimism that I expressed in the poem. In fact, I was hesitant to publish it because I thought it was too hopeful and I was sure something horrible was going to happen once I pressed the "Publish" button. And then a few weeks later she was back in the hospital and I took it as proof that I should never have any optimism whatsoever.

But she's still here. She's still her. And for half a century, my Dad has been the rock beside her.  

One of my tattoos states "The struggle is the blessing." It's not always easy to remember that, but it's a vital truth. Life is struggle. It's amazing anybody gets through the day. But this life is all we have, and we need to find a reason to keep fighting, to keep struggling. 

My parents have shown me that love is the most powerful reason.

Happy 50th Anniversary Mom and Dad. Your love is one for the ages. Thank you. I love you.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

A Coma for Christmas

A coma for Christmas
No hope for the New Year
A mom in the hospital
A son's greatest fear

Time comes for us all
That's no surprise
But that knowledge means nothing
When she can't open her eyes

Machines give her breath
When her body can not
Doctors, nurses, robots
The only chance that she's got

They say she can hear me
I don't know if it's true
Besides, don't they know
I just want to hear you?

Just talking or singing
Or laughing with cheer
I'll take you yelling at me
Just as long as you're here

Two long days later
No tube for your breath
Your eyes start to open
You will not take her, Death.

A few days later
You're awake, you're talking!
You've seen the other side
And told Death to keep walking

Yet death is just one
Of many possibilities
What is life without cognizance
Without control
With senility?

It could be the meds
Or it could be confusion
A temporary adjustment
Or permanent delusion

Sometimes you're right here
Sometimes you're in the past
Sometimes you're in your own land
How long will this last?

I want to be happy
That you are alive
I want to smile and be strong
To see you survive

But the problem is,
The fact of the matter,
Is that my heart is ripped out
Stomped on
Shattered

I'm barely holding it together
Because this is my worst fear
To see you living
But not really here

But each day there's progress
Not much, but its true
Because nobody on this planet
Is tougher than you

Except maybe Dad
I've never seen such love
He's got me believing
In angels from above

A tender kiss on the hand
A whisper in her ear
A gentle rub on the shoulder
To let her know that he's near

He's been through so much
But damned if he'll show it
Yet it takes a huge toll
And we all surely know it

Because we all feel it, too.

It's the saddest thing
That I've ever been through
A step forward one day,
The next?
Step back two

The one saving grace,
For which I'm so thankful
The strength of my family
And the friends in my circle

I can't imagine my life
Without those around me
The sadness and pain
Would honestly drown me

Her friends are there, too
It's amazing to see
The love that's been shown
Is overwhelming to me

One moment I'm inspired
The next crippled by fear
The one thing I know
I'm glad she's still here

Some days she's her self
Funny, caring and smart
Some days she's...not
And it just breaks my heart

But she's coming home soon
We're thankful for that
She'll be in her element
With Dad, the dog, the new cat

For 20 plus years
She's battled a disease
That eats at her brain
And there's only one release

But she's not going down
Without fighting like crazy
I hope I have the courage
When the time comes for me

I love you Mom
I love you Dad
I love you friends
I love you family
These are not just words
It's the truth that defines me.


I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Parents

The year was 1968...

North Vietnam launches the Tet offensive, the beginning of the end for the US in Vietnam. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy are assassinated. Apollo 8 becomes the first manned spacecraft to orbit the moon.

And possibly the most important event of all: the union of Ken Elterich and Marie Farr. 

Although this event went largely unnoticed by the general public, it set off a chain of events that would change world history, most notably, 12 years later when their youngest son was born.

Hello.

I grew up extremely privileged. I don’t necessarily mean economically, although my family was firmly in the middle class and I never really wanted for anything. The biggest privilege in my life, beyond a financial safety net that I can still rely on if necessary, is that I never had to look far for role models. I didn’t have to figure out how to treat others or respect myself, I didn’t have to be told by frustrated employers how to work hard, and I didn’t have to learn how to take pleasure in the joys of life; I was shown all of that from day one. Even before I knew what a role model was, I was provided with two incredible models of virtue.

Growing up I always considered my mom and dad as one unit: “The Parents.” That was the entirety of their identity to me. That is probably typical for kids, but it also reflected their relationship. They had their own interests and participated in separate activities (golf for my dad, ceramics for my mom, etc.) yet they acted as one when it came to everything else. They were a unified force, which didn’t exactly help me whenever I messed up. I knew I was dealing with the tag team. There was no playing one against the other. My only hope was to try to put some of the blame on my brother.

As I got older, I appreciated them more as individuals. My mom the teacher, my dad the…well, whatever he did for work (Joking. Kinda.) Beyond being a good employee/boss, he was also a coach and a good friend. Both of my parents were good friends, not just to each other, but to many people. That is one of the things I’m most grateful for: learning how to treat people.

