home is burning

A family friend/relative/I don’t know what the fuck she is, Ann, was over visiting my Dad and the topic of my little sister, Michelle, getting pregnant came up. I’m usually the translator because, you know, the Lou Fucking Gehrig’s has stolen my Dad’s voice (haha), so I’m able to interject my own opinions into conversations until it gets too intense for the visitor to handle, thus forcing them to change the subject. I’m not a supporter of the pregnancy or anything with a ‘Nancy’ in it, so I had a blast with this one.

Ann: So I heard Michelle’s going to have a baby.

Bob: [Shakes head yes.]

Ann: That’s really exciting.

Bob: [Stares at oscillating fan. Starts mouthing words.]

Me: [Interjecting] We’re not that excited about it. In fact, we’re hoping for a miscarriage, or as I call it, a ‘God’s Abortion’.

Ann: Oh my gosh, why?

Me: Well, Michelle is an 18-year-old adopted Native American who hasn’t graduated from high school, has no job and was a severe alcoholic but three months ago. I mean, a true alcohol–fucked up on a Tuesday night and shit. Her husband, the father, is a 36-year-old soccer coach/masseuse who has been telling Michelle he loves her since she was 15-years-old. In addition, he’s a balding, pink-pigmented, pedophile Mormon who’s too fucking ugly to get any girls his own age, and thus has preyed on a weak-minded and vulnerable 18-year-old whose father is on his deathbed and may be looking for a father-figure to replace him. Oh, and get this, he drives a mini-van. Plus, I think he’s gay, like actually gay. He only makes $15,000 a year and just dumped a large portion of that money into, [going into gay voice] “trying to bring soccer to the little girls of Taiwan, you know, so they can get exercise.”[Stopping to take a breath and returning to regular voice] So we’re thinking, worse-case scenario, in three years Michelle will be an unemployed, mother of three or four without a high school education that was just dumped by her gay husband for some fat, Asian queer he met in Taiwan while, [going into gay voice] “trying to bring soccer to the little girls of Taiwan, you know, so they can get exercise,” [Returning to regular voice] that has no money, no marketable skills and a vagina that has belched out so many half-cracker, Mormon spawn that it looks more like camel’s mouth with it’s jaw dropped. So no, we’re not too excited about it. In fact, we think it’s a fucking tragedy.

Ann: [Pausing for a second] Well, it sounds like your Mom’s excited.

Me: My Mom is fucking nuts.

Ann: [Turning to face my Dad] Now Bob, I understand you went up the tram at Snow Bird last week…

I was talking to my little sister Chelsea. I told her that when all of this is done, I might need to sit down with a shrink and sort some shit out. She said that she thought that was a bad idea. I asked her why. Her Response:

“You go there and then they offer you a cookie and then you say, ‘No thanks, I don’t want a cookie,’ and then they say, ‘So what’s going on in your life?’ and you say, ‘Nothing, just give me the fucking cookie and I’ll go.’”

When I turn 26-years-old on September 17, I plan on giving up regular Coke and switching to Diet in an effort to live healthier. My cans will be silver instead of red. I will get cancer instead of just getting fatter.

Sure, I’ve also made the usual promises. I’ll start taking better care of myself. I’ll do 50 push-ups a day. I’ll start getting laid again. I’ll stop watching as much porn. [Now Dan don’t be ridiculous. In the “Skills and Interest” portion of your resume, you only have the word ‘PORN’ written three times in bold lettering, all caps. It takes up the whole page.] Coke was supposed to be the one big loss.

But I recently found out that I will be losing more than regular Coke as I begin my 26^th year on this poo-stained planet.

On July 17, my Father decided that 696 days with Lou Gehrig’s disease is enough. On the 22^nd of September he will be given morphine and unhooked from his respirator. His 55-years on earth will be over. He will never know if Obama beat McCain. He will never see the Utah Jazz win an NBA championship (though none of us probably will). He will never hold a grandchild. He will not know if Heath Ledger will be nominated for a posthumous. Oscar. He will never fart in a swimming pool again. He won’t be around to witness the horrific San Francisco earthquake of 2009 that I’m predicting/praying will sink the Marina, taking all those materialistic cum-stain people with it.

This announcement got me asking some serious questions. Feel free to answer any or all of them.

How is one supposed to take the news of another’s death? Isn’t it weird to know the day someone you love is going to die? What do I say? Can I still tell cock jokes? Should I just crawl up into a ball and cry? Is that considered pussy? Can I go to a local titty bar and redeem this tragic news for a free lap dance? Should I run through the streets yelling it so everyone knows? Should I start calling my Dad, “Captain Un-Hook”? Should I write a long blog post about it?

Should I film his last month? Is that too invasive? Would that be cool or would it just be me holding the camera and trying to steal the show by making shitty wisecracks that ruin everything? What would I film? Would I just film my Dad laying there counting down the days? Should I ask him life questions and steal all the knowledge I can while I can? Would I eventually just start filming my cock?

How will my Mom handle this all? Will she go even more bat-shit crazy? Will she be too sensitive to handle me calling her bat-shit crazy? Will she even be able to speak or will she be crying too much? Will she remarry? Who would she remarry? Do others still find her attractive despite the baldhead and the cancer? Will she still love yogurt? Will she call me up in the middle of the night and request that I move home? Will she overdose on Oxycontin? Can you overdose on Oxycontin? Of course you can, are you fucking retarded? Will she continue living in our family house or move out? Will she travel and see the world? Will each kid have to take turns letting her live with us? Will we pass her around like she’s an abandoned orphan? Will we have a calendar? Will one take her more than others? Will this cause fights and make us yell things like, “I had her all of November asshole,” and create resentment? Or will my Mom move on and write a book about her life and go on Oprah and have the world rally around her and cheer for her?

How many people will attend the funeral? Will friends from out-of-state come? Will it be one of those things where I don’t say but feel, “well this is shitty…but gosh it was nice seeing Jonathan again”? Will I be drunk? Aren’t you always drunk? Shouldn’t you get help for that? Will everyone know I’m drunk? Will that be obvious? Will people send flowers? What will I say when people say the whole, “I’m sorry,” bullshit? Should I be a dick about it? Should I look them in the eye and say, “Well, you should be because this is all your fault,” or, “Sorry isn’t going to bring my father back now is it?” Or should I be a total smart ass and say things like, “Oh, I don’t give a shit,” or, “Well, maybe I’ll get some pity pussy out of this whole thing,” or, “Oh, don’t be sorry because I’ve really, really, really been looking forward to this,” or, “Well, my Dad converted to Islam last minute, and since he sort of killed himself and brought all of us down with him, he’s up in Heaven fucking the Christ out of some tight virgins,” or, “Yeah it sucks, but I get his Lexus,” and start dancing around like I won a game show? Or should I just stare at the person and change the subject, saying things like, “Feel how smooth my hair is,” or, “Did you hear they’re making an Arrest Development movie?”

