It matters

A few weeks ago, the NYT published an article written by a renowned oncologist titled “Condolences, Felt But Not Expressed”. In it, the author ponders why it’s so difficult for doctors to offer words of encouragement or sympathy to families after a loved one’s death, when it seems so easy for other professions. For instance, after the loss of his beloved dog, his vet sent his family a nice, detailed note expressing her condolences. He, on the other hand, has rarely written the same to families after losing a patient. He argues that doctors have a “strange way of grieving their patients.” He says “probably no one cares about our feelings when a patient dies, and that’s as it should be. Our personal loss, after all, is trivial – most patients we know only as patients. But we do have feelings, a confusing mishmash that includes disappointment and embarrassment, but is mostly a sinking emptiness.”

The author goes on to say:

“It’s like this: caring for very sick patients is exciting, probably because doctors, like everyone else, become swept away by human drama and possibilities. Managing a patient places us in the middle of hard decisions, bitter truths and sudden hallway conversations. We become futuristic acrobats of the high tech and the extreme, rather than yesterday’s stodgy pillars of the community, dispensing advice and lozenges, a silver-haired presence to steady any uncertainty. But then the patient dies and bam! it’s over, just when we had so much to say, so many plans. We are left alone with our hectic thoughts ricocheting and nowhere to point them. Then, within hours after the death, a new patient is installed in the same room. You look in and see a stranger with darker hair and different clothes, reading a newspaper from somewhere else. And with the new patient comes a new set of visitors, in ones or twos or crowded at the door. We just aren’t ready for the relationship to end.”

As I read his words, I couldn’t help but think, well, boo hoo for him; the loss of a test case must be overwhelming. Who cares about the family’s grief; it’s the end to human drama and futuristic possibilities that really matter.

Thankfully, Dr. Flaig is not of the same ilk. Dr. F. is a different kind of doctor. He thinks with his heart, and places the patient and their needs before his own. Craig said once that he appreciated Dr. F's “stable balance in all this chaos.” That makes two of us.

A few days ago, Dr. F. called to check in on Craig. From my perch on Craig’s bed, I could hear his discussion with his trusted doctor. C said that he missed him, his stable presence, and the sense of security in seeing him each week. I reiterated Craig’s feelings when I spoke with Dr. F. I told him how much it meant to C that he called, and that he’s still involved in his care. Dr. F said he thinks of C often, and that doctors never know whether it would be too intrusive to check in. But unlike the author, Dr. F. pushed his fears aside and called anyway. Just today, I spoke with Jennifer, Dr. Flaig’s nurse, about Craig’s long-term disability paperwork. She was as anxious to help today as she was when we were visiting their office every week. In speaking with Dr. F. and Jennifer, it was clear where theire allegiance lies.

Though Craig’s no longer under his direct care, Dr. F. still signs off on all his meds, and is very much involved in Craig’s care. He doesn’t have to be. He doesn’t have to spend his Sunday evenings calling about Craig’s health. His nurse, Jennifer, doesn’t have to help us with Craig’s long-term disability. They stay in contact because they genuinely care. They care about Craig; they care about his life and how he’s fairing. Rather than lick their wounds over Craig’s situation, they’ve actively decided to stay involved.

The bond between patient and doctor goes both ways. Dr. F. has guided Craig’s care since February; he’s helped Craig to understand his diagnosis, prognosis, and symptoms, and has walked C through some difficult decisions. Craig has spent more time with Dr. F. than anyone else outside his immediate family (and Emily). He’s expressed his concerns, exposed his fears and vulnerabilities, and has ultimately opened his heart to Dr. F. He’s given him the ultimate compliment by relinquishing some aspect of control and placing his trust with him. On the other hand, Dr. F. has grown to know Craig and cares for him as a person first, and a patient second. He’s invested in his health and wellbeing. That doesn’t end by virtue of a “shift change” to hospice.

Though the author warns against possible negative feelings for staying in touch, maintaining a connection with a family -- during the end stages of a person’s life and after – does matter. Severing ties strips a patient of an important lifeline, a bond of trust, a lasting constant. It also strips a doctor of a very human bond, as well as a family of a support network. You see, it’s not about how the doctor feels; it’s about the deep sense of grief a family feels after first fighting cancer, and than after a loss. Cancer is debilitating, or as Stephanie C. says, "a rat bastard." It changes lives and leaves patients and families completely disoriented. My sisters and I have put jobs and future dreams on hold to take care of Craig and our mom. But they've given up more. They’ve placed themselves fully into the hands of gifted doctors and nurses. They've relinquished control over that which is most sacred – their bodies – to the whims and machinations of corporate health care. They've struggled with drug formularies and pre-existing conditions and nameless people telling them no. They’ve withstood countless poking and prodding and have let go of everything that we, as independent people, hold dear: the ability to live our lives unencumbered. Cancer is also isolating. It robs people of all things normal, including friends and routine. Strangers in the form of doctors and nurses become new constants. Personalities change, as do old habits. Life becomes a division between the before and after. To sever that bond simply because a patient terminates care with a doctor is like stripping a person of that remaining constant, the last and most sacred of bonds. To leave during the end stages can make a person feel even more alone. For a family, it’s like pulling the rug out all over again.

Not recognizing the loss of a patient is tantamount to saying all the effort, all the time together didn’t really matter. Cancer patients aren’t visitors; they’re human beings searching for hope. To treat them as the former does a disservice to the memory of that person, and to the family.

Thankfully, this hasn’t been our experience with Craig’s doctors, nor with mom’s. We’ve had doctors who’ve put their own feelings aside for that of their patients. We consider Dr. F. and Jennifer family. Cancer is too cruel a disease to be overwhelmed by pretense and false claims of self-importance. I have the sense they feel the same.

So, to the author of the article, I say, get over yourself. There’s much more to being a doctor than fast cures and symptom management. –J

Yeah, new photos

Check out new photos from our time in the mountains, etc. in the photos>Craig section.  Thanks to our helpful photo putter-upper man (a.k.a. Steve).

More to come ...

-- J

For the Birds

Wow. Well, it's official. When things couldn't get any more wild or exciting, Sammie (the cat) pulled a number to thicken the plot. Somehow, some way, Mr. Samcat -- an indoor cat, mind you -- wound up breaking his left hind leg (poor little guy). Who knows how it happened, really. A WWF reenactment gone awry? Sammie's latest Cirque du Soleil trick not quite up to snuff? Or, maybe a broken leg is the meow nouveau -- a new interpretation of the old attention-getting meow. A true meow is so "ten minutes ago", and not gritty enough. Better to go for the gold with a flashy cast and melodrama. All are plausible reasons. Not to forget, Sammie is also the stray little kitten who had a broken front leg when we first took him in 9 years ago; and, the one who now receives IV infusions of B-complex infused lactated ringers and other drugs to combat his own kidney problems -- Feline Renal Failure.

Way to go champ, such a team player. Way to spice up my already jam packed social schedule, what with 95% dedicated to Craig and the other 5% to cats. Loving the odds. I suppose I'll remove my name from Denver's most eligible list, after all.

This only gives more proof that I will definitely need to make sure any marriage licenses are signed and dried before revealing the obvious family voodoo curse.

This is for all the times I jumped on Mayflies, isn't it? Damn.

I say this with a smile. I'd do anything for the lil guy, and feel more than a little guilty it happened.

~E

Talking Highs/Lows with Craig

Craig asked earlier if Erin and I were blogging a lot. I answered yes, and asked if that was okay. After responding enthusiastically in the affirmative, Erin asked if there was anything he wanted us to convey. So, in parting from the exacting nature of symptom reportage, I write tonight about Craig’s highs and lows, as provided by Craig himself.

But first, a note from Craig on how he’s fairing. When asked if there was anything he wanted to share, Craig said this: “Please let people know how hard it’s become for me, and how hard it will become. It’s now difficult for me to move from one room to another. I have to prop my ass up on pillows, and spend my day moving from grabbing water to grabbing oxygen to grabbing conversation to grabbing hands, only to repeat the cycle again. It seems so painfully the same. My eyesight is no good (said with a giggle). Actually, my eyesight sucks.”

Noticing that Craig was harping on the negatives, Erin asked Craig for his highs and lows, which is something Erin and I would do when we’d go camping to reflect on the day's events.

The Highs:

a) Watching the Veterans against War protest from his 31st floor window.

As if planned by the gods themselves, and after lamenting how he’s missed out on all the DNC drama, the DNC actually came to Craig. Perhaps the largest protest we’ve seen thus far passed just outside Craig’s building earlier this evening, with well over 500 protesters in the group, including several servicemen, as well as a blue elephant balloon which was sporting the slogan “porn is bi-partisan” (??? a little obscure, me thinks). Craig WALKED the ten feet to his window to join Erin, Dad, and me in watching the protesters snake down Arapahoe Street. He hasn’t walked that far in days. Erin noted how beautiful it was watching his hand slowly creep into her periphery, and then find a place on the windowsill so that he could peer through the window at the protestors below. That he was able to muster the energy to see the hub-bub was impressive. But, seeing it was a goal, and he’s not one to back down.

Apparently, the protesters later divided (whatever happened to the people being united???) into two groups: 1) the arrestables; and 2) the ‘don’t put me in the slammer’ types. Reminds me of a time back in Seattle when Erin and I protested the WTO. Anticipating situations like this, protesters are typically instructed to trade IDs in order to complicate arrests. Anyhow, Erin and I somehow got mixed in with the arrestables when we were protesting, despite our efforts to avoid them. We were unfortunately tear gassed a good number of times as we attempted to ‘stand our ground’ against Seattle police. Fast forward to now, and again, an arrestable situation, but thankfully, we were safely above the fray, as we looked on from our perch on the 31st floor.

