Nevertheless, I continue to press on, proudly wearing my docs and walking the delicate line between adulthood and the eternal youth that remains within my state of mind (if not my figure).

And now, for a little honorary tune-age from Concrete Blonde from “back in the day” — of which I’ve had a few.

I think now is the time I am supposed to say: “SPOILER ALERT!”

Kitty has cancer; so does Lt. Van Buren. And Lynette, who was treated for cancer not-too-long ago, is now pregnant — and impressive feat given how chemo can impact fertility.

I know there’s nothing like cancer to add a touch of deep drama and a potential Emmy-nod to a TV show. However, those of us who have lived in that world for real usually just sigh and think “oh, here we are again”, examining every plot point for the slightest sense that they have any idea what it’s really like. Sometimes they get it right, and other times we laugh at something wildly inaccurate — in our minds as big a gaff as the boom mike falling into the shot and hitting the actor on the head.

So much for television as escapism.

However, if anyone from Lifetime TV is reading, no one has optioned our story — and we’ve got college tuition to pay for one day…..

So it begins.

Cut to three weeks ago — when we took a moment to look up from our computers and work-brought-home, to stare at one another blankly.

VM:  So….Christmas cards this year? If we’re going to do it, I’ll need help.

VD: (after 30 seconds of thought and a sigh). Uh….No

VM: Sounds good.

fin

Yes, the times being what they are we have reduced ourselves from personalized greetings to nothing — without even the “annual family letter” as a transition point. I hope all of my family and friend readers will forgive us for this seasonal indiscretion, but after a busy fall and even busier early winter, the best we can do is send positive thoughts and post the occasional “Merry Christmas”-related messages via our cyber-lives.

So rather than something made with raffia and velum, please accept this post as my wish to each and every one of you for a safe and happy holiday season. I’ll be back in 2010 with further musings on the Vamp-front. In the meantime, enjoy a little holiday music from my muse Siouxsie (and Robert Smith, who I think was hitting the egg nog a little too much before picking up the symbols to shoot this number).

You stumble like a drunkard through a mash-up of your morning routine, at once completely exhausted and yet focused on getting out the door on time. There’s no food or drink — not fair to eat when your child can’t — so you ignore your stomach and move through the rushed steps to get on the road.

The car is warm, and Ella Fitzgerald is singing “Rudolph”. You’ll listen to it several times over the next hour, but again this is a day where your son gets to call at least some of the shots. You know what’s at stake as you drive through the dark towards Boston. You remember how quickly you went from a life of perceived normality to one in which you expected the phone to ring at any moment, telling you your child was dead. You shudder. You do not want to go back to that. You can’t go back to that. You lift your ban on turning things over to mysterious higher powers, and remind the universe that today should be a day of good news.

Heading into radiology is always a series of “oohs and aahs”, as nurses and anesthesiologists remark in glowing terms how great he looks, how much he’s grown. You remember that, for some, they are more accustomed still to seeing him bald and emaciated, with his brilliant smile shining through a skeletal frame of gray and green. “He does, doesn’t he? He’s doing great!” you reply to their words — but is he? That’s why you’re here. One more chance to stare into the abyss and see whether or not you’re getting pushed in.

Things never start on time. An MRI machine is down, or your stuck in traffic — all common occurrences that require you to just keep breathing and be patient. Your stomach begins to view your liver like a succulent dish as you sit quietly reading to your son, while some teenager who can’t stay still ties up the MRI Machine for over 2 hours for a scan that should have only taken 30 minutes. Whatever — your son is calmly reading books and entertaining the staff with tales of his time in “pre-K” and pushing toys around the floor.

Eventually the moment arrives, and with a kiss and hug your son is taken by your wife out of the room and behind the door, where doctors will administer the “happy drug” that will keep him asleep, quiet and still, for the duration of his scan. You wonder why they didn’t just jab that damn teenager with a vial of the stuff. You remember also that the drug, Propofol, is the one that Michael Jackson overdosed on. Pity – your son has always done so well with it.

Always? How many scans has this been? In total, since the day this all began, probably the 20th? Bloody hell.

The ringing phone takes you away from this thought thread. It’s Audiology, calling to tell you that the doctor who was supposed to do your son’s hearing test is ill, so they need to cancel your appointment for today and move it to tomorrow. You try not to reach through the phone and strangle them while explaining that you live an hour away and took all of today off work, whereas tomorrow you only took half a day to visit Brain Tumor Clinic in the afternoon. Plus it’s supposed to snow. You’re not sure if you presented your case in a calm and respectful manner, but clearly your tense response is all the scheduler needed to try to “go back to the drawing board” and squeeze you in today. In the end it won’t happen, but she does try, and at least fits you into an afternoon appointment right before Brain Tumor Clinic so you don’t need to lose the time at work.

Then another call — a discovery that an appointment was scheduled that you don’t need. Leave it to the coordinators not to coordinate. You wonder about hiring an assistant to navigate the faults of others — being a parent under these circumstances is work enough.

Calls answered, and your stomach is swearing to you through its growling. Breakfast is Au Bon Pain — a place you would never eat at again if you could avoid it. The sludge coffee and greasy bagel sandwich bring back memories of countless meals grabbed from there over the years, none satisfying but enough to keep you going for one more day. At least this is the first time you’ve eaten there in three months. Hopefully it will be the last time for that long as well.

Then you sit, watching Sesame Street on the wide-screen TV in the waiting room. Your wife reads — you should have brought a book. Instead you brought your Ipod, so you scroll through a list of your memories, trying to find the right tunes to take your mind away for a few minutes. Your own auditory Calgon.