Should I get a new suit? Should I start a suit store called, “We Suit You!”? Would that be profitable?

Will everyone cry at the funeral? If people don’t cry, should I look at them with a wet, red face and yell, “Why aren’t you crying asshole?” Should I poke people in the eye so it looks like they’re crying? Should I laugh at the people crying and say, “There’s no crying in baseball”?

Will I be asked to deliver a speech? If I do speak, what will I say? Should I purposely try to make people cry? Should I show a slideshow that starts off with pictures of my Dad when he didn’t have Lou Gehrig’s disease and ends with pictures of him lying hopeless in a hospital bed to the song “Do you Realize?” by the Flaming Lips? That would get everyone to cry for sure, right? Should I dress up as the Wicked Witch of the West, green face and all, and prance around the funeral yelling, “I’ll get you my pretties,” to all my Dad’s friends and family members? Should I read some passage out of The Bible that doesn’t really make sense and seems so out of place that people turn to each other and ask, “What the fuck?” Should I write my speech as though I’m running for high school president instead of laying my father to rest? Should I open with that one line from Election, “Who cares about this stupid election?”

Should I not say anything, just stand on the podium, pull down my pants and do that one dick-trick where I tuck my junk behind me and press my legs together so it looks like a vagina? Would people think it looked like a vagina? If a friend calls during the speech, should I answer, put the speech on pause and talk about how fucked up I was the night before? Should I start the speech, “If there’s one word to describe my Dad it would be asshole, ” and then spend the rest of the hour-long speech discussing whether asshole is one or two words in this context and then resolve that its one word and close the speech, “In conclusion, asshole is one word and that’s what my Father was”?

Or should I give a real speech that accurately reflects what a kind and caring and loving person my father was? Should I not talk about his experience with Lou Gehrig’s disease, instead focusing on his life before? Should I talk about how he met my Mom and how he started his own successful business or how he traveled to a remote area in Austria called Hallstatt, which he considers his favorite place on Earth? Should I suggest that he’s going to a better place, maybe even Hallstatt? Should I talk about how he taught me how to play basketball and encouraged me to do what makes me happy? Should I then reveal that the only thing that makes me happy is masturbation? Should I talk about how he would wake up at five in the morning to drive me to John Stockton’s basketball camp? Or how he used to take me to all the Jazz games and give me the first stab at the popcorn?

Can I swear in a church? Is ass ok? Fuck? Shit? Fart? Cunt? Tit? Bitch? Bastard? Can I give a whole fucking speech without using a shit-eating bad word?

Is God going to play some sick trick on us where he cures Lou Gehrig’s disease the day after the funeral and comes down to Earth and yells, “That’s for all the masturbating you do,” and then ascend back to heaven to pick on the next family? Does my Dad believe in God and Heaven? Wouldn’t things be so much easier if he did, if we all did? Did the Mormon’s get it right? Have you ever seen a depressed Mormon sitting in a coffee shop writing about death and how awful the world is? Is the reason why you haven’t seen this simply because the Mormon’s aren’t allowed to drink coffee? Did the Mormon’s give my Dad Lou Gehrig’s? Should we have converted when we had the chance? When discussing religion with a Mormon friend should I have asked, “How do I join?” instead of, “How do you believe some of this bull shit?” Is the only saved soul in my family going to be my sister Michelle, who recently converted?

When does college football start?

What is going through my Dad’s head right now? I wonder if he’s happy with this decision? I wonder if he really wants to die? Why does he want to die? What was the breaking point? Was it when, in a burst of tiredness and anger and frustration, I yelled, “How long are we going to do this shit?” while struggling to get him out of the van? Did I kill him? Was that the breaking point? Or was it when the Lakers eliminated the Jazz and I responded by throwing my phone across the room and breaking it? Or was it when his legs stopped working? Was that it? Was that the point when he realized he wasn’t going to be getting better, that, in fact, things were only going to get worse? Was it when he was told that his 18-year daughter had become pregnant by her 36-year old soccer coach/husband? Was it when, despite requesting several times, his siblings didn’t come spend extended time with him, prioritizing wine drinking and vacationing over him? Was it when I started puking after changing his diaper? Was it all the cock jokes? Was it the fact that I would stare at his cock and ask why it’s so much bigger than mine? Did he grow tried of my bat-shit crazy Mom sitting by his side crying? Was it when we stopped doing all the care and instead hired Regina the aide? Was it when I brought home those chicken fingers from The Wing Coop and ate them in front of him? Was it when I poured water on his head and ask, “What are you going to do about it?” Was it when he started having to receive suppositories and consequently totally lost his dignity? Was it when I was pushing a suppository up his ass and yelled, “This shit sucks,” before walking over to the trashcan and vomiting? Was it when people outside the family stopped being able to understand him? Was it when we stopped being able to move him out of bed with ease, dropping him on his boney ass several times? Was it when we all decided we needed to focus on our own lives? Was it when we were watching Tiger Woods win the US Open on a bum knee and I turned to him and said, “Wow, Tiger has overcome so much and has shown such strength,” as he laid in his hospital bed unable to move his body? Or was all of this blended into one giant, shit-filled smoothie that was just too shitty and sad and awful for him to stomach anymore?

What should I do with my remaining time with him? Am I supposed to sit at his side and rub his arm and say, “doesn’t that feel nice?” until he’s gone? Should I show him all the best movies and let him listen to all the best music? What are the best movies? Life is Beautiful was pretty fucking good, wasn’t it? What about Home Alone? Can anyone remember a time when you watched a movie with him and he remarked, “Wow, that was a fucking great ass movie. If I’m on my deathbed, I would love to watch it,” then slapped you a high-five? Should I massage his body? Should I read him David Sedaris? Should I find a way to sneak him into a hot tub? Should I stand at the base of his bed and say, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” over and over again? Should I take him to The Dark Knight, point to Heath Ledger and say, “You’re going to be just like him soon”?

Do you think I could get Carlos Boozer to come visit him or do they just do that for those Make-a-Wish assholes? Would he actually come? Does my Dad even like Carlos Boozer, or would it be awkward for everyone involved and eventually lead Carlos Boozer to decide to play elsewhere? Who would I call? Would they answer? After a Make-a-Wish person dies, do they have a wall with pictures of all the participants with a header that reads, “Made-a-Wish”? Should I help him make a bucket list and hope, “Walk again and move my body,” isn’t one of his listed items and, “Watch Bucket List,” is? Should I take him on a shopping spree? Should we go get pedicures?