As a side note, Erin and I got tangled in the protest en route to pick up take out from Dixons. One section of the protest – bikes not oil – convened right in front of the restaurant. One of the bikers actually fell on Erin’s car as she waited for her chance to move past the protesters. On any other day, we may be out there with them, but not now. With things as they are, I simply can’t be bothered.

b) Listening to harp music.

Earlier this afternoon, a harpist from Denver Hospice stopped by for some music therapy. For about an hour, she played various lullabies to help Craig relax. Craig said he found her music soothing and her melodies moving. He said the harpist had an interesting message though he didn’t quite understand her "airy fairy" language. (Erin said she sounded like she was speaking Elvin from the Lord of the Rings.) Although he couldn’t understand her on that level, he still appreciated where she was coming from.

I’ll never forget looking over at Dad to find his face drenched with tears. Diane was also crying, and so too, was I. Listening to her music reminded me of our last days with mom when we played Hillary Stagg to help calm the mood. Today’s music created a relaxing environment in much the same way. The music sounded so familiar that it could have easily been mom on the bed today. But it wasn’t. To look over and see Craig peacefully sleeping to her playing just two months after mom’s death was surreal.

c) Ticking off another goal: getting out of his bedroom.

Like yesterday, we wheeled Craig into the living room for a change of scenery. After spending an hour watching his favorite Daily Show and Colbert report, we wheeled him back to bed. He asked that we make a date to watch the Daily Show tomorrow. Consider it done.

d) Receiving Emily’s long anticipated gift.

(Yeah!)

The Lows:

a) Watching the movie the Descent (we disagree, but whatever…can’t win ‘em all).

Craig asked us to turn it off because “his eyes suck” and he was having a hard time following the plot. Granted, there’s not much of one, but still, how can you turn off what’s probably the most kickass feminist horror film to date?

b) Having to put water in his bamboo vase.

Erin made the mistake of mentioning that the water for his beloved bamboo tree was a bit low (a BIT low, mind you). Though Craig had been sleeping peacefully before, he promptly opened his eyes and spastically said, “If you need to put water in the bamboo, please do so now”. Ay, ay, ayyy. Emily added that Steve would be very happy to know how concerned Craig was about his precious bamboo.

c) Lowest point of the day: thrush.

Despite popping two anti-thrush pills a day, the yeasty stuff still persists, and vomiting only makes it worse. Sadly, the only remedy is the same anti-thrush med he’s been on for the past month. The thrush seems to be hunkered down, and taking its merry time leaving. I hope, for Craig’s sake, the thrush will soon be on its way out.

After going through his highs and lows, Erin pointed out that the highs overwhelmed the lows. Craig mentioned that it was helpful revisiting the day’s events in such a way, and that it helped to remind him that good things do occur during the day. Perhaps we’ll continue asking Craig to describe his highs and lows to help him see that the days are not all so monotonous. -- J

As for the clouds, just let them roll away

August 25^th. To many, it was just August 25^th - just another day in the month of August, one more Monday to get through. To many more, it was also "Day 1" (as CNN astutely tracks) of the Democrat's largest pep rally, the DNC. But, to the Lawler family, August 25^th took on a different meaning; it marked the two month anniversary of our Mom's passing.

That night, Ted Kennedy ignited the DNC crowd when he courageously walked to the stage, stood at the podium, and delivered a moving speech with the same timbre and strength he always had. Not knowing what we know, not having experienced what we've experienced, that may have been all that resonated. But, it wasn't -- not on August 25^th, not on the day of the two month anniversary of Mom's passing away from that which ails Senator Kennedy. We are painfully aware just how much strength and energy it took for him to speak. The fight may assume different faces and forms, but the underlying tenacity and courage to face something that is almost "unbeatable" are nearly the same. Mom shared that strength -- a common defiance and determination to "beat this thing", as she would say. And, like Mom, there's that deeply personal back-story of a person fiercely fighting for life with the visible reminders of what's endured -- the thinning hair where he likely receives a similar high intensity radiation treatment as Mom, the shuffled gait.

I couldn't help but also see the differences. The disease manifests in a spectrum of grades and levels, and affects folks differently. Compare and despair. But, speaking honestly, seeing Ted Kennedy brought tears to my eyes not for the expected reaction of pride and hope (though those feelings were present), but for the painful reminder that mom received an abnormally horrific variation of an already ugly and cruel disease. Mom's cancer hit hard and kept hitting right out of the gate, taking a lot from her with the very first punch. This isn't to wish Mom's condition onto Kennedy or to belittle his fight; it's to say, man I sure wish she could have caught even half a break, and not be the damn outlier/"case study" in the group. (The same is true for Craig; I'd rather his disease fall within normal distribution).

The two months since her passing seem as short as they are long. It seems like yesterday when we were sleeping over at the hospital with her; then again, it feels like a lifetime ago. As much as I've written about it and we've talked about it, it has not yet become part of the fabric, but exists as some abstract patiently awaiting "cry until your stomach hurts" recognition and acceptance. Part of my consciousness recognizes that to fully grieve mom now, in the midst of Craig's own battle, would be too overwhelming and painful, as if to dive head first into a pool of thorny stems without the rose to cushion the stick.

I feel that it's impossible to look at what we've experienced directly; events, emotions, comprehension misalign just enough to remain out of reach from one another. One day, I may feel the emotions but lack the understanding. Another day, I may intellectualize the hell out of it and put it into a nice package void of any feeling. Other days, I find it difficult to remember the details I desperately hold near; the lack of recall is more terrifying than absence of emotion or understanding. Still, I know these defense mechanisms serve to buffer the enormity and gravity of our experiences, allowing only the briefest oblique glances at what was and what awaits us after the dust settles.

I think back to the days in the hospital, sitting by her side holding her hand and noticing the moment she no longer was squeezing back. It's a moment I know really happened, but it doesn't feel real. Part of me says, "Annnnd, scene. Great acting everyone. Really convincing. Let's take 5". I want to yell, "Hey, Mom. Football's on!", and hear her say, "I'm coming", with a bowl of carrot sticks in hand. I'd listen to her armchair quarterbacking that was generally off the mark but said with a whole lotta gusto. Knowing her, she'd inevitably drop food on "the ladies" and say, "Oh, good shot Mary!!...I did it again, didn't I?" We'd laugh and then carry on as if routine.

These images/memories and many others softly and suddenly appear more frequently, I've found, but not with any level of predictability or duration.

In those brief moments, I can see her at the dinner table staring intently at the TV with a subtle grin while her fingers mindlessly caress the table's edge. I can hear her say "Parung!" as she either nailed a joke or made a gaffe. I can hear the shuffle of her slippers on the hall carpet and the flip of the hall light on her way to her bedroom at night. I can see her open our bedroom door to gently say "shower-time girls" as she would in the morning when Jill and I were young. I can smell her perfume and see the heart-shape drop she'd wear when I'd lay on her lap as a child; she'd buzz my back until I'd fall asleep. I can feel her body sway as we slowly danced in the handicap bathroom stall at a local Denver restaurant back in May. I can hear her whisper, "I love you too, sweetheart."

They never linger too long, just long enough to give pause and briefly remember what she felt like, what she sounded like, what she looked like, who she was and still is to me. As quickly as they surface, they fade from view -- still too painful to let in fully.

I'm sure it will take a lifetime to get used to the knowledge that there will be no new memories to create with her, no pictures to take with her, no more phone calls to hear her voice no matter how weak or how distant it had become. But, I'm grateful to have 28 years worth of memories to help me get there. ~E

Trudging through Molasses

I’m sitting in Craig’s room as Erin and Diane prepare dinner. As I sit quietly by his side, a single tear streams down his face, leaving a thin wet mark behind. It’s hard to know the origins of that tear. Is he dreaming? In pain? Are his eyes dry? Maybe it’s not for me to know. As I rest my hand on his leg, his eyes flutter open and then close. He’s resting more soundly now. Since increasing his morphine by 30%, it’s harder to wake him from his sleep. And I don’t feel we should: if his dreams are taking him to a better place -- as much as I’d want him with us -- I’d just as soon let him be.

As he sleeps, his head rests near his left shoulder, his body rises with each forceful breath. His breathing takes me back to mom’s hospital room. Her head would slouch to the right and would elevate with each breath, making breathing a full body experience. Over time, the rhythm became more sporadic and shallow, indicating organ failure and the beginning of the dying process. Though Craig’s breathing has also become sporadic, it's not at the same level. Interestingly, there's a certain rhythm to his patchy breathing. He usually takes a couple deep breaths before exhaling for a few long counts; the time between breaths can span ten seconds, sometimes more. I've tried to mimic his breathing but find myself gasping for air. Craig's now on six liters of oxygen, so perhaps that's assisting his breath. Whatever the case, he seems to be managing. Still, we've fallen in the habit of peering at his chest during the night, just to make sure he’s breathing. When his respirations fall below six and the time between breaths increases, we’ll start thinking about an imminent transition. That time isn't now.

Craig seems less agitated since the weekend, but is still having trouble sleeping through the night. He calls for us at least three times each evening. Diane usually takes the first shift (around 2AM) with Erin as backup, while Erin and I take the late morning (usually 4:30ish and 6AM). We’re fighting to stay awake during the day, but wouldn’t change a thing; fatigue is the least of our worries. After all, we’ll have plenty of opportunities for sleep in the future. Craig’s nights, however, are limited. We’ve been going for the past twelve months, by now, we know how to keep the engines from burning.