Its when the nurse calls you in that your heart begins to race. Of course, he’s sleeping peacefully, and in a few short minutes will sit up bright-eyed and inhale seven packages of graham crackers while naming each of the Disney Characters plastered on the recovery room walls. But while you’re waiting for the cracker-fest to commence, you grasp your phone to the point your knuckles turn white. You’re not supposed to keep your phone on in the recovery room (apparently a call can cause the IV drip to explode or something), but given the speediness of the treatment team in reviewing your son’s scans, you know a call will come any moment.

Unfortunately that moment is a lifetime of worry, anxiety and fear. It’s getting easier between scans to return to a normal-ish life, and forget that you are only balancing a bit more firmly on a cliff that still stands before you in the dark. Your mind runs through the visions of bad news; how you’d handle the moment, how you’d tell  your family, your co-workers. How you’d tell HIM. He so peaceful as he sleeps before you, his impossibly soft skin and red cheeks offering the fleeting promise that good news is possible, hold on just hold on.

The phone rings. You launch out of your seat, a rocket lifting off into an intense space.

“It’s Peter — the scan is clear.”

You exhale — probably for the first time all morning. Your shoulders relax, and your not sure if your joy will lead you to run a mile screaming or to burst into tears. You take another breath, smile, and offer your son what will be the first graham cracker of the rest of his life.

Only thing to note at the moment (more notes to follow soon, I PROMISE), is that VB returns to Chez Healing for his next MRI on Tuesday. This will be a biggie — 3 year post-diagnosis scan. As they are all “biggie” in my mind I’m not sure it matters much, other than to say we’ve had a long and lucky road and we want desperately for it to continue.

I’ll be tweeting the days adventures as much as I can (note the feed to your right). So, if you find yourself sitting on Santa’s lap in the next day or so, please ask him for a clean scan. Then, book an appointment with your therapist, as I’m guessing my average reader is slightly older than a 9-year old and I’d wonder what the hell you’re doing sitting on Santa’s lap anyway…..

Dark Opinions….BWAHAHAHA!

I feel that I should use my annual post to “put a stake” in various things that have cheapened this most special of holidays. I call upon the spirits of the night to PLEASE do something about….

1. Young Adult Vampire Fiction. As much as I love Vampire fiction and lore, I have to agree with Neil Gaiman that it is time to stop with all the angst-ridden teens sucking blood and looking emo. ENOUGH ALREADY.

2. Young Adult Vampire Films. Sorry, folks — although I read the Twilight series of books and enjoyed them (even in spite of #1), the first film — to  borrow the metaphor — sucked. Someone needs to explain to young actors that squinting a lot is not physical manifestation of emotional connection with a character. IT’S LAME. STOP IT!

3. Sequels to books whose authors are long dead. I discovered last week, to my horror, that there is a sequel to Dracula that has been written by a direct descendent of Bram Stoker and some vampire folklore expert.  Just because a book is a classic in the literary cannon does not mean that all of us desire someone else to come along and make a part 2, people. I’m all right with re-visioning of the tale, but don’t suggest that you’re completing the unfinished vision of the original author. KNOCK IT OFF!  (This said — will I read it? I’m not sure….)

4. Zombies. Although the vampire craze is only beginning to return to the coffin for a decade or so, Zombies are the next big horror-thing. Sorry folks — not interested. In a cruel twist of fate, I know this means I will most likely meet my end as dinner to an undead drone, but it will reinforce my dislike for the creatures. NO, THANK YOU.

Trivia…BWAHAHAHA!

Apparently, Romanian Vampire Hunters used to believe that Vampires had small, hairy tails that swelled in the heat.

VB as a Pumpkin…BWAHAHAHA!

Happy Halloween, everyone!

We had found the perfect urn – artsy, roomy and decidedly Sketch-y… Only to discover it had been discontinued by the manufacturer months ago. The distributor never thought to update the 35 or so on-line “dead pet” sites we worked through to try and attain one, so after much frustration I asked the crematorium to put him in one of their temporary tins.

I picked him up, opened the box, and upon looking at the tin immediately called out to my deceased pooch, “Oh, Sketch, I PROMISE that we will get you out of there.” The tin is a mauve color, with pink flowers. It looks like something you’d put tea in. Actually, not you — your grandmother, I’d imagine. And the tea would be chamomile. Oh, the humiliation! So for now, Sketch and his floral tin are hiding in the box he came in, as we search for a better permanent home.

The other fascinating experience has been witnessing VB try to wrap his head around what has happened. We knew it was a matter of time — and for any parent, eventually the topic of death will come up and drain the color from your face. Of course in our case that conversation is much more layered and nuanced, as we wait for the day he puts the puzzle together and gets it about his own experience. Some moments its the simple stuff — “where is Sketch now”, etc — the existential truths that bind our universe. Other times, it’s a bit more close to home…

“Daddy, why did Sketch die?”

“Well, he was an old dog.”

To which, Declan points out that one of our fellow ATRT patients — who he knows died — was in fact not old. I reflect that he’s raised a good point, and quickly note the time so we can rush on to other subjects and not that one.

I think he deserves a little while longer in the throws of childhood innocence.

Sketch, known by my readers as “Vampdoggy”, died today at the ripe old canine age of 15. It was a quiet, peaceful exit, with our beloved dog held gently in our arms in his final moments. Earlier this week he was diagnosed with cancer after suddenly appearing quite anemic and tired. We are comforted in the knowledge that medication we gave him over the past few days seem to perk him up and make him comfortable. Although the end came suddenly and sooner than we had expected, we were able to spend a quiet weekend together and see him off this mortal coil in the comfort of our home.

Sketch was a shelter dog, and was without question the best dog my wife and I have ever had. In lieu of flowers and the like, we’d ask that anyone in our community who would like to remember our dear friend please do so with a donation in his name to the Animal Rescue League of New Hampshire, where we adopted Sketch from 12 years ago. You may do so by clicking here.

I am so sad.