Should I be mad at him for putting in all this work just to watch him give up in the end? Should I remind him that I quit my job and lost my girlfriend over this whole mess? When he asks me to do something for him should I say, “What’s the point? You’re going to die anyways?” Should I take a bat to his wheelchair? Should I resent him?

Or should I organize a living funeral that he can attend where we all dress up and honor him and say nice things about him and give great speeches that are funny because he hasn’t died yet? Who should I invite? Do we all talk? Do we all cry? Do I really have to dress up? Should everyone bring a gift for the family? Should I suggest Season Two of The Wire on DVD? Shouldn’t I see Season One before I watch Season Two? You have a friend that can loan you Season One, remember?  Should I request that Michelle’s soccer coach/husband present my Dad with a small soccer trophy that has a small engraving that reads, “Thanks for letting me fuck your daughter”? Should I have fireworks and dancers and circus performers? Do I know anyone that juggles? What food would we serve? Should I request that we all have an Ensure, which is the only thing we put into his feeding tube? Should we all clap for him? Which mother fucking Hilton should we do this shit at?

Or should I not make a big deal of this all and just kiss him on the forehead and say, “I respect your decision and will always love you”? Should I thank him for all he’s done for me? Should I tell him that he’s a kick-ass Dad and add, “well not any more, but you know what I mean,” to the end of it?

And what about me?

Should I sit around and mope? Should I start doing heroin and cocaine and knowing everything about MDMA? Should I lower my standards and pathetically say, “I’ll fuck anything with or without a pulse,” as I sip on my second forty of the morning? Should I get to the point where I can say, “I know her, she’s a stripper”? Should I start getting in fights with everyone, including my best friends? Should I always remind everyone of this all the time? Should I hate myself for not doing enough? Should I watch that documentary The Bridge over and over again? Should I disappear and not tell anyone where I am?

Or should I just try to do all that I can and never question if it was enough? Should I try to move on with my life, get an MBA or something? Should I forever remember that all this happened but not let it affect the rest of my life? Should I walk up to the next pretty girl I see and give her a kiss on the lips? Should I order the best steak dinner in town? Should I go to a Taco Tuesday party and eat so many tacos that observers look at me and say, “Wow, he is having the time of his life!”? Should I go on a roller coaster and purposely piss my pants? Should I see the world, and I’m not just talking about Sea World? Should I buy myself a nice car and a nice watch and nice clothes and any DVD I want? Should I go to Vegas and get the mother fucking Rain Man suite? Should I move to Paris and fall in love with something that’s not a baguette? Should I learn how to cook gourmet meals for myself? Should I live in a place with a view? Should I start sitting in more hot tubs and eating more cheese? Should I really give up regular Coke?

When does college football start again?

Thoughts?

My Aunt Diane is a blue blooded American. She goes to country clubs and lives next to a golf course. She’s seen the whole World and has few stories to tell. She is easily offended. She doesn’t take the same liking to words like, ‘shithead,’ or, ‘fart monster,’ or, ‘douche brigade.’ She is the opposite of my Mom.

She recently visited my Dad, which was a teary event given his recent decision to pull the plug. As she was leaving she hugged my Mom and said, “Take good care of him.”

My Mom pulled back from the hug and said, “I will. I told him that I’d give him a blowjob a day for the rest of his life.”

Diane looked at my Mom and said, “Boy, I didn’t need to hear that.”  

I was in the process of helping my Mom change my Dad’s diaper. He had just shit the runny kind. Because moving my Dad out of bed is like moving a sack of bowling balls, we decided to try to change him while he remained in bed.

This is a frustrating and difficult procedure, way harder than calculus without a calculator. As my Mom tugged at my Dad’s diaper, it full of shit and trapped beneath my Dad’s body, she began to cry.

“I can’t do this. Why would you shit the bed? Why not tell us so we could get you up?” cried my Mom.

I didn’t know what to say, so I looked at my Dad and said, “Bet you wish you didn’t marry such a cry baby.”

My Dad lifted up his eyebrows as to say, “You’re telling me.”

Without missing a beat my Mom said, “At least I don’t shit the bed. You better not do this again Bob or I’ll make you clean it up.”

Rarely do you hear laughter inside an ALS support group meeting. They are sobering, somber events that make me want to cry, and not just because all the handicap parking out front is taken. At the start of each meeting, people enter, mingle for a bit, grab some food and settle into their seats or wheelchairs. We then go around the room, introduce ourselves and give a quick update about how things are going etc. The people with ALS rarely give the updates, instead electing that a family member do it. It’s all sort of sad, so to lighten the mood a bit, I usually play a laugh track in my head during these introductions.

Group Member One: [Gesturing to his limp wife sitting expressionless in her power chair] This is my wife. She’s had ALS for two years now. It’s gone after her legs so she’s in this power chair.

Laugh Track: Hahahhahahahhaha.

Group Member Two: My husband had ALS. He died about three years ago after a long battle. This is my eight-year old daughter who will grow up without a father.

Laugh Track: Hahahhahahahaha.

Group Member Three: I was just diagnosed in April, so I’m new to this whole thing. It’s sort of unfortunate, but my wife and me are taking a trip to Italy this summer. I want to see it before, well, you know…

Laugh Track: Hahahahahahahahaha.

Group Member Four: [Entering late and pushing man in wheelchair in] Sorry we’re late. We couldn’t get the damn van lift to lower.

Laugh Track: Hahahahahahahhaha. [Some light clapping]

Jerry Seinfeld: This is my neighbor Kramer [Kramer gives Jerry a thumbs up. Jerry roles his eyes]. He was just diagnosed. [Sarcastic and annoyed] He can’t move his arms and has trouble breathing. [Kramer winks at Jerry and jams three free sandwiches into his mouth.]

Laugh Track: Hahahahhahahaha.

The only person in the group that smiles and laughs outside of my perverse imagination is a jovial man in his early, to mid-40s. I don’t remember his name, so let’s call him Derek Jeter. Just kidding. Let’s call him Shawn. Shawn is the one person in the room that I really look forward too hearing from because his story is more depressing than my Dad’s and he tells it with spank and enthusiasm. He always has this weird/creepy smirk on his face and an equally weird/creepy tone to his voice. He was present at the June meeting that Greg, my Dad and I attended.