Thankfully, we now have help in the form of hospice. The hospice nurse visited again yesterday, along with Cydney, the dietitian. The purpose of the visit was to look over Craig’s new morphine schedule, and assess his condition since increasing the dose. They also (re)discussed TPN, and the various pros and cons. The nurse mentioned to C that, with his heart rate hovering around 140, there’s a risk that TPN could actually hasten his death, as the heart would have to pump faster in order to rid the body of excess fluid. Knowing the risks, C decided to try TPN last night, with the idea that we’d closely monitor his heart rate and vital signs. We also ordered fruit drinks infused with whey protein and vitamins to supplement his TPN. Taking in fluids naturally won't put as much strain on his heart as artificial TPN. The catch is Craig typically vomits after ingesting anything short of water. Still, it was worth a shot.

After a somewhat restless night (the guy had to go to the bathroom every other hour), we awoke to an irritated, yet semi-alert, Craig. He lasted the night with TPN sans incident. (He even tried a fruit drink and was able to keep it down eight hours before vomiting about a half hour ago. We’ll take it. I feel he drank too much; if he were to reduce the volume, the fruit drinks may be a viable alternative to TPN. If we could wean him off TPN, we could eliminate the associated risks. If …) We met with the social worker, Desiree, earlier in the afternoon. She visits Craig (and us) once a week to discuss his concerns and help him work through his process. She typically meets with C first, and then we join for a family meeting. This allows Craig to voice his concerns privately, as well as with us.

During our discussion, he mentioned how much it saddened him to be missing out on the DNC. He said he hears us talking about it, and feels that, if he were stronger, he’d be at the Convention Center, in the mix of it. And Craig’s right. He was actively involved in the Denver caucuses, given the chance, he’d happily serve as a delegate. Hearing his concerns, we suggested that we take a field trip in the car to show him the zoo that has become the DNC. (The merchandising and pimping of politics is a tad ridiculous, in my opinion, and a little off message.) We also suggested that we film bits and pieces with our personal commentary, and in a way, bring the convention to him. (He preferred the latter, so Erin and I will take on our citizen filming tomorrow en route to do Sammie’s meds.)

Craig also mentioned that he feels less mentally ‘bright’ than before, that it’s harder for him to express himself through words. I told him that he’s still very much Craig, and that the knowledge and wit is still there. The cancer and drugs are weighing him down so that it feels like he's trudging through molasses. He agreed, and said "it feels exactly like my brain is trudging through molasses." Given all that he’s had to endure, I’m impressed that he can still muster the energy to explain to us, in very clear terms, that he’s having a difficult time expressing himself. Sure, it takes him a little longer, and he often falls asleep in the process, but his thoughts are there – he’s still Craig.

After our conversation, he stated that a goal of his was to venture out of his room. And so he did. Like hailing a taxi for curbside pick-up, I brought the wheelchair to his bedside, picked Craigy and his three wheezy bags up, and, along with Diane’s assistance, drove him the ten feet to his living room, where we watched Seinfeld together. That he was able to get into the wheelchair and spend some moments in the living room with us was a huge step. Craig’s been confined to his room for the past several days. Though feeling tired and not his best, Craig met his goal. He even had enough energy to watch the nice, chirpy family film 300 a few hours later. I’ll never forget his comment after queeny gets bullied into sleeping with big teeth (the politician). Craig said “No, don’t, you stupid idiot.” I was surprised he was still awake let alone TV talking.

He keeps surprising us with his energy, and even though it may feel like his brain is trudging through molasses, he’s still there. His words are being buried by cancer and drugs, but he’s there. He’s setting goals, keeping up with our crazy politics, and even TV talking, when he feels like it. He’s doing it his way, TPN included. We’re there as Craig’s bench warmers, the folks on the side just waiting for the chance to help out with a water bottle, a towel, or a comforting hand. -- J

Routine

Offsetting the larger uncertainties that stir the nerves on any given day are those situations that occur with a kind of certainty that would put dollar signs in the eyes of gambling pro's and neophytes alike. Without fail, starting as early as 2 in the morning, we'll faintly hear Craig stir in his bed and say, "I need some help sitting on the side of the bed." So begins the nightly ritual as certain to occur as Britney Spears is to regret her twenties.

With squinted eyes and tasseled hair, two of his 4 slumber party buddies dutifully respond to help first pivot his legs and torso into an upright position, then begin his "UWPRS" (pronounced "uppers") routine - urinal, water, paper towel, rag, sit. As sure as the sun rises, his requests begin with using the urinal; then a drink of water; followed by using a paper towel to blow his nose; a rag to wipe his eyes and forehead: and time to simply sit and dangle his legs. Averaging 3-4 times a night, his needs have become so consistent it's a wonder whether some level of OCD hasn't crept in -- a similar OCD to my need to make an acronym. ;) His routine is even on a timer, no less. When the sun creeps in around 6am, he asks one of us to close his drapes. By default, Jill is the drape closer, since she is closest to the window from her position in the sardine can that is his thrice occupied queen size bed (guess who gets the middle! To my horror, I woke up one morning with my face literally sandwiched in Diane's armpit. These are the sacrifices, I suppose. ;) ). Jill will pull the blinds closed until Craig says, "That's fine there", inevitably leaving a foot or two to let in the sun. Each morning, I watch the sun creep across Diane's face to my right, then blind me, then fall on Jill to my left. But, to hear his tender voice make the request and politely mark the same spot, using the same phrase, makes the sunburn worth it.

Typically, we will have at least 2 "UWPRS" moments before "drape time", and for each occasion we sit, still half-asleep, ready to hand him the appropriate item for his 5-step process. As if on cue, one of us will ask how he's sleeping and feeling. He'll respond with a brief, but honest response. Lately, he'll even ask questions of his own: "When will the work end?" Unsure whether he wanted a literal response or a metaphorical answer, I did what all psych folks do, reform the question and volley to him. He clarified by adding, "...I mean with all these pipelines and things..." Tired and confused, I whispered, "mining?" thinking to myself "how the hell am I going to BS this one?" Then, ever perceptive, I realized he was referring to the oxygen, antiemetic, and morphine pipelines criss-crossing and channeling towards his body. Another morning, he mumbled something to the effect of it "being overwhelming...things are really happening to me, and quickly" but augmented the statement with "leader of the freestyle kick".

Most mornings, however, we keep to our acronym with few verbal exchanges since, quite frankly, it's the wee hours of the morning and we're too tired to keep up conversation -- Craig included. Despite already knowing the answer, there comes a time when it seems reasonable to ask, "Are you ready to swing your legs back?" With another sip of his water, he slowly replies, "Not quite yet." For a man who spends 95% of his time in some variation of lying on his back, he relishes the opportunity to let his legs and feet dangle from the side of the bed as if it was the ledge of a pool. To see the happiness and freedom he seems to feel by sitting upright is reason enough to shake the tired from my state of being, and linger with him a while longer. But, as with all good things, his bedside dangle comes to an end by order of swelling, slowed circulation and increased mottling in his legs. Like it or not, we have to pivot him back to bed and to a sleepy slumber until the next time he shifts and says, "I need some help sitting on the side of the bed". And, so the routine begins again.... ~E

Colors forever changing

Life is changing quickly here at Denver Place. Every morning, we awake to a slightly different situation. His moans of pain are like a snooze alarm, reminding us that even as we sleep, Craig’s process continues. And with every new symptom, Craig grows more frantic. His body is betraying him, while his mind and spirit fight on. Naturally, the changes are distressing. We're all desperate to make his cancer stop, but none more so than Craig. Each day, he tells himself that if only he could get out of bed, he’d have more energy. Cerebrally, that makes sense: activity typically begets more activity. But for Craig, who’s as malnourished as he is “cancer weak,” activity just wipes out whatever reserves he has left. Though I support him completely, it's hard to see his attempts at keeping things "stable" knowing that, most likely, it makes little difference. The process has started, and there's not much we can do but keep him comfortable.

Though Craig is aware of his reality, accepting it is altogether different. He’s been pushing himself, as if by keeping busy, it keeps the entire process at bay. He’s had more energy by virtue of being off TPN. Perhaps the fluid is too much for his body to handle. Whatever the case, it seems the longer he’s off TPN, the more pep he has to his step. Craig’s been taking advantage of his new energy by taking trips outside, and getting close to nature, as he likes to say. For Craig, sitting idle is akin to waiting for his life to end. Doing something at least makes him feel alive. I don’t blame him. If I were in his situation, I’d want to take advantage of every moment left. After all, conserving energy doesn’t change the end game. Still, like everything, there’s a balance: just as it doesn’t make sense to pass away the energetic days staying indoors, it doesn’t make sense to burn all cylinders at once, just to be tired for the next few days.

Throwing caution to the wind, Craig’s been flirting with the “burning all cylinders” side to life, lately. There’s an earnestness to his eyes, a fear perhaps. And it’s different. It’s as though he has sensed a change in his body, and isn’t ready to accept it. He said as much yesterday afternoon, during yet another tough conversation where we discussed TPN, his energy, and the prospect of dying. After one week being off TPN, we restarted it Thursday morning, as agreed by Craig. For some reason, within a few hours of attaching it, Craig began feeling antsy, as though his heart was racing. We decided to disconnect the TPN half-way through due to his distress. I spoke with the nutritionist yesterday morning about our options with TPN. Unfortunately, we’ve reached a point where we have few available. Craig isn’t receiving nutrition orally; TPN is his only option for nutrition. Though his body may not be able to absorb the bulk of the TPN nutrition, he’s still receiving some. Whether it’s enough to be therapeutic is questionable; the TPN is offering mostly emotional support, with perhaps some caloric benefit.