When I was a senior in high school, I agreed to go to my friend’s prom with his girlfriend’s best friend. A week later, I started dating someone. I wanted out of my friend’s prom. My mom, without forcing a decision on me, told me that it would not be right to back out of a promise I made just because “something better came along.” She didn’t lecture me, she just said how it would make the other girl feel (I knew she was onto something when my girlfriend actually understood as I explained why I was going to prom with someone else). My mom was good at instilling guilt. In fact, both of my parents were. When I got in trouble, they always said they weren't mad, just disappointed. Ugh. How could I express righteous indignation at their treatment of me if they didn’t get mad? If they yelled and screamed, I could’ve just raged against them and felt better about myself because obviously I didn’t deserve their anger. But disappointment? There’s no response to that, except to do better.

Obviously, as a teen, there were times when I wasn’t too fond of my parent’s decisions, like moving to West Hartford, but ultimately I recognized that every decision was made in the best interest of me, my brother, and/or the whole family. I clearly got a better education in West Hartford than I would have in Hartford.

Besides the typical teen angst, though, I always saw my parents as infallible. I may have acted as if I didn't want to hear what they had to say, but that's because I knew they were right about whatever they were telling me and I would have to change my behavior.

They always did the right thing. They always seemed to be on the right side of any social issues. They traveled and worked and spent quality time with family and friends. They lived life, and continue to live it, how it is supposed to be lived.

When my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I couldn’t accept that my mom was going to be affected by this horrible disease. Not her. Not the woman who spent her life teaching special education in the inner city in the 90s. She didn't deserve this, and she was too strong for this. My grandmother had a friend who had Parkinson’s and I just couldn’t imagine her as frail as he was. I was scared, and I think I’ve been scared ever since.

But not her. At least, not on the surface. It's like nothing changed. She’s been on more vacations this year than I’ve been on this decade. She is too strong for this.

And my dad has been right there with her. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t think I could do it. I can barely handle it as is. I am overwhelmed by their strength.

49 years later, they are stronger than ever, as a couple and as individuals.

It's inspiring. And a little upsetting, too, because seriously? How can I live up to that? Come on.

My mom just got surgery on her spine. For the first time possibly ever, she admitted to being in a lot of pain. And for the first time definitely ever, she seemed scared. Maybe I’m projecting. Probably.

Despite any reservations, she went ahead with the surgery. A friend told her she was courageous, and she just replied, “It’s not courage, I just want the pain to go away.” She’d never acknowledge that she is extraordinary, because to her, her actions are ordinary. There’s a problem, it needs to be solved. That’s how she, and my father, have always been. There’s nothing else to do but deal with it.

What's the other option? Be crippled by pain? Curl up and die? No. Handle it. Get the surgery to fix the back. Take the experimental Parkinson's medicine that may not even help you but might make a breakthrough that could help thousands of others. Fear is just another emotion like happiness. It’s okay to be afraid, just don't let it stop you from moving forward.

I write this knowing full well that I’m afraid and not dealing with it very well. But sometimes faking it till you make it is the best thing you can do. Worrying doesn't accomplish anything. Things will happen or they won't. Move forward.

49 years together. More than a decade longer than I've been alive. The Parents. Mr. and Mrs. Incredible, except their only superpower is love. 

UPDATE 6/27/17, 5:55pm: My mom is in Recovery and doing well.

I Love You All, Especially "The Parents"...Class Dismissed.

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

My mom is going to have surgery and radiation to remove cancer from her breast tomorrow. The procedure will be done at St. Francis Hospital in Hartford, the hospital in which I was born. I don't want to think of the cruel irony that could possibly play out.

Yet here I am, thinking about it.

Her older sister has battled breast cancer twice, the first time when she was in her 50s. My mom considers herself lucky because she didn't get it until her 70s. Yeah, besides that whole Parkinson's thing for the last 20 years, pretty lucky!

My mom doesn't want and never asks for pity or sorrow, and I certainly won't. That's not what this is about. When I write about my mom, it's never about that. It's more about taking every opportunity to discuss and talk about the love and admiration I have for her. I didn't vocally express my love for my parents for a long time, and I want to make sure to do that as much as possible now.

And sometimes I simply need to vent about the constant shit that the universe rains down on good people, over and over. My mom's Parkinson's diagnosis 20 years ago contributed to my loss of faith and belief in God; the last 20 years has provided a daily reminder that there is no all-knowing, all-seeing, compassionate, omnipresent being. Her latest diagnosis assures me that even if there were a god, he/she/it is a fucking twisted asshole.

One of the things that gets me, besides the general cruelty of putting such a caring, giving, kind woman through all of this, is that she still goes to church. For me, her Parkinson's and cancer are clear evidence that god doesn't exist, or at the very least, that god doesn''t care about anyone. I realize I'm just projecting my thoughts and beliefs on her; maybe my closeness to the situation is not letting me see any other perspective. I also realize that for some people, these obstacles or challenges or shitty situations make their faith even stronger. I don't personally get that, but I know it happens, and I respect it. One could argue that she has lived a relatively healthy life since her Parkinson's diagnosis and that's something to be thankful for; I might even agree with that. At the same time, Parkinson's is is an awful, painful, incurable disease that gets worse over time, so what's there to be thankful for?