His brief story is this [Picture a really happy, smiling person telling it]:

“My wife has ALS. She was diagnosed in April of 2007. She’s at home now. She can’t make it to the meeting any more. Her breathing is not so good, so she’s on the BiPap breathing machine pretty much all day and night now. She goes off it briefly to eat, though eating is really hard for her. We have three kids, who are also home. They are 17, 14, and 11. They’re dealing with it ok. She has elected to not go on a respirator, so we’re expecting Hospice to be necessary really soon.”

Laugh Track: Hahahahahaha.

The super fucked up times 40 thing about his situation is that his wife isn’t comfortable letting anyone else do any of the care. It has to be him that feeds her, baths her, changes her diapers, etc. He also works full-time. Because he is so over worked and so alone, he probably needs the support group more than any of us.

“My wife doesn’t let anyone touch her, you know, privates or whatever. She’s too embarrassed. So I have to shower her and change her diaper and all that,” explained Shawn with a smile so big it looked like strings attached to his ears were pulling the corners of his mouth towards them. “I have to do everything.”

The room was silent for a moment as the weight set in before another man at the support group chimed in. I don’t remember his name, so we’ll call him Burt Reynolds. Just kidding. We’ll can him Karl.

“Well I met this one man whose name I can’t remember. We’ll call him Pope John Paul II. Just kidding. We’ll call him Steve. Steve said, ‘At first I would only let my wife help me with bathroom stuff. Then I would let my kids. Then I would let my siblings. Then I would let my in-laws. Finally I just let anyone with warm hands do it,’” joked Karl.

Everyone in the room laughed, Shawn the hardest. Shawn’s eyes opened wide and he retorted, “Yeah, well my wife won’t let anyone but me do it so I have to do it all.” Shawn looked like he was being tickled. His laughter intensified, “I even have to handle that time of the month for her.”

If I had anything in my mouth, I would have spit it out in shock. “You’re fucking kidding me?” I wanted to ask, but elected to glance over at Greg instead. In the process of caring for my Dad and his cock (AKA not vagina), I had totally forgotten about periods. It makes sense. ALS doesn’t affect the mind. Why should it affect the vagine? (T-shirt idea) If my Dad was a woman and still got periods, I probably would have been wrist deep in vaginal waste once a month.

I was suddenly grateful that my Dad wasn’t a woman. “Thank you God. Maybe you weren’t molded from a large piece of horse shit.” I leaned over and rubbed my Dad’s shoulder. He probably thought I was comforting him, but I was really thanking him for not getting a monthly period.

Shawn continued, “It’s actually really funny.” He paused briefly to chuckle to himself. “I used to be a tampon salesman when I was younger, so I had to know about all the products, so I knew how a tampon worked, how to put it on, which ones absorb the most. All that stuff. So I’m really lucky. It’s not a big deal for me.”

In my mind I was laughing so hard I was forced to slap my knee and hold up a hand to request the stoppage of the joke in fear that I might laugh and piss myself to death. In reality I sat with a slight smirk. But I wanted to stand up and applaud because I hadn’t been that entertained since witnessing Karl Malone give Isiah Thomas 40 stitches above his eye in December of 1991. I wanted to throw roses to his feet. I wanted to learn how to whistle so I could do that one loud whistle thing people do when they like something. Thank you. Thank you for looking at your situation with such awkward happiness. Thank you for giving me something to look forward to at these dreary meetings. Thank you for taking that tampon salesman job years ago even though you were slightly embarrassed and hesitant. Thank you for not bringing your wife to the meetings so you can talk about your handling of her period. Bravo. Bravo my lad.

“But anyways.  My wife has decided to not go on a respirator so she’ll do the BiPap machine for a bit more and then she’ll die,” giggled Shawn.

After my Dad had his tracheostomy and was placed on a respirator, he was admitted to the Neurological Rehab Center at the University of Utah Hospital. The purpose of his stay was to train us, his family, how to care for him, learn the respirator, physical therapy, occupational therapy, feedings, sheet changing, diaper changing, cock-in-urinal placements, etc.

Our Mom was also getting pounded with chemo three times a week. But we didn’t really care about that. Dad was the star of the show. This sort of upset our Mom because she was used to playing the lead in The Untitled Marshall Family Tragedy, given that she has had cancer for 15 years.

Me: How’s Dad doing today?

Debi: You know, I’m sick too.

Me: Yeah but you can move your arms and scratch your own nose and wipe your own ass.

Debi: [Giving scratching her nose a test drive] Yeah but I have cancer and my bones hurt and I’m tired.

 Me: [Making farting noises until my cheeks are num] Tough titties said the kiddies.

If this were the Vietnam War it would be the worst, most deadly part of it, the part when everything is coming at us a once, the part when your troop needs you the most, the part when you need to sack the fuck up and quit crying yourself to sleep like a little dandy.

But you can’t spell ‘dandy’ with out ‘Dan.’

My brother Greg and I needed to step up to the plate with the score tied in the bottom of the ninth and smack that fucking baseball out of the park, using our cocks as bats, participate in all the training and help my Mom get through this latest chemotherapy assault.

“Time to grow the fuck up kids,” I pictured God saying, suggesting that we were all yet to accomplish anything significant in our lives, not knowing that I had once masturbated seven times in one day. One fucking day!!!

Initially Greg and I viewed this training as our jobs. We took it seriously. We drove our Mom to chemo. We learned how to change my Dad’s diapers. But as is the case with any job, it’s hard to take it serious for very long. We slowly started to shift into slap-dick, grab-ass mode. We were supposed to drop my Mom off at chemo and show up at the Rehab facility by 9 AM and stay until 4 PM, a seven-hour day. Instead we would roll out of bed around ten and question whether or not we should even go in today, treating the whole ordeal as a vacation of sorts. We had been intensely taking care of our Father for the past few months with no assistance, so, having our Dad at the hospital was a nice break.

Me: I might just sit in the hot tub and watch Survivor On Demand.

Greg: Yeah, I’m probably going to play tennis and look for vests at Thrift Town.

Me: Where’s Mom?

Greg: She’s at chemo.

Me: Who drove her?

Greg: I was supposed to but I was reading about There Will Be Blood online. I’m so excited for that movie. Daniel Day-Lewis is so hot.

Me: Shit, we should have driven her. [Pause] You want to grab a burrito?