The conundrum is the TPN may also be causing pain, discomfort, fatigue, and ultimately, psychological distress. By contributing to his sense of fatigue, the TPN, in turn, contributes to his anxiety about dying. However, being off TPN makes him feel he's wasting away. How to balance this with Craig’s concerns is the issue. Persuading a certain course always points toward actions not yet accomplished. It assumes possible futures, and contrives necessary fictions. With TPN, any decision is full of risk and uncertainty. All we know is how TPN makes Craig feel. Physically, it hurts; emotionally, it helps. Regardless of whether the TPN is beneficial or not, it is clear Craig wishes to continue having some nutrition; the prospect of “going it alone” is simply too distressing.

Dad, Erin, Diane and I talked his anxieties through with Craig earlier this morning, but it’s a delicate balance. We don’t want to say anything that may be upsetting, but we also want to speak frankly and answer his questions honestly, which he seems to appreciate. It’s emotionally taxing, because ultimately, we’re out of options. That’s the cruelty of it.Seeing him in so much pain is more than we can bear. We're doing our best to keep him comfortable and to qualm his concerns when he worries about losing his strength. Though he’s still desperate for solutions to stave off his weakness and eventual decline, in reality, he’ll continue to grow weak and there's little we can do. The watching and waiting is the hardest part. All we can do is help him with the little things (i.e. taking showers) while talking him through his anxieties about the dying process.

Thankfully, he wants to talk about it. Talking seems to help him understand and accept what’s going on. He’s so weak now that it’s hard for him to remember key details, so we often repeat our conversations. Talking is all we can do to keep him comfortable and at peace. Some days, he seems to understand where he is within his process. Other days, he’s anxious to go walking in order to build up strength. We embrace each day, and each disposition with open arms, and try to muster words of comfort to help him get through each day.

During yesterday’s conversation, Craig admitted that he’s having a hard time coming to terms with his illness and accepting that he’s dying. He added that he’s finding it difficult to imagine all this coming to head. We asked if he had any questions or concerns about the process. He said he wondered how it would all play out. Will he fall asleep? Will he be in pain? Will he know what’s happening, when it happens? We talked about his concerns about what happens “after”, and assured him that we will continue on with our lives, and as a family with Craig and Mom walking beside us. He said he wasn’t’ ready to stop trying to live and that he didn’t want to give up doing the things he loves. He added that the our family motto "fight fiercely" means a lot to him at this point. He's living by that motto, regardless of the likely outcome. We told him that we'll be by his side every step of the way, and that this is very much his process. If he has the energy to go on a walk, he should do so, by all means. We told him that we’ll support him if he wants to continue fighting, but that we’re also okay if he wants to let go. We said we didn’t want him to be holding on just for us. I asked if he had any last wishes for how he’d like to be remembered; he said he’d think about it.

We also talked about how we can help alleviate his anxieties by helping him with daily activities. At the suggestion that he have a CNA come to the apartment to help him bathe, he simply said, I don’t need one; I’d rather have my sisters help. It seems that though it’s hard for him to relinquish some of the most normal activities, like taking a shower and going to the bathroom, he’s okay relinquishing them to us. It’s hard to describe in words how I felt hearing him say he’d prefer to entrust us with his care. For so long, we’ve shared the most intimate of stories, and the most tragic and heartwarming accounts of both the important and the mundane, the tasteful and the tawdry. We’ve been each other’s most trusted confidante. That he’s entrusting us with his health and his peace of mind as his body slowly gives way to cancer is the greatest honor. There’s no place I’d rather be than here with Craig as he slowly lets go of his physical body, his independence, and all the other aspects – both big and small -- of being able bodied. And as the process continues, there will be no greater honor than to be with him as he finally says goodbye to the struggle.

With every day, we awake to a new situation. Our new reality challenges our emotions and defines us as a family. We don’t always have the right words, but we’re here together, nonetheless, supporting Craig and each other through an extremely difficult process. It will get harder, and someday, the crash will come. Until then, we’re taking one day at a time, and enjoying our moments together -- however they may change. -- J

This one's gonna bruise

These days speak of a helplessness so profound it stops in the throat somewhere between your voice and heart, taking both. It's a panicky, agitated feeling beyond comparison. There's no one to reason with, nothing to stop or manage. It's as desperate and unsatisfying a feeling as throwing rocks at lightening and screaming at the rain. Craig's cancer is as ruthless as it is fast -- the scrappy type that would shoot the drummer boy just because; that kind of mean has become extremely difficult to predict and manage.

For many months, "fighting for him" meant unearthing any treatment; adjusting meds to combat chronic pain and nausea; buzzing his back as he vomited; planning outings and things to distract him; throwing our bodies, our hearts, our love on the tracks to slow the same damn train that eventually picked mom as its passenger. "Fighting" now looks like the girls jumping to his side at any hour of night, bleary-eyed and dog tired waiting word for what he needs. It means using a draw sheet to move him since he's become too week to move himself; bringing him the urinal as the bathroom is now too far a walk; taking out his contacts for him when he doesn't have the dexterity or energy to pick them out himself; turning him to prevent his paper thin skin from completely splitting in two as it threatens to do at any moment; mopping the sweat from his brow from recurrent tumor sweats; embracing him in a bear hug as a sister cleans him and his commode; or, simply buzzing his back in the middle of the night just because. These activities are all too familiar to helping Mom and we are there for him for every need just as we were her.

For Craig, fight looks like a man coming to terms with the end of his life, and holding on to absolutely everything in life for fear of losing it. It kills me that we have nothing more to help him -- to maintain health, to stabilize his disease, to live. We can't even help him find a comfortable sleeping position as easily. These last few days have been miserable for him with painful skin breakdown near his tailbone, and growing pain in his abdomen. He awoke every hour and a half last night groaning and needing help finding a new position. Yet, today, no position we put him in sufficed. Nothing was comfortable and it wasn't simply a physical discomfort but something on a psychological and emotional dimension, as well. There was an agitation with him yet unseen. He even noted that he struggled with processing thoughts, made evident in the time and accuracy in which he responded to questions. The corners he turns now approach at a faster clip, and he turned yet another with this new level of pain and distress.

All the words ever created couldn't describe how horrible a feeling it is to watch my brother suffer and not be able to help him apart from loving him, being by his side at all times, and eagerly doing whatever he asks of me. Though he replies "definitely" when asked whether he likes being in his apartment and having his sisters take care of him, I wish there was something more we could do. It reminds me of a scene in "I Dreamed of Africa" where Kim Basinger frantically asked her son (loosely quoted) "Do I cut off your arm? I don't know what to do? Tell me what to do! Do I cut off your arm?" after being bitten by a snake. Of course, I'm not going to cut Craig's arm off but it's a similar sense of helplessness not knowing what to do to help him, and it bruises a part of me each time he's in pain or otherwise uncomfortable. To date, we've been able to triage his symptoms and do SOMETHING to cut the edge. Rotating him, giving him new doses of Ativan, suggesting a bolus bump on his morphine pump, but none of these surefire remedies seem to help him. It's in these moments when the "day to day" moves just enough to let the "hard" in and that "oh my god!" feeling that this is really happening - we are really seeing Craig fade away, seeing him become emaciated, seeing him suffer from this horrid disease.

This is what I'm witnessing. For Craig, it's what he's FEELING. Monday, he began noting in a more distressing manner certain changes he had experienced. Whereas before, he'd assert that "he was more or less OK", the latest of symptoms have hit a nerve. I asked him how he was feeling Monday morning and he replied (direct quote), "I'm feeling worse today and I'll tell you why. It's kinda heavy. I'm having a really hard time talking, just like with Mom and her process and how she couldn't talk anymore. That's scary....I mean it's very tiring to try to talk." Later, he explained the fears once again to the social worker and went on to say, "I'm spacing out a lot more. My mom seemed to space out quite a lot during her last days, so every time I space out I get scared that that's coming". As mom died, we feared that Craig would internalize the images and symptoms and that they would one day become his looking glass at his own deterioration. It's heartbreaking to see that fear come alive and the best we can do is help calm nerves by letting Craig know that her passing was peaceful, comfortable, and without pain (easy to say when you're not the one dying).

Sandy, the hospice nurse, graciously stepped into the arena of "letting go" of which none of us have adequate skill sets to discuss. It began with a discussion of his immediate symptoms, namely his growing fatigue and weakness. He asked her how he could combat the worsening symptoms. She softly told him, "You can't. You really won't be able to and believe me that is something we'd love to help you with if we could". She went on to say that it's like riding a wave. Craig should take advantage of peak energy days by doing the things he loves, but listen to his body and rest on low energy days. She explained to Craig that he's in a transformation period, a point of preparing for the next part of life. He noted what that looked like or didn't look like for him, and that image seemed somewhat distressing to discuss. I tearfully interjected, "Your spirit will live on in us. You will live on in us. That is the next part of life". Jill added that he will walk beside us throughout our lives, and that we will be okay. He turned to look at us with full, tear-rimmed blue eyes. For the first time, Sandy, Craig, Dad, Jill, and I broached the subject of letting go - letting go of the physical attributes that define him, letting go of the work of managing the symptoms, and somehow accepting what is happening to his young life. Sandy said that right now that might mean allowing himself to sleep if he needs rest and to say "no" when he doesn't feel like doing an activity. In time, his acceptance may lead to letting go on a larger scale.

