Spectacular Mistakes…

This is not going to be a short and sweet funny post. If you’re looking for one of those — I’d like to suggest that, to commemorate the American Idol finale, you re-watch my very own American Idol audition. I’ve been told it’s hillarious.

I apologize in advance for the long, rambly and serious nature of this post. It might be a bit disjointed; just bear with me and try to keep up if you can. I won’t guarantee that it will make a whole lot of sense as I’m writing it at this late hour.

It’s weird having a blog with a varied audience. I wrote something up a few weeks back about the fact that family members of a different generation are among my readers.  I’m fine with that. But I have to admit — the content which I post here, like the content I would post in my own life, goes through its own filtration process.  Just as I wouldn’t tell a less familiar acquaintence about certain details in my life, I also make certain choices about what I write about here.

Which, I suppose, could be a bit of a struggle for me. Because, after all, this is my blog. My original goal for blogging was for me to self-express in the best way possible. For me, it means writing knowing that an audience will be reading. A bit voyeuristic, I know.  But hey — it seems to work for me. I like the feedback — whether it consists of compliments or constructive criticism.

I often lean towards writing the upbeat and funny stuff. It’s what I like. It’s how I practice the type of writing I enjoy more than anything else. I’ve written upbeat, light-hearted comedic pieces as an amateur and a paid (and syndicated!) professional before, and I want to exercise the funny bone a bit. Alas, humor can be predictable; this is why people pretty much know what to expect when they read a Dave Barry column or watch an Adam Sandler film. I’m not trying to raise myself to their level; I just observe that some of my patterns of writing — and the general way I present myself to the blogosphere in general — can be predictable and repetitive.  A good friend coined a term which has been on my mind a bit: “Shiny-in-a-can.”  I see where s/he is coming from.  I don’t think Shiny-in-a-can is necessarily bad. In fact, I happen to like and identify with this aerosol propelled version of myself. It’s certainly a safe, comfortable option of me.  But sometimes there’s simply more.  And I struggle as to whether or not to reveal it.

I got a call from my Dad a few months ago.  The two of us are quite close — especially since my mother died suddenly in 2006. Life has been moving forward for both of us since then — he with a wonderful girlfriend with whom he has made a new home and who has become part of our family (and my dad part of hers).  I’ve written here about him selling the home that he made with my mom and his boys — a home with more than three decades of history for all of us.

I haven’t mentioned on here that my Dad’s call was about the non-Hodgkins lymphoma with which he was diagnosed. And the fact that he would be undergoing chemotherapy as treatment for what was originally thought to be far less aggressive than it was.

Now — before I go any further, I spoke with my Dad this evening.  He’s doing great. He just got the results back from his PET scan — and the treatment is working. He has already undergone three rounds of chemo and has three left.  His hair has fallen out, but he simply looks like he has a military crew cut. If anything, he looks like General Wesley Clark.  He certainly doesn’t look like someone who has taken an extreme beating from chemo. And I think it’s because he has a wonderful partner and a the amazing support of family who visit regularly.  Hell — he was well enough to go up to my brother’s 40th birthday party in New Jersey for the weekend!  It’s a tremendous feeling to know that he’s doing quite well.

But my world over the past eight weeks has been clouded with uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect. I’ve seen cancer and chemotherapy from a distance. I’ve seen people recover well from it, and I’ve seen those whose battles were tragically lost.  My dad made it abundantly clear to me that the prognosis with chemo was very good and that he had no plans other than to stick around for a very, very long time. I still believe him — he has such a drive to live.  But I simply had nothing that close to which I could reference this.  What would happen exactly? Would he become weak?  What would be my responsibility as a son going through this with him? Where would I need to fit in within his already wonderful support structure?

What if something unexpected were to happen? Something other than his plan of beating the crap out of this cancer?

My dad always mentions the way I bore the brunt of my mom’s passing. He was on his way home from Connecticut when it happened. My brother was in New Jersey — which left me (and K) to do everything. I was on autopilot, commandeering K’s PDA and just getting shit done. (She did an incredible amount as well — especially in the following days.) I didn’t have a chance to let anything personal sink in — I felt more like I was watching myself as a cast member of CSI at the scene of the death. I simply had to do it this way. It had to get done. And it wasn’t going to get done without me being on autopilot.

Where was this sense of autopilot when I was told that my Dad would be going through chemo? Yes, the situation was (and is) very different. My Dad’s doing fine. And he has a companion to help him out through all of this. And it’s not a tragic surprise.  But still — I was appalled that my reaction was not to simply “do stuff.”  It was to freeze.

I find myself freezing a lot more nowadays rather than simply getting it done. I undertand that I’m not in the crisis mode I was in on that summer day when my life was turned upside down. On that day I pretty much had a pass. I had no idea what to expect or what to do. If I did something wrong, perhaps, people had license to let it slide. (Although I do remember a frantic phone call, gasping for air, to the managers of the burial plot because I had forgotten to remind them that there needed to be a place reserved next to my Mom. It was all taken care of.) And now? I’ve somehow arrived to a place where it’s nearly impossible for me to move forward without fear that I might proceed in the wrong fashion. That I might leave out that one detail that harms something or someone permanently.

It’s an irrational fear.  It’s one I know is ridiculous to obsess about. And most of the time I can simply forget that it exists.  And for now? That’s probably okay. My Dad is going to be okay for the time being. But he will get older — whether in a few years or a few decades. He will need my brother and me to step up. To do what’s right. And by that point, I’m going to need my autopilot to kick back in again — rather than perpetually rethink and revise my decisions to determine what would be the best course of action.

It’s not an easy task. And I’ve enlisted some help to get back on track. To overcome this apprehension of possibly making the wrong choices and not being able to go back.  I’m pretty sure it means I’m going to make my share of spectacular mistakes on the way. Hopefully it will also mean getting back on track to making some pretty great decisions without balking at them.

So bear with me.  It’s probably going to be a bit of a bumpy ride. 🙂