My Dad was under the supervision of a rehab doctor (Dr. Rosenbluth, who looked a lot like Gene Wilder), a physical therapist (Jenny), an occupational therapist (Catharine), a speech therapist (Kristin), a respiratory therapist (usually a fat guy named Geoff that looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman on a diet), and a team of nurses ranging from very attractive to dog-anus ugly. They were our team, our trainers. Jenny was the most useful because she seemed to care the most. I hypothesized that she had a crush on Greg, not knowing that he preferred the cock. Catharine was a total waste of time because, at this point, my Dad couldn’t do anything. Kristin was Mormon so I spend most of my time showing her blowjob jokes I’d loaded into my Dad’s communication device. Geoff was fat and consequently had breathing problems of his own, making his job as a respiratory therapist sort of ironic. Dr. Rosenbluth would come in, speak medical jargon for about ten minutes and then ask if we had any questions. We never did, but I always wanted to ask him if he was Gene Wilder.

The goal was to get my Dad home as soon as possible. He was supposed to be in rehab a week, as that is the time it usually takes caregivers to learn the aforementioned tasks. They didn’t trust us though, so they kept pushing back the release date. We got this comment a lot: “Well, he’s ready, but we should probably get you guys a little more trained.” I would respond by trying to grab Greg’s ass and making farting noises until my cheeks were num.

Other fun shit we did:

–Practiced driving my Dad’s power chair up and down the hallway using only the head controls. We would usually drool a bit to look like we fit in.

–Grabbed my Dad’s limp hands, rolling is fingers into a fist and pumping his wrist above his penis to make it look as though he was jacking off.

–Threw small pieces of paper at our Mom.

–Talked to the nurses about how crazy my Mom is.

–Suggested that we should dress our parents up in skeleton costumes.

–Talked about going home to work out and sit in the hot tub.

–Encouraged my Dad to take watching the Bourne Trilogy more seriously.

–Talked to the social workers about how crazy my Mom is.

–Ran around the room and then placed my Dad’s pulse oximeter on our own fingers to see how high we could get our heart rates. (I would always win because I take very poor care of my body).

–Ate burritos in front of my Dad, who was on a feeding tube, and made comments like, “Wow, this shit is amazing,” or, “Christ almighty, this fucker is fucking great,” or, “I’m going to need to shit soon because I just put six pounds of the best fucking burrito I’ve ever had into my body, using my hands to lift it and my mouth to chew it. How’s your feeding tube and your immovable arms?” 

–Unhooked my Dad respirator for a couple of seconds. My Dad would fake die and then we would fake save his life.

Greg and I viewed the training as a chance to fine-tune our senses of humors and coffee drinking abilities. There was a Starbucks on site, so we took turns fetching each other shit from there. It was Christmas time so they had eggnog and cinnamon lattes. We were consequently spending more time walking to and from the Starbucks and raving about the drinks than we were learning how to take care of our father.

Physical Therapist Jenny: [Stretching my Dad’s right leg by flinging it over her right shoulder] Ok, this stretches his semimembranosus muscles, as well as his gastrocnemius.

Me: [Taking last sip of Non-fat, eggnog latte and shaking cup to make sure it didn’t contain any more liquids] Shit Greg, I’m out. It’s your turn to grab.

Greg: [Finishing his tall, non-fat white mocha] I’ll be back in ten. Non-fat eggnog latte right?

Me: You nailed it faggot.

You could tell Jenny was getting sick of our antics. She would say things like, “Ok guys this is important so pay attention,” or, “Wow, how many eggnog lattes have you had today?” or, “Stop throwing things at your Mom and listen for a minute.”

What a fucking bitch right? How dare she. I hate her so much. She has really nice hair. She’s sort of cute. I love her. I wonder if she’d go on a date with me and fuck me. I bet the conversation would go like this.

Me: Would you like to go out with me?

Physical Therapist Jenny:  Yeah sure. We should grab a coffee or something.

Me: No, I have lots of friends willing to grab coffee with me. I’m looking for someone to hug me and hold me and kiss me and sleep in my bed and tell me what a great son I am and how brave I am giving the circumstances and fuck me. Someone to get physical with. And since you’re a physical therapist…what do ya say?

Physical Therapist Jenny: Absolutely not. Jesus Christ. I’d never fuck you. You have a slight potbelly, breath that reeks of eggnog, no job and I bet your penis is the smallest thing on your lower body, baby toes included.

Me: Ok, let’s just grab some coffee then.

Physical Therapist Jenny: Your drink of choice is the non-fat, eggnog latte right?

Me: You nailed it faggot.

Despite undergoing chemotherapy, my Mom still tried to participate in the training sessions. But she looked like she should be lying in the hospital bed next to my Dad instead of learning how to care for him. When she wasn’t falling asleep standing up, she was wandering back-and-forth between my Dad’s room and the cafeteria. She wasn’t part of the Starbucks crew, only because they didn’t have strawberry yogurt and the cafeteria did. Plus, she already had the shits from chemo so the coffee would have given her what ever the next step past diarrhea is.  She was constantly pushing for us to get Cheetos.

Mom: Do you want any Cheetos?

Me: No, I don’t really like Cheetos. Plus they don’t have them in the closest vending machine.

Mom: Yeah, but don’t you want something to snack on, like Cheetos or something?

Me: No? Do you want Cheetos?

Debi: No, I have some yogurt.

My sister Tiffany, the only employed member of our family at the time, was working and couldn’t get to all the sessions. Between the four of us, very little learning happened.

But my Dad was making progress. He was up walking with the assistance of Jenny and Geoff. He could hardly breathe before going on the respirator. It sucked energy out of his body and color out of his face. So the respirator gave him more energy and brought a warm, pink tint to his face. He was happy that things seemed to be getting better finally. He would excitedly tell us about the strides he had made during the day.

Bob: I was able to walk to the end of the hallway and back.

Me: [Taking sip of eggnog latte] That’s great Dad, but which Bourne movie are you on? You better at least be through Supremacy or I’ll be pissed.

It got to the point where my Dad couldn’t stay any longer. Insurance money was running out fast and the staff was tried of Greg and I cruising the hallways in the power chair, slapping high-five as we past each other. We had to step it up.

Cut to montage of Greg and me learning everything with the occasional shot of us throwing things at each other, drinking Starbuck and grabbing my Dad’s limp hands, rolling is fingers into a fist and pumping his wrist above his penis to make it look as though he was jacking off, all while my Mom eats yogurt and dreams about us one day craving Cheetos.

By the middle of December, a month and a week after he was admitted, the doctors and therapists all hesitantly approved his release as they gave us you’ll-be-back-because-you’re-a-bunch-of-incompetent-shitheads grins.

The rehab center has a practice room that was supposed to simulate what it was like to be at home. No nurses were to care for him unless it was an absolute emergency. We had to spend the night in this room and show that we were capable of keeping our Father alive. This was our last test.