The train that took mom roars nearer, and for Craig it's moving much too fast. He's not ready to accept what's happening (understandably so), and uses every ounce of energy to will himself to do something, ANYTHING, in defiance of what is overwhelming him. Very quickly, however, his world has shrunk from mountain escapades, to trips to the aquarium, to park outings, to his apartment. Just a few days ago, we were able to visit a fountain down the street. Now, it's difficult for Craig to move from his bedroom to his living room. But that's today. There's no telling what tomorrow will bring. He may dig deep to see the dinosaurs just as he hopes.

One month ago, various medical professionals, including Dr. F, legitimately thought Craig had only days left. They feared him passing away while up in the mountains and we braced ourselves for that likely scenario. His vital signs and physical condition accurately painted that scene. That was a month ago. Where he is today is a stark and more tenuous variation of the same theme: incredibly weak, incredibly thin, incredibly sick and in pain. Each of his hospice helpers is surprised to see him as lucid as he is despite vital signs that are off the charts -- vitals that indicate just where he is in the process. As the on-call hospice nurse said this afternoon, "you just don't see this very often [for someone with his abnormal blood levels, failing kidneys and liver, heart that is working overtime with a BP of 150/100 and pulse of 129]". She was sincerely shocked and it's a testament to his strength and character that he's still alive.

Craig will fight for his life and no one expects anything less or will suggest anything different. We have been, are and will be there fighting right beside him unconditionally. Craig's comfort and peace of mind are our only concern. But, that's not to say we aren't affected and it isn't unspeakably painful watching him suffer from each new symptom knowing they bring him that much closer to the end. Like Mom's process and her passing, this one's gonna bruise. ~E

Rebels with a cause

Craig just woke up from another bout of pain; the culprit this time was not his stomach but his tailbone. He’s starting to have skin breakdown just near the bottom of his tailbone. Like we’ve done so often, Erin and I pulled his boxers down just enough to see the source of his pain. A quick touch to his lower back revealed bones that were too easy to feel, as though his tailbone was protruding through his skin. He’s lost so much weight that he’s practically skin and bones. Through his shirt, it’s easy to see his shoulder blades and spine. When he lifts his shirt, the bones become even more apparent. They poke through his paper-like skin, which now hangs off him as if being weighed down by time. While his back and tailbone reveal his real weight, his belly remains deceivingly plump, as if he’s pregnant with tumor and fluid. Skinny or plump, it all causes discomfort.

The way cancer has transformed his body is shocking, and so different from our experience with mom. Though mom lost her hair and suffered from skin breakdown on her forearms and legs, in our eyes, her appearance remained mostly the same. It was only after long stays away (which happened rarely) that we noticed the physical changes. With Craig, the changes are noticeable, partly because his cancer has metastasized to other organs. He’s been fighting aggressive cancer for the past seven months; he hasn’t "eaten" since March (apart from TPN), and has lost forty pounds as a result. The tumors have metastasized to the liver, kidney, abdomen, around the lungs, and diaphragm. Unlike mom, whose cancer affected her brain and motor/cognitive ability, Craig’s impacts have been systemic; the physical changes are, therefore, understandable.

In our image conscience world, few would dare brave public spaces looking less than perfect. Not the Lawlers. Physical appearance has never been a point of vanity. Wear it loud; wear it proud, as mom would say. Though she owned a wig, mom rarely wore it. She enjoyed strutting around town, scar and all. Ever the nurse, she viewed her illness as a teaching moment, and welcomed the opportunity to tell others about brain cancer, and, most importantly, how she was faring with it. I remember one time at the Texas Roadhouse when a little girl reached out to touch mom’s hair. Mom just grinned as she did, and said “feels funny, doesn’t it?” The little girl’s father whisked her away before mom could share more. Mom never shied away from the fact that she had cancer, and neither did we. For the most part, we just got on with it and functioned as we always did. To have the chance to walk beside her was an honor.

Taking a page from Mary Lawler’s playbook, Craig hasn’t shied away either. Like mom, Craig hasn’t let cancer keep him indoors; he takes wheelchair walks, tours around town, and meets with friends. As late as June, Craig was taking singing lessons and even performed a solo with an acappella group. I’ll never forget seeing Craig standing on stage with ten other able bodied musicians, with his TPN resting quietly in the corner. He belted his Ray Charles' solo as clear as the others. Though he was exhausted afterwards, it was clear he enjoyed reconnecting with that part of his life. Just a few days ago, Craig reconnected with another part of his life: walking. He decided to take a walk outside, his first in weeks. It was great seeing Lauren’s expression as he slowly moved through the walkway of the Denver Place Apartments. As he passed by, I could hear her whisper “he’s walking.” (Lauren, Stacy, and Roshonda have been with us since Craig was diagnosed in February. They’ve been Craig’s biggest supporters, as well as his personal bodyguards/gatekeepers. ;) Thanks for always being there.)

It’s easy to underestimate the amount of courage it takes for cancer patients to continue on with life. As cancer ravages the body, it can also ravage the soul and sense of self. It’s an assault on a person’s right to exist in life with the rest of the world. Living in our world isn’t easy; life is unkind to the physically challenged. Sidewalks are uneven; bathrooms are too narrow; and handrails are too few. Physical barriers are not the only reminders of "being different." People, though well-intentioned, don’t often know what to do. Is it best to make eye contact and smile, talk to the person as if they were a child, or pull a “out of sight, out of mind” and ignore the person altogether? And what of helping? Is it proper to open the door and give way to a person in a wheelchair, or create more barriers by plowing on as normal? We’ve experienced the whole gamut, but mostly, people carry on as normal, probably in an effort to respect our privacy. Mom would often remark that people had stopped looking her in the eye, while small children just stared.

Continuing on with life is no small feat for a person at the end stages of cancer. You can spend an awful long time anticipating the arrival of something, or you can get on with it. It takes courage to give the proverbial middle finger to cancer, and there’s a certain enthusiasm that comes along with the revolt. Being in public is the acme of the rebellion. Craig will continue to be our valiant leader, and brave the Denver streets, if just to be near nature.  It will take much more to keep him indoors. -- J

Happy Hour

It's Friday night. Bumpin' dance music has been traded for the hissing serenade of Craig's oxygen condenser. The "neon light" from laptop screens illuminates our seated silhouettes on Craig's bedroom floor. Drinks are on the house tonight, as they are most nights. The drink specials: Diet Mountain Dew, Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi, and, the stiffest of drinks, agua. Some nurse their drink slowly; some double-fist with water and pop; others (Diane!) blaze through the caffeinated beverages with reckless abandon as if to keep baseline for fear of a looming headache. This is our traditional "happy hour", throwing back our comfort drinks while spending time in each other's company.

I close my eyes and the nighttime bedroom sounds easily transport me to an ocean side camping experience - the condenser, a distant Orca whale coming to the surface to blow its air; the babbling bubble from his humidifier, a gentle rain. Of course, this is hogwash. There's no way to mask the fact that we now have the noisiest condenser known to man as our newest nighttime companion. To our delight, "Susie sighs a lot" loudly sighs at life every 5-10 seconds. Feels like we've stumbled into a Lamaze class with none of us being hopefull parents. It's a similar bitterness I feel towards the sighing machine. Still a wonder whether it will eventually fade into the background as white noise or whether it will forever be that annoying snoring slumber party guest you regret ever inviting.

Though "Free Willy's" air blow is a might bit distracting, the heavy breathing is a reminder of where I am - here with my brother. This is what matters in life -- savoring time with the ones I love, taking absolutely nothing for granted, making every hour a happy hour. ~E

Traveling with C

Craig and I have had the fortune of traveling around the world together. First, Craig visited Erin and me in Sweden, where we introduced him to the finer side of study abroad life, like barbecues and box wine. Then, it was on to Ghana. I remember picking him up from the airport. At that time, Ghana had an open pick-up area where people would line up along a winding ramp to greet their loved one as they made their way outside. The scene was much like the Price is Right, where eager contestants are greeted with big grins and high fives. I remember seeing Craig as he worked his way through the Price is Right crowd. He looked a little unnerved, but otherwise, happy to be there. After picking him up, I took him to a guest house where we chatted a bit about mom’s health (this was pre-cancer) and then crashed together.

Craig spent a little over a week with me in Ghana. During that time, he visited my classrooms, watched me perform a Japanese song with my classmates, and toured the campus. We also visited Ghana’s jungles, its Cocoa tree plantations, its historical cities (e.g. Cape Coast), and, unfortunately, its romantic hotspots. And here, a little note: though traveling with siblings may sound like a good idea, it’s probably best to avoid potential honeymoon spots with, say, your brother.

I’ll always remember celebrating Craig’s 28th birthday in Ghana. It was an obnoxiously romantic night by most standards, but for us, it was an opportunity for an older brother and a younger sister to spend a nice night together. I took him to a restaurant nestled right on the Atlantic coast, just outside Accra. After watching the waves crash against the rocky shore, we headed upstairs for traditional fufu with goat meat and okra soup. Fufu is eaten with your hands and traditionally swallowed whole. I remember the soup was so hot, it burned his 28 year old hands. We ate our fufu under a full moon, with the waves nearby, and high-life music playing in the distance. It was perfect. After dinner, we joined a small crowd which had gathered in front of the stage, and danced.

I’ll always remember dancing with my brother under the Ghanaian moonlight. He was wearing a white t-shirt, which was a change from his blue long-sleeve he had been wearing for the past five days. His eyes seemed a different color blue with the white, and the darkness of the Ghanaian night. And they changed colors when he laughed. To be able to spend that moment with him, not knowing what would happen only four years later, was a gift. We lived so freely.