Breast cancer on top of that just ain't right. There's no "greater plan" that can include that. Don't give me that "it's a test" shit, either; she's passed any possible test with flying colors in her 71 years.

I try not to get sad when thinking of my mom, but it can be difficult. I hate seeing her bent frame. She always had good posture and made sure my brother and I sat up straight at the dinner table. I hate seeing her hands tremble. She used to paint beautiful ceramic figurines. One year she gave me a ceramic Gizmo (from Gremlins) that played music when you turned the knob on the bottom

I'm fighting tears as I write this. Some of my sadness is probably out of self-pity. I think about how I've lived with her having Parkinson's longer than I lived with her not having it, and I think about how I will have more memories of her with the disease than without.

That's probably fucked up, right? I think all of these thoughts are pretty fucked up. But they are frequent. Too often, I think about the future and what the hell I'm gonna do without her in my life. That doesn't go too well.

I realize I'm being overly sensitive about it. I should just appreciate the time I have with her. A lot of my friends' parents have gone through similar things. Some of my friends have even lost a parent, or both parents. I know I shouldn't complain or be sad when she is still here, and still herself. But I will complain goddammit because my mom doesn't deserve this shit.

The only possible benefit of seeing my mom go through all of this is that her strength and resilience are on ready display. My mom isn't defined by Parkinson's but her perseverance and determination in the face of it does define her. She is facing the cancer the same way. I'm making a much bigger deal about it here than she ever has or will.

Another thing that has been made evident since the day of my mom's Parkinson's diagnosis is my father's strong yet gentle and loving disposition. Dealing with Parkinson's symptoms and the steady stream of doctor's appointments and trial procedures can be almost as difficult on the sufferer's partner. I think about how I can barely handle my mom's sickness, then think about how my father has been by her side ever since, no questions asked, and I wonder if I will ever be half as strong. Now, dealing with this new diagnosis, I am even more amazed by his resiliency.

I am amazed by both of my parents. I know that any good in me comes from them. I feel their love and guidance every day. I see their love and their lessons brought to life in my brother's daughters. I try to emulate my parents' love for each other and their love for life. It takes a real love of life to continue vacationing and cooking and walking the dog and loving one another, unabated by a neurological disease. And I'm sure this latest diagnosis and procedure will be no different.

Ok. I'm not sure. That's the problem. How can you ever be sure? Sometimes I wish I had faith in something. That might be comforting. Actually, that was part of the problem. I thought a god figure was comforting until it was really needed. Then it provided no comfort.

Anyways, if people are so inclined to pray for my mom, that's cool. Anything to even slightly increase the chances of things turning out fine. Personally, I am trying to think positive thoughts and spread good vibes and just generally not freak out. I figure if I spit out any negative thoughts, that would leave only positive thoughts, so I apologize if anything here comes off harsh, but if I know anything, it's that life can be harsh and bleak and down right brutal.

Thankfully, my parents have showed me that we can make a choice to focus on the beauty of life. It's not an easy choice, because it's easy to be overwhelmed by life's brutal realities. My first tattoo reads "The struggle is the blessing..."  It is a sort of combination of the buddhist belief that life is suffering and the idea that the journey is more important than the destination. I believe that the struggle is the blessing, yet I need to constantly remind myself because that is counter-intuitive. How can struggle be a blessing? I view struggle as a sign that you are living, you are fighting for something. When you don't struggle, you have given up. My parents, and Jimmy Valvano of course, taught me to never give up.

The idea that "the struggle is a blessing" is also a reminder to appreciate the present, as well as the past. Oftentimes, we don't appreciate the effort we put in to achieving a goal because we are so focused on the goal itself. Then, when we reach that goal, we realize that the real glory, the blessing, was in the effort we put in. Sometimes, I think about the future and life without my mom, when I should really be appreciating the time I've had with her and the time I still have with her.

Overall, viewing the struggle as a blessing, and using mindfulness to focus on the present are my ways of keeping perspective during tough times. There's got to be a reason for all this, right? That's what I'm really searching for, and that's why I seek solace in certain philosophies. They try to give meaning to things that seem to have none. The same goes for religious people, albeit in a slightly different manner, so although I might seem like I'm bashing theists, I swear to...my mom that I'm not. We're all searching for meaning and comfort and happiness. There's nothing wrong with finding alternative ways of doing so.

Right now, the number one way for me to find meaning and comfort and happiness is knowing that my mom is all right. So make sure she's all right, universe (i.e., doctors and nurses taking care of her).

UPDATED 10/29/2016: Mom is doing well after surgery. She will do the radiation treatments in a few weeks when she has healed. So it goes.

I Love You All (Especially You, Mom and Dad)...Class Dismissed.