Greg and I arrived around nine o’clock and the nurses rolled his hospital bed into the practice room. It looked like it had HIV. Greg and I were to sleep there we were slightly nervous. We were finally taking something seriously. The nurses got my Dad situated. Changed his diaper. Suctioned him. Brushed his teeth. Gave him his medication. Put splints on his arms. Placed the emergency button next to his head so he could ring for help. The nurse looked at us.

Nurse: So you think you can handle this?

Me: Oh, yeah. No problem.

Nurse: Any questions?

Me: Yeah. Do you think Dr. Rosenbluth looks like Gene Wilder?

The medication put my Dad right to sleep and Greg and I were left lying in the HIV bed with our eyes wide open, starring at the ceiling and listening to the rhythmic respirator push air in and out of our Dad’s body. I was 25. Greg was 23. We were sleeping with our Father. Shit had hit the fan in a serious way. Our lives sucked. The weight of the situation started to crush us. Is all of this really worth it? Can we actually do all this and maintain normal lives and not be crippled by depression? Maybe we should just unhook my Dad and shoot my Mom with a shotgun. Prison couldn’t be much worse than this. We had used humor to get through this so far. Could we continue? We didn’t know what to say to each other. I was then reminded of a Rufus Wainwright quote:  

“There’s no life without humor. It can make the wonderful moments of life truly glorious, and it can make tragic moments bearable.”

I finally broke the silence.

“Hey, Greg.”

“Yeah?” he responded.

“I want to tell you something.”

I lifted up my leg and farted a top-ten-loudest-farts-of-my-life fart.

“Ppffumphhhhhhhhh.”

We laughed so hard we woke our Father up. 

Jeff Rose is my Dad’s respiratory therapist (RT). Jeff is a short, abundantly happy man who loves his job and gives out so many compliments it can sort of get awkward. He’s the type of person that, as a child, probably was teased at school for being too nice to everyone or not being able to manage his nose hairs (which is still a problem). I imagine he was the teacher’s pet and would always compliment him or her for teaching him so much about geography or reading Charlottes Web with all the right voices. “That’s exactly how I expected Templeton the Rat to sound,” he probably said, his nose hairs fraying out like the over-used tines from a rake as his classmates envisioned punching him in the stomach during the recess that couldn’t come soon enough.

He is very formal and calls my parents Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and wouldn’t say the word shit if his mouth was full of it, electing to use words like ‘gosh’ or ‘goodness’ or ‘my word’ or ‘heck’ or, if things got really ugly, ‘poop.’ He’s a bit more casual with me, probably because I use the words ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ around him, which he seems to appreciate since he doesn’t say them himself.

In addition to being a certified RT, he has his MBA from the University of Phoenix, which I bet is a really big party school, given the warm weather and all, but chose to go into respiratory therapy instead.

But it all turned out well for Jeff. He’s married to a quiet wife, he’s happy, and he loves his job more than most people do.

Jeff comes over at the start of every month for a “vent check,” which is a procedure whereupon he makes sure my Dad’s respirator is functioning correctly, that all of his tubing is properly pumping air in and out of his body with the force needed to keep him alive. When Jeff comes over he always starts with a set of compliments that I can’t possibly take seriously, especially given all the nose hairs reaching towards his upper lip.

Compliment: Robert, you’re looking great. Your color is great and you look like you’ve improved. Looks like everything is running smoothly. You’re going to live a long, long time.
Reality: My Dad looks like shit. Everything is off kilter, starting with his color. He hasn’t improved since he was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease in October of 2006. He has advanced faster than most and now can’t walk. Nothing in his life is running smoothly, except the ventilator pumping air in and out of his lungs and keeping his completely functional brain trapped in his limp body while he thinks off all the things he can no longer do. He has just decided that he no longer wants to live and is planning on pulling the plug at the end of September. Nice try Jeff.

Compliment: You have such a nice family.
Reality: My family is comprised of A.) Two dying parents B.) A sleepy gay brother whose favorite magazine is Out C.) An adopted Native American sister who has married a 36-year old pedophile, has dropped out of high school and is now pregnant with their half-cracker, half-Pocahontas spawn D.) A possibly autistic sister who sucks the salt off of pretzels and then puts them back into the bag for the next pretzel lover (always me) to find, take one bite and yelled the words ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ in such quick secession that it sounds like one word, ‘funt’ E.) A sister who had a really bad acid trip in the eighth-grade, whereupon she envisioned me as being the devil, having horns and shooting bolts of lightning out of my eyes and hasn’t changed her imagine of me since F.) A bunch of piss-easy cats that I have nightmares about on a nightly bases G.) Two lively golden retrievers that we can’t love because we’re too focused on death H.) And me, an unemployed, floppy-haired alcoholic who girls find to be ‘awkward’ and ‘weird’ and ‘different’ and ‘cute until he opens his mouth and says the N-word or something equally offensive, like cum butt or panty rape.’

Compliment: Dan, you are a really smart guy and appear to be taking great care of Robert.
Reality: True, except we call him Bob or Boob or Roberto Benigni or This Asshole.

Compliment: You have a beautiful home.
Reality: [Me pointing to cat piss stains]

Between compliments, Jeff fiddles around with the vent settings and talks about the Positive End Expiratory Pressure (PEEP) valve and the air compressor and the cough assist machine and the humidifier and the inhalation tubing and all of the rest of the shit we can’t wait to forget. He usually gets too technical for anyone to understand, talking about air pressures and carbon dioxide levels.

My Mom stands there while he spouts technical speak and nods her head like she understands everything, her eyes half-shut and her make-up applied with an “aw, fuck it” attitude. She will usually ask unrelated and inappropriate questions like, “How much do respiratory therapists make?” or “What’s your home phone number so we can call you anytime we have a problem?” or “What does your wife do?” or “What does your wife look like?”

He will answer by changing the subject and adding in a compliment. “Robert, your breaths per minute look really good. My goodness I can tell you were a heck of a runner and have a very healthy heart,” Jeff will say, his glass half-full of hope while mine is half-full of donkey cum and rape jokes, with a splash of despair.

My Mom loves Jeff, presumably because of all the compliments he doses out and because he has played a role in keeping her husband alive. Us kids rarely give our Mom a compliment and have a very different view towards her.

Jeff’s View: Your Mom is smart and doing a great job caring for her husband.
Our View: Our Mom is bat-shit crazy and it providing care that is slowing killing our Father. She shouldn’t be allowed near the respirator because she’ll do something to fuck it up.

Jeff’s View: Your Mom is beautiful.
Our View: She is bald and poorly applies make-up.

Jeff’s View: Your Mom just needs a nap.
Our View: Naps don’t cure cancer. Assisted suicides do.