We matched our Ghanaian experience with yet another romantic event: watching the stars on top a junket resting in the middle of Ha Long Bay in Viet Nam. To provide context, junkets are boats usually occupied by a) backpackers or b) newlyweds. That we were siblings on what was essentially a love boat struck people as a bit awkward. For those that thought we were together, they chalked our mutual coldness as having a lover’s tiff (or perhaps just a tad puritanical). When the word got around that the super standoffish, yet amazingly handsome couple was in fact a brother-sister combo, people (usually female backpackers) treated us (read him) differently. Still, we had a great time gazing at the Vietnamese sky, and laughing at yet another botched romantic outing. After Viet Nam, we toured the better parts of Cambodia, Lao PDR, and Thailand, where we'd tick off one romantic spot after another.

We had other romantic exchanges during Craig’s second trip to Thailand (in November). During his three week stay, we snuck in motorcycle rides in Chiang Mai, jungle walks in Malaysia, and music-education in Indonesia (I wasn’t able to join him in Indonesia). We enjoyed street food, watched impromptu cultural performances, played paddle-wackers in the sand, and rock climbed; we did everything that, in hindsight, would fill a bucket list.

My favorite memory was lounging beside the ocean underneath a blanket of stars in Raleigh, Thailand; this would be our last romantic outing we'd share. It was low-season then, making the beach a bit deserted. We sat there alone, just the two of us, listening to the waves and watching the stars dance above us. I remember talking about mom, and wondering how it would all turn out. We timed our conversation to match the retreat of the tide, and our tears to the match its surge. I remember listening to Craig wax on about Jupiter’s orbit (or something like that). At some point in the conversation, a shooting star crossed the sky, and again we laughed. Craig commented on how the moment would have been the perfect proposal moment if not for the fact that we're siblings -- another romantic moment down the drain.

With each romantic spot, Craig and I would grieve about how we were lining ourselves up for nice honeymoons in exciting Branson, Missouri, after ruining some of the more interesting spots. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.  He's my travel buddy; traveling without him feels incomplete. Like the time I visited Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia. Unlike when I'm with C, I didn’t do anything touristy. I just walked around aimlessly (literally, I’d start one direction, do a u-turn, go on a few feet, take a right…it must have been hilarious for onlookers). I remember laughing to myself that it was a good C wasn’t with me; I’d drive my travel buddy crazy.  (Though, I appreciate walking with no destination in mind. You can really discover a city that way, or that’s what I like to tell myself to justify the ‘wait… where am I’ moments.)

I remember sitting under the Petronas towers just at sunset. I sat there as the building lights slowly came on, and stayed until they were fully lit, with the dark sky hovering silently behind them. I remember thinking first that Craig would love the view, and that I wished mom was sitting there with me. Craig would later visit the Petronas towers; mom never got the chance (though I know she was right there with me).

I’ll always have these memories traveling with C. Though I always thought we’d have more, the ones we’ve made are still enough to sustain a lifetime. Every time I experience a ‘romantic’ occasion, I’ll think of him, and I’ll know he’ll be with me – laughing. -- J

Making Sense of the Rain

I'm sitting in the living room watching Olympic baseball with Jill. Just recently, we heard Craig yell "hellooooo, Jill and Erin? I need help". We ran to his room. All the while, I yelled back, "coming, we're coming Craig. We're right here." He needed his urinal. Whewww. It stops my heart each time, partly because he has to call for us when we are usually there right beside him, and partly because you never know what you are responding to.

After his urinal needs, the sisters saddled up beside him as we often do. Quietly, he started talking about his condition. He spoke of his profound weakness and said he's now tracking it, that it seems to have progressed at an alarming rate from a few weeks ago. "If you compare where I am now, to where I was a few weeks ago..."

99.9% of the time, I see Craig as he is to me -- my best older brother, that guy who can generate a quirky statement, and pummel you with his wit whether on demand or not. He's that guy who digs deep just to participate and be present. He's my brother and I'm lucky to be able to call him that, to have known him all my life. I love him so much that the way he looks, talks, moves around is normal to me, though it's, admittedly, shockingly different from who he was. That was the same with Mom. Only now do I really "see" how sick she was. We'd gallivant around all the same with her, and that is exactly the way it should be. Be loud. Be proud. People who are at the end of life should live life just the same!

The same is true with Craig, though his quickly changing physical appearance and general health make it more readily apparent where he is in the process of life and death. Just the other day, he caught his reflection in the mirror. For the first time, he remarked, "Good lord. I look skeletal". Later, he said how surprised he is at how different he looks and how his arms have no muscle (coming from a guy who was chiseled and buff as late as January). You could read this one of two ways: it's a shame he's noticed his physical deterioration, or, wow, it's taken until now to notice his physical deterioration! We live in the latter. Day to day, not one of us flinches at the changing scenery, though we may take note and discuss it in terms of how we can help him given his diminished strength and growing belly distension. For Craig, it is remarkable that he has yet to "feel" as thin as he is, or to notice the significant changes in his appearance. Maybe it's the protective bubble we provide; maybe it's his unbeatable will and perspective. Whatever the case, it has not yet entered our daily dialogue (apart from his occasional mentioning of his pregnant belly).

But, it's in the shadows and rare angles of light where the .1% lies. It is in that small space where I acknowledge that my brother and best friend is also dying, that this is real. It's a difficult thing to try to describe. The best analogy I can think of is walking. You don't regularly pay attention to the motions and the thought processes that perform a complicated series of muscle movements and coordination until a rock in the shoe or bothersome injury make it unavoidable. For awhile, Craig's process was like walking, paying more attention to the scenery and the destination than the effort. Now, it's a bit of the reverse. It's hard not to notice his eyebrows creeping lower to his eyes from his face thinning down. It's difficult to avoid the meaning when feeling his protruding shoulder girdle, spine, and sit bones. It's impossible not to respond to his aggravated coughs at night, or watch his chest rise more slowly than it has in the past. And, it's unavoidable to see his racing pulse literally knock his blue, fluffy neck cushion with each beat. We know where he is in his process. Craig is becoming aware of it. As he said, he's tracking it and now wondering where he is in the process.

He mentioned the TPN, and perhaps not receiving "nutrition" but once a week now, as the culprit of his weakness. I delicately reminded him of Sandy, the hospice nurse's, conversation with him; that the TPN is likely not responsible for the weakness; and, in fact, we see the inverse when he's on it. He becomes more tired, more out of it, more water-logged and miserable. He asked me, "Are you sure?" It's a sad question to respond to. On the one hand, you'd like to tell your brother that the one "nutrition" source is doing a body good and that it'll be okay, but the fact is that it isn't and that reality means that we are at a point of no return. It's a sad, sad situation as Elton John might sing, and it's growing more absurd.

As per a conversation with Sandy, Craig is now on a once a week TPN regimen, and today was the lucky day. Very shortly after hooking him up, he began complaining of his belly expanding quickly; he seemed much more agitated and generally uncomfortable. Sandy revealed that his blood pressure was also elevated as was his heart rate. Something was amiss and the only logical culprit was the TPN. In order to put the TPN on, we have to disconnect his antiemetic bag. Though he did not vomit or feel nauseated, the switcheroo may have thrown his liver off balance. That theory didn't check out. More likely, the TPN alone overwhelmed his already failing liver further, causing his body to react. He felt anxious this afternoon and wanted to get out of the apartment in that panicky expression of which we've grown accustomed. He made it through one third of a movie before growing too weak and heading home (thank God... spared us from enduring more of the craptastic feature film). Still, his symptoms worsened remarkably to the point of him feeling faint and extremely, extremely weak.

We called hospice and they confirmed our instinct to discontinue TPN and re-hook the antiemetic bag. Within hours, he started feeling better, though he still feels very weak.

To say he's weak does not adequately capture his current status. I feel weak after a heavy work out; someone else might feel weak after a fast of some kind. Craig's weakness is such that it is physically difficult to smile. He noticed this change in him the other day and intently tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. No bother, he smiles in his eyes. But the effort to draw the necessary muscles into a smile is too much for him. To stand while urinating is becoming too effortful, as well. To say he's "thin" doesn't work either. As jarring as the comparison is, he's almost as 'Christian Bale thin' in the Machinist. The fact that the guy wanted to leave his apartment is courage above courage, strength above strength.

In fact, on the day he saw his reflection in the mirror, he decided he wanted to walk to the elevators and downstairs. He was standing tall with mom's walker when he noticed his "lack of strength". I reminded him later that his strength inside far surpasses what is seen on the outside. His strength and courage, like Mom's, are without measure. ~E

Random snippets from a few days back

1. Olympics

Watching the Olympics has become a daily pastime for us, with each event a consistent reminder of how painfully average we all are. Unlike some Olympians, we’re okay with being average. In fact, we revel in it, but not Sweden’s Greco-Roman wrestler. Nay, for Sweden, it is the triumph, not the struggle. After watching Sweden’s temper tantrum after receiving the bronze, we couldn’t help but remember the antics of one of WWF's best wrestlers: the Undertaker. Craig, D, and I had the fortune of catching the Undertaker's title match while waiting at the ER. I haven’t seen drama like that sine Ali took on Frazier. The Undertaker punctuated his win by pushing his opponent into a well placed coffin, which was strategically located next to the ring.

Playing WWF at the ER seems fitting. I see it as good ol' American marketing to secure future clients. At the same time, it's educational. I know I appreciated the learning experience. Whenever Craig gives me lip, I'll just take a metal chair to his head.