Jeff’s View: Your Mom is listening to what I’m saying and understands everything.
Our View: Our Mom’s brain has been so fried by chemo that a dead Terri Schiavo has a better chance of listening to and understanding this shit than she does.

Because Jeff is so nice to her and has so much faith in her, my Mom returns the favor by viewing him as being the ultimate expert, and not just as it pertains to the ventilator.

“Where can we get diesel fuel for Bob’s van?”

“When is it best to give Bob his nightly suppository?”

“Do you think Obama has enough foreign experience to lead the nation out of the globe mess Bush has created?”

“Is it true that barnacles have the largest genitals relative to their body size?”

Jeff usually answers these questions with some level of tangible bullshit, but because of my Mom’s confidence in him as an expert, he too begins to believe in his own expertise.

During the winter we were having raccoon problems. Apparently having a person with Lou Gehrig’s disease lying in the house doesn’t keep raccoons from eating our dog’s food and walking on our pool (no big deal) cover. While Jeff was over doing a vent check my Mom mentioned the raccoons. He launched into expert mode.

Mom: So Jeff, we have raccoons in our backyard.

Jeff: Gosh, raccoons can be really mean creatures. Are they coming out during the night?

Mom: Yeah, they’re eating our dog’s food.

Jeff: Yeah, they usually scavenge nocturnally and have great memories. Your dogs are so beautiful. My goodness what a great family you have. But man, raccoons can be really rough, mean creatures.

Mom: Really, what do they do?

Jeff: [Puffing up his chest and raising his arms into the air to resemble a bear more than a raccoon] They sort of puff up like this, show their fangs, and can attack in some cases.

Mom: So what should we do to get rid of them?

Jeff: Animal control is the best option. They’ll come and shoot tranquilizers at them, sedate them and then take them away.

Mom: I don’t want to do that. [Closing eyes entirely] I sort of like them.

Jeff: Well, some people have raccoons as pets. Heck, I couldn’t imagine, but some people do it.

Mom: Do you think they have rabies?

Jeff: Probably not. [Gaining enough confidence in his expertise to start using guesses as facts] Most raccoons aren’t rabid, only about three percent. Certainly no higher than that. But gosh, you guys have such a nice house and such a great family, I bet your raccoons aren’t for sure.

At this point, I felt like Jeff was deeper into bull shit than a animal-fucking farmer playing pitcher, so I decided to leave the room in risk of saying something mean like, “Three percent, really?” or pointing at his nose hairs and saying, “You should really take care of those,” or, “I’m surprised you’re married.” Any insult would most likely slow down the amount of compliments he’d give me. “You’re so smart.” “You’re a great son.” “You’re a vent expert.” “Wow, Berkeley. What a great school.”

I need the compliments as much as my Dad needs the vent, and without Jeff our knowledge about the breathing machine would be minimal. He had taught us how to make the vent portable so my Dad could leave his room. He showed us how to use the cough assist machine to help get the mucous-laden secretions out of my Dad’s lungs, thus lowering the risk of pneumonia. He had educated us on what all the alarms meant so we knew what do to and thus didn’t panic when we heard the beep, beep, beep noises. He makes my Dad’s life better. He is necessary. He is a great, great man. He is smart and well qualified. He has a nice home and a nice family. His dogs are beautiful. He is beautiful. His color looks great. His breaths per minute look really good. He is a heck of a runner and has a very healthy heart. Wow, the University of Phoenix. What a great school.

As I left the room, biting my lip all the way, I heard my Mom ask about snakes, though we’ve never seen any snake outside of a zoo.

“So what do we do about snakes?”

“Well snakes are tricky…” Jeff started to say as I exited.

Sometime in between the ninth and tenth grade, my 17-year old sister Chelsea became obsessed with the concept of rape. I don’t know what happened.

Maybe her health teacher had given a fear-ridden speech about the risks of rape. I remember hearing one of those speeches about kidnapping, about how you should never talk to strangers because they’ll pull you from your families and make you do awful shit.. I scared the shit out of me. I didn’t talk to a stranger until I was 23. I bet her teacher gave that speech, but about rape.

Maybe she had watched that episode of the Sopranos where Dr. Melfi gets raped in the stairwell. (For those that haven’t seen the Sopranos, Dr. Melfi gets raped in a stairwell and has a chance to tell Tony about it, but decides to keep it a secret. Also, Christopher dies in the third to last episode. Sorry to be a spoiler.)

Maybe her hormones kicked in and she started to see boys as horny, sexual beings, with sex drives so out of control that that consent was not an option.

Maybe she’s a Marshall and finds humor in disturbing, awful things like rape.

Maybe she’s getting rape confused with something else, like throwing the Frisbee or watching American Idol.

The obsession started somewhat out of the blue. She had been researching dance camps for the summer. She had narrowed it down to one in Boise and another somewhere in the wilderness just outside of Provo, UT. She was very concerned about the wilderness camp and offered this statement as her main argument against it:

“They don’t let you bring an iPod, or a radio, or a cell phone, or any games, but it says that you can bring your favorite stuffed-animal and I was like, ‘My favorite stuffed-animal isn’t going to help me when I’m getting raped in the woods.’”

She laughed her emphatic, teeth-filled laugh. I guess it was a legitimate concern. A stuffed animal could do very little to repel a rapist. If anything, it might turn him on more. But it was a strange observation to say the least. I mean, you would think a 17-year old girl would be like, “Shit what am I going to do without text messaging for a couple of weeks?” or “I can’t sleep without listen to Jack Johnson on my iPod.” But, you wouldn’t think one would read that and say, “Shit what if I get raped in the woods.”

I blew off this first incident, thinking that is was just a funny, random comment. Little did I know if was the start of a deeper obsession that spanned past joking. A few weeks later I picked Chelsea up from school and the topic of raped popped back up.

Me: [Very parental] So, how was school today?

Chelsea: Good.

Me: What did you learn?

Chelsea: Nothing.

Me: Anything exciting happen?

Chelsea: Well not really.

Me: That sucks.

Chelsea: Well, this one girl was talking to me about how she has been raped twice.

Me: [Shocked] Raped twice? That’s ridiculous. She’s probably lying to you.

Chelsea: No, I don’t think so. She’s a Goth.

Me: Well, that makes sense. All Goths have been raped at least once, and apparently, some twice. Who raped her?

Chelsea: Well, the first one was her Mom. The second, she didn’t say.

Me: [Nearly losing control of the car] Her Mom? Ok, Chelsea. Now you’re just making shit up. I doubt her Mom raped her.

Chelsea: She did. [Pause, trying to change subject] How do I know if I have love handles?

Me: You don’t need to worry about that at your age Chelsea. You’ve got bigger things to worry about, like getting raped by your Mom.

Chelsea: [Becoming really serious] Do you really think Mom would rape me?

The thought of my Mom raping scrawny, little Chelsea was one of the funniest things I’ve forced myself to visualize. I pictured Chelsea entering the kitchen dressed in her ballet outfit, fresh off three grueling hours of practice. She would stop in the middle of the kitchen for a quick pirouette, and then skip over to the fridge. She’d open it and pull out a plate with shrink-wrap covering her dinner. Shoot, meatloaf again, she would think. She would close the door to reveal my small, fragile, bald chemo-filled Mom standing with an evil look plastered to her face. Her sudden presence would cause a startled Chelsea to drop her plate. It would shatter, sending an explosion of meatloaf, Caesar salad, and string-beans across the kitchen.

“How was your dance practice Chelsea?” my Mom would say in a sinister voice.

“Good,” Chelsea would reply hesitantly.

“That’s good,” my Mom would retort as she pulled a black ski mask over her face. 

My Mom then would pounce on Chelsea like a cheetah on a wildebeest, hips gyrating, hands active. Chelsea would shower the air with screams and cries as she was forced into a pile of broken glass, cold meatloaf, sting-beans and salad. “No. Don’t. Stop. Get off of me. Please. But you’re my Mother.”

Part of her would tell her to stop. But my Mom would remind herself that she needed this, even if it hurt her cancer-ridden bones down to the core.

Ok.

Stop.

Jesus Christ.

I never thought I would write a hypothetical where my lymphoma Mom rapes my sister. I’m sure I will now go to some version of hell after God reads this scene back to me at the gates of heaven. Oh well, you only live once and there’s no proof the God exists, just gates into heaven.

The whole rape things started to evolved into a joke with Chelsea and I. Sure, fear that it would actually happen to her played a role initially, but everything slowly evolves into a bad joke in our house. When Chelsea would come home from school I would talk with her about rape.

Me: So did you get raped school again?

Chelsea: Yep.

Me: Well, did it hurt?

Chelsea: No, just the in and out part.   

She ended up choosing to go the dance camp in Boise. I envisioned her filling out a post-camp survey about how they can improve the camp, why their camp was selected over others etc. I pictured her writing, “smaller chance of getting raped,” below the “Why did you select this camp over others?” question.

When she got home from camp I expected stories about evil camp councilors and bitchy, whiny girls who wouldn’t shut up about some cum-easy boy.

“How was camp?” I asked.

She looked at me with a smile and replied, “It was great. I didn’t get raped.”

My Mom doesn’t get along with my Dad’s siblings, Diane, Janet and Jim. In fact, they have been at war since I can remember. She uses phrases like, “those blow-hards,” or “those fat ass holes,” or “those spoiled ass holes,” or, “those fat, spoiled blow-hard ass holes.” They think my Mom is a bitch and has ruined my Dad’s life.

My Mom essential problem with them is that their lives consist of a series of vacations, that none of them have really worked, that none of them have done anything but spend the money their parents made. Kind of sounds like me. They have a tendency to focus on the good not the bad, the happy not the sad, the cheerful not the mad (God, that was gay how I rhymed all those). My Mom is the opposite. That’s where the central conflict exists.

When my Dad was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease on October 26, 2006, the hope was that they would put their differences a side and help provide my Dad with the highest quality life possible, given the circumstances. My Mom and them had a meeting with a professional mediator and agreed that they would do their best to work things out and be a part of each other’s lives.

The meeting did very little. They rarely visit my Dad, despite his requests. They will occasionally stop by on their way somewhere else, but my Dad is never the destination. All of them are retired and all of them live in states boarding Utah (Diane-Colorado, Jim-Nevada, Janet-Idaho). In May, Janet and Diane stopped by on their way up to Pocatello, Idaho. My Dad started crying harder than I’ve ever seen him cry, and he was at game 6 of the 1998 NBA finals when Jordan hit that infamous shot that sunk the Jazz, fucking ass hole. He requested that they be a bigger part of his life, that they visit more, that they make a larger effort to help out.

They passively said they would ‘try’ to visit more, then looked at their watches and made a comment about getting on the road so they could beat the fierce Salt Lake City traffic (note: sarcasm was used in the last sentence).  But drinking and vacationing are their priorities, even more so than their dying brother who has a limited amount of life left.

We figured maybe their bad relationship with my Mom was keeping them away. We saw an opportunity for them to visit in August while my Mom and Chlelsea will be taking a rare vacation to Palm Springs. On Monday this week he, my Mom and I drafted this email that set off the subsequent chain of emails:

Hi All,

I’m doing okay, but my legs are getting weaker. I can’t stand up any more, so that makes me sad. Debi and Chelsea are going to Palm Springs Saturday August 9th to August 16th. I was wondering if you all could come visit during that time. It would be great to spend that time with you. It would mean the world to me. I can see if the Park City Condo is available for that week. Please let me know if that would work. 

Best Wishes,

Bob

Dear Bob and Family,

So nice to get your email. We just returned to Colorado after our big celebration for Norm and Virginia’s 60th wedding anniversary. They took us on a Carnival Cruise to Mexico. It was nice to spend some time together and all be on the same schedule. I had my patches so I didn’t get sea sick, which was a bonus. I am sorry to hear that your legs have gotten weaker. They have carried you to some wonderful places and great adventures. 

We have company coming next week so I am busy trying to put the house together after being gone so much. We have been helping Kirk get moved into his new abode. He bought a place in downtown Denver. A loft in the middle of all the action. He will be just a block from the bus to work and a short walk to sporting events, bars and restaurants. He is busy studying for the bar exam so it has been a big push to get him settled. He is almost there. 

We will make every effort to get over to see you soon. We won’t be able to come during the August dates you sent. We are taking the boys on a trip to celebrate their graduations. That is the only window between exams and when work begins that we can do it. But we will make some arrangements to see you when we return. 

We will check with you following your surgery on the 22nd. 

Love ya always,

Diane 

Maybe we could talk about the request to visit in August while Deb is in Palm Springs.  We will be in Lummi at that time, but might be able to work something out for a few days.  We would not be comfortable with doing any of the medical care, but would look forward to keeping Bob company.  We can talk about it when we see you.

Look forward to seeing you.  You are never out of our thoughts.

Love,

Janet

Deb

Sorry about the asshole comment, but time is of the essence. He isn’t going to wait long, and you guys have your whole lives to vacation. He really wants to spend time with you. Please respect his wishes.

Love,

Deb