Speaking of wrestling, here’s another dramatic Olympic sport: equestrian. In all the hub-bub over steroids, somehow horses slipped in. How'd the IOC miss that? Watching the horses prance around got us thinking: if horses can be in the Olympics, why not other animals? Behold, a new Olympic sport: cat herding. We're thinking the match could be divided into two sections: first corralling, where agility would garner high marks; and second, cat warfare, which would require hand to hand combat with the feral beasts. Extra points would be awarded for emotional fortitude, especially braving aloofness and psychological trauma. Each round could be adjusted according to difficulty based on moodiness, how long it’s been since their last pedicure, and corralling beasts out of hard-to-get areas, like dark corners and closed in areas. Maxie and Sam – along with their handler, Erin – would be excellent contenders for the gold. The vets have to knock Maxie out just to clip his nails; Sammie, though suffering from renal failure, is otherwise in excellent, moody condition. So, why not?

2. Existential questions

People call me random, partly because I ask random questions. Take yesterday, for instance. After pondering the question myself, I asked C if he’d rather be a fireman or paramedic. He answered fireman, because they can kick in doors? Challenging my random credentials, Diane later asked, “If you (Craig) could be reincarnated, what would you become? Craig answered that he’d want at least one of his rotations to be a bald eagle, because they’re free and soar in the sky. Either that or Walt Whitman. The fact that he's a) entertaining our questions with an answer; and b) providing elaborate detail to those answers reminds me that Craig is still very much Craig. When he's feeling well, he's still as goofy and playful and witty as before.

Whatever the occasion, Craig was always right there with us, playing along. He'd play dress-up and sing annoying songs and discuss random topics with us as if there was no place he'd rather be. And he'd always have the best sense of humor. His ability to remember obscure poets/philosophers/dates in time/political movements, etc. is impressive, and he could pull out obscure references with the best of them. He’s a steal trap of random knowledge. We all have our specialties. Erin is master of all things musical and pop culture; she has a knack for remembering every song ever aired on TV or radio. It's truly impressive. For Diane, she's a master of movies. She’s seen 'em all -- even the stinkers (e.g. Step Up II: The Streets...why???...was there really more to the story to warrant a sequel?). I’m more of the random story/did you know person, who can share tales of serial killers and then, just as easily, traverse through political events in Tajikistan. Get us together and we make a decent trivial pursuit team.

3. Remembering

For some reason, I had the urge to reread some of Craig's old emails to me, as if in an effort to remind myself of how things were. It was great looking back in time, at the banter between four best friends. We used to tease each other, with everything fare game. I remember making fun of his abundant confidence when traveling around Thailand. My suggestion to him when he became ill: perhaps prancing peacock should fluff down his feathers before he upchucks his insides. Like always, his reply included something overly witty and slightly vulgar. Referring to some remark Erin made about a Grey’s Anatomy episode, Craig assured me that “nothing had flown up his pee-pee hole” during a boat outing in Koh Phi Phi. Craig prides himself on his creativity; he always takes time to write so that it adequately addresses whatever was said in the previous correspondence before moving into some witty rant on his own life.

That's what I love about Craig. He's always playful; he's always fun-loving; he's always considerate. It pains him to know he can't be as actively engaged in our lives, or his friend’s lives, as he once was. Each email he receives garners a "I need to email so-and-so to thank him/her for the email" response. That's Craig. He's fighting for his life but still thinking about others. And I doubt he'll ever stop. -- J

Barnum 'n Bailey Circus

I wish we could take two Tylenol and make the headache that is to be the DNC go away. Ever the political family, we are naturally intrigued by the circus that is the DNC. We'd like the event to run smoothly, to excite the party as it should. BUT, that was before our brother -- the Denver resident -- needed reliable oxygen deliveries and antiemetic bags. We've already heard of street closures and heightened security measures that might slow, if not completely stop, his cancer symptom combating needs.

Hell hath no fury like a cancer patient (and his family) scorned. They better believe it, we'll cause an uproar if the DNC stands in the way of even the smallest of his healthcare needs. We know what's what. We've been trained by the best. We'll just march on down to the headquarters and use our loudest of "Loud Mary" voices and wag our fiercest of "Loud Mary" fingers. "That'll learn em".

Orrrr, Jill and I can revert to old protest habits, "We don't need the DNC. What we need is his IV!" "Oxygen, TPN, boluses too -- you stop his drugs, we say screw you!!" (Copyright pending for these clever ditties). ;) ~E

Actually

One night, when we were sleeping over at hotel hospital with mom, we noticed that mom's C-pap machine, which she used to regulate her sleep apnea, was mysteriously quiet. Confused and concerned, we assessed the situation and found her C-pap happily plugged in and her mask fitted to her face. What to do? On a whim, we decided to unplug the C-pap from its white socket into a red socket. Little did we know that the hospital suffered a power outage that night; the white sockets go bust under such conditions whereas the red sockets power on like the Energizer Bunny. Would have been good to know before hooking our very sick mom to the "other" power outlet. No harm, no foul though. We giggled about it and corrected the issue. (Add "label maker" to my Christmas list for the hospital).

I've been thinking of Mom a lot lately. Each time I wake up and tell Craig that "I'm jumping in the shower", I'm reminded of taking showers at the hospital when Mom was resident. With my bed head hair and jammies, I'd tell Mom, "I'm jumping in the shower and will be right back". Each time, I'd wave to her before closing the door and she'd always wave back. One time, her arm was buried under the covers. I could see it start to move, then creep up, and peak out with a wiggle of the fingers. It pulled on my heartstrings to see the will power to make her limp limbs move just to wave to me. I could see and feel her love so intensely that it crushed me to have to close the door. But, hospital code probably wouldn't let me bare all for the sake of keeping eye contact. It would have spiced up life, at the very least.

She wouldn't just return my wave on the way to the shower, but for all of my random waving opportunities. I'll never forget the time the nurses rolled her from lying on her back to face my direction during their sponge-bath process. In an instant -- without flinching, without losing awareness of where I was -- she stared back at me. With our eyes locked, I smiled and waved. With arms sandwiched between her body and the bars of her bed, she wiggled her fingers in return.

Craig reminds me of Mom; Mom reminds me of Craig.

Craig sat at the edge of his bed, catching his breath as he often does. We've grown accustomed to sitting against the wall on his floor -- watching him, waiting, wondering if he needs his oxygen turned up, his medications, or simply a pivot back to a neutral position. I sat in a chair and waited. He looked up, caught my eye, raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, hello" with a familiar smirk and gleam in his eyes true to Christopher Walken's "Ladies Man". Every time I'd pick him up from the airport or greet him in any way, he had this look --this impish yet affectionate look that showed me he was as happy to see me (and the sisters) as I was of him.

Craig reminds me of Mom, once again. It's in the moments that seem so confusing and unclear with Craig's process that I wish I had Mom to talk to, to hug. She was the natural order to things, the person my sisters and Dad would turn to in heavy, heavy situations such as these. And, it's in those moments that I'm reminded she's gone.

Such is the pace of life -- an unforgiving actuality that can do an about face in milliseconds without much consideration. It's still hard to believe Mom actually died of cancer. That reality does not yet feel real and I fear the day it actually does. It's equally unfathomable that Craig is actually dying of cancer. And, it's heartbreaking to consider these actualities as part of the landscape. ~E

Sponge Bob Craig Pants

(written last night)

Craig's energy has dipped precipitously these last days. Remarkably, he mustered the energy to take a shower today, but, yesterday, he didn't have the strength to move his tired legs over the tub ledge. Fret not. Jill and I are pros at bathroom sponge baths dating back to our time with mom, when showering was no longer feasible or necessary. Why bother with showering when you can get a sponge bath, I say. Of course, we recognized Mom's important grieving process involved in losing the independence to bathe herself, but also positively reframed it by making it a "hos-spa" day (hospice spa) -- giving her one hell of an exfoliating, shampooing, and moisturizing experience. (I feel it necessary to add the extra hospice component...what spa really bathes their clients, except for those that start with b and end with rothel? ;) ).

Jill and I set up a similar hos-spa shop for Craig, gathering our necessary buckets, washcloths, soap, shampoo, clean clothes, and PLENTY of towels to catch the "rain" from the sponge bath. We started just as we did with mom by squeezing soaked washcloths over his head. The water dripped over his head and down his oxygen line, which he now must wear at all times lest he become breathless and panicked. I washed his hair as Jill washed his back; our A-game couldn't have been more synchronized, efficient or peaceful. ;) Craigery's only task was to sit there and look pretty in his boxers....and perhaps wipe the dripping water from his eyes. It was a wonderfully tender and loving moment to share with him at this very vulnerable stage of his life. I feel honored he let us in. ~E

Cat Bell? Cow Bell? or Craig Bell?

Craig's evolving disease process spares nothing from its clenches. Lately, as his body slows down and grows more tired, so too have his vocal cords and throat muscles that help him speak. His voice has waned to a whisper and is now far too quiet for any of us to hear should he need to call for help.  The act of calling also tuckers him out. To help reduce the strain, we sent Dad on a bell mission; he came back with Colorado's finest ornamental bell.  So now, rather than burn his engines calling our names (on the rare occasion we're not in ear shot, like when he's in the shower), Craig can simply flick his wrist and there we are.  Water needs, bed turns, help with sitting up, whatever the need, we're there to help.  Each time, I sing to myself "you can ring my bell-el- lll, ring my bell."

Like other alarms, with every real alert, you also have "false alarms."  Already we've had moments when Craig has accidentally bumped his bell in pursuit of some other item. In a blaze, we sprint over to help. It's quite comical, our speed. Where's the fire? Somebody see Elvis or something? What? what?

Craig has come to love his bell much like he loves his morphine button or the chair on which we prop his vomit bucket. He took his bell into the shower with him today...just...in...case. Thank God he did. We'd rather a spotter be with him at all times, but settled with the bell in the face of privacy.

Diane, Jill and I were waiting in the family room as he showered. It wasn't but 5 minutes when we heard a slight tinkle of the bell as he picked it up, then full force ring followed by silence. I opened the door to find Craig hiding behind the shower door. I couldn't help but smile. God bless him for still believing we haven't seen it all with him. To repeat a phrase, nothing is spared when battling cancer. Our care for him runs deep and through all circumstances; because it does, we do anything possible to keep up the pretenses just to give him that peace of mind.

He made his request and whispered, "by the way, the bell is in the trash." Cracked me up to see the ornamental thing amongst the trash. I picked it up, handed it to him, and watched him bring his new best friend into the shower. Who needs a rubber ducky when you have a Craig bell? ~E

You spin me right round, baby, right round

We tested Craig's new wheels out at a neighborhood park this afternoon. For many many reasons, we were by far the coolest cats rolling around on a Sunday afternoon.

Craig had a rocky start this morning and by all accounts he was on a pace to stay in bed for the lot of the day. His condition has worsened considerably to which I'll describe in another post. Suffice it to say, Diane, Jill and I were in tears and quite worried that we might be beginning what we don't want to actively begin. But, fear not, in his minutes (sometimes seconds) or long moments of alertness, Craig was hell bent to "get out of the apartment". His destination: to see dinosaurs. (A caveat...it could be that he wanted to see the dinosaurs because we were singing to him his favorite "Tyrannosaurus Rex means tyrant king. He terrorized the countryside and made giant reptiles hide. Boom, Boom, Boom" song. A fav among the family). 

He awoke around 4pm with a burning desire to do something, to get out of the apartment.  The reality is that he's at a point of his process where he has difficulty pulling himself out of sleep, or keeping himself awake even after minutes of being awake, or having enough energy to talk. It's a fatigue we've never known, or that he's never known. We know that the notion of doing something -- any activity -- is HUUUUGE in the realm of a dying process. Today, in the few times he had energy to pull himself out of sleep, he wanted to move. So move we did. When he awoke, he regretted sleeping all day, thereby limiting his chances of seeing the dinosaurs. We reminded him that dino's can wait; they've been extinct for many years now, after all. We'll catch em on the flip side. Better to listen to the body and catch up on much needed rest. Seeing the distress, we recommended a less energy demanding scene, like a park.  So, we decided to go on a "spin" before he lost energy again.

But this wasn't just a "spin" around a park. It was "Wash Park" -- his park to roam around. And, AND! he had his new wheels. We ordered a new wheel chair with leg extenders to keep his legs propped up in order to limit swelling. It'd surely make the other 'wheelers' jealous.  

And jealous, they were.

The five of us drove the short distance to Wash Park. Being able to load our family in one regular sized car wasn't lost on me, and I yearned for the days of car caravans when our sheer numbers -- a.k.a. six -- would require at least two cars. We certainly were missing one key member as we tooled around the park.

The sun seemed softer in the 5 o'clock sun as we moseyed around the calm lake. Bikers, rollerbladers, walkers, joggers, they were all out in abundance perhaps inspired by the Beijing Olympics. It was nice to be among the leisured and the active. Yet, it wasn't long before we met our first "craptastrophe" -- an event bound to happen sooner or later. Our spiffy wheelchair was christened early by the plethora of duck poo. As skipper of the wheelchair ship, I take full responsibility of leading my comrades into pooville. When Jill and Diane took a pit stop to adjust Craig in his seat, I realized my errant ways. His oxygen and morphine lines dangled near the wheel; I reached down to pick them up to tuck them in a safe spot. What I came away with disqualified me as el capitan o' wheelchair for the evening. Duck poo smeared my hand. My pulling and tucking, in fact, wiped clean Craig's oxygen and morphine lines, which evidently had rubbed against the right wheel.  Better take one for the team, I say. That's a true leader. ;)

I personally think it's wheelchair saboteurs (perhaps the same one's who keep up with landscaping?? what, they run outta weed eaters and edgers at the Super Target???). We were running our best split before the unfortunate poo incident.

So, Jill assumed the wheelchair pusher position and I took over as the one-handed photographer. Then, suddenly, we heard "is that the Lawlers?". To be said in a place where not all the Lawlers were a) raised, or b) live, took us by surprise. When the two cyclists stopped, we realized who it was. It was Sara (Sarah? Saraw? I'm just joking, not many spell it like that) from Uni C -- one of the finest nurses on the 11th floor. She helped Craig when he was admitted, and was there for us when Mom passed away. I'll never forget sharing tears with her. Pretty special. When Craig would do his laps around the 11th floor wing, she was ALWAYS there to cheer him on and to ask how we were doing. Pretty damn neat. Just as neat as her pulling a U'ie and coming back to say hello. Evidently, she told her roommate "wait was that the Lawlers?" and pulled around. A lot of folks would peel on by, but not an 11th floor nurse. They're like family.

We moseyed around the lake still ever mindful of Craig's fatigue. At one point, he stated that "I'm tired and falling asleep but every time I wake up you guys are making a wrong turn". Little did he know, they weren't wayward turns but an understanding of his fatigue and slow return to the car instead of finishing the entire "Wash Park" experience. He was in agreement and declared a U'ie to head back. But, not before listening to a bad cover band of Big Head Todd, Marvin Gay and any other mismatch cover band song. We also off-roaded through vibrant, pungent runs of flowers (smelled like the pachyderm arm of the OKC zoo) since their "wheelchair accessible sidewalks" were better kept for field animals (again, how 'bout an edger... anyone? someone!?).

By off-road wheel chairing virtue alone, we were the coolest people tooling around this Sunday afternoon. But what made us heads above those rollerbladders, badminton players, and picnickers was the fact that Craig could have very well stayed indoors this afternoon. He is without a doubt a dying man with literally barely enough energy to talk or to do hand motions. To have a young, dying man out and about with the masses, enjoying the sunshine and spinning the lake was a point of strength I'd think the Lance Armstrongs, Michael Phelps, random healthy Joes on the street would DREAM of having an ounce of.

Forget it fellas, I'm heading home with this guy...

~E

Craig's spark? Good ol' politics

Yesterday was rough, as rough day’s go. After spending most of the day in bed, Craig awoke around 7pm to join us for a little Olympics. After watching Dara Tores and Michael Phelps do the unimaginable, we flipped to CNN to watch Barack Obama do the unimaginable – discuss abortion with a room full of pro-lifers. All three fared well in their respective events and even prompted debate between us on the concept of evil (outside of the swimming context, of course). As we pondered whether they meant evil in the most literal sense, or figuratively (as in "bad), I couldn’t help but notice how energized Craig seemed. Politics seemed to draw him in.

Growing up, I always thought Craig would make a great politician, though not of the traditional sort. He’d be the quiet guy in the back, patiently working with others to push bills through. Craig’s always been a sucker for politics. In high school, he was Governor of Oklahoma Youth and Government, as well as a leader of the high school debate team. In college, he was the guy with the gavel, leading Senate meetings and keeping order as Student Government Chair. Erin and I were in Senate for Craig's fifth and final year at OSU. He was the parliamentarian at the time, or the guy people looked to for answers. That role carried through to other venues. He even served as chief counsel for a fraternity person up for impeachment. As part of the Off-Campus Student Association, he was the guy with answers on student living and was instrumental in getting the living group fee institutionalized at OSU.

Craig has always volunteered himself, no matter how large or trivial the problem. And he found a community wherever he landed. Once he moved to Denver, he worked pro-bono with the Colorado Lawyers Committee Medicaid Task Force for Children to explore ways to increase access to medical services for children. At the time, due to low reimbursement rates, almost no doctors were willing to accept children on Medicaid (even if they donated their services, they lost money on the cost of the office visit). As a result, these children were forced to go to federal clinics (with long waits) or the emergency room and did not have a "medical home". Thanks to Craig and others, Colorado has instituted new reimbursement rates for pediatricians who provide medical services to children on Medicaid. Craig’s also been praised by the Colorado Bar Association for his work on the economic loss rule, citing his article as one of the most clear, and articulate analyses of the economic loss rule to date. We recently learned Craig served as parliamentarian and secretary during one or Denver’s presidential caucuses. He’d surely be following the DNC if he were healthy.

Cancer deprives us all of the present and the future. Who knows what would have happened. All I know is Craig would have continued being the great man and brother that is. He’d continue to be an exemplar of what it is to be a good human being. He’d live by grace and courage and stoicism as he has these past 32 years. And he’d do it with a smirk and a smile, and with the Lawler humor that’s grown to define him.

It was great to seeing that old spark last night. Craig is loved by so many, and that’s clear. His popularity is as much a testament to his character as it is the indelible impact he’s left, courtesy of his unique personality. I remember our days together in Senate when he was parliamentarian. Craig had a habit of fiddling with his pen cap as he spoke. Unknowingly, he’d take the cap off, then put it on, then take it off, then put it on. I saw this quirky behavior again a few years later when taking one of Dad's classes. Unknowingly, Dad would twist his pop bottle cap off, then put it on, then twist it off. Craig is our father’s son. To say I’m proud of him is an understatement. His feet are the first in the sand, or our prints to follow. -- J