CAESAR

Yesterday was the Ides of March.  In 44 B.C., a soothsayer warned Julius Caesar to “beware the Ides of March,” and not go to the Senate. More important, SO DID HIS WIFE! Actually, not much has changed in the two millennia since that day.  It doesn’t take Deepak Chopak to espouse the wisdom of avoiding politics…and listening to one’s wife.  However, Caesar disregarded the warnings and did not beware.  Big Mistake!  Bad Caesar. The consequences of that little decision really made a mess for housekeeping.

Yesterday was also our anniversary.  As avid archivists, we have learned a lot from history, and, unlike Caesar, we bewared (bewore?  Whatev!)  We decided not to tempt fate by doing anything fun.  Instead, just to be safe, we went straight to the University Hospital for another paracentesis!  It is better to suck out three more liters of fluid from Dennis’ midsection, than to risk being eviscerated by guys wearing white togas and carrying concealed daggers. 

Actually, the more I think about it, there were some striking similarities.  Of course, there was no blind man on the steps leading up to the hospital predicting the future by reading the entrails of a chicken. But there were a bunch of guys wearing white lab coats interpreting the growth patterns of a Petri dish and carrying concealed scalpels whose sole intention was to carve portals in Dennis’ lower hemisphere in order to drain his abscess pockets.  Thankfully, in this case, nothing soaked the floor, and Mark Antony didn’t take the podium with his “Dr. Brutus is an honorable man” speech.  That was reassuring.

And as if being down a quart of precious bodily fluids isn’t enough to generate paroxysms of jubilation, the “Technicians at Delphi” informed us that the ultrasound showed the abscess is significantly diminished.  In unrestrained delight, we did a victory lap around the lobby of the hospital.  We had to check our velocity, however, because Dennis was in hospital attire, whose construction is anything but modest and can at an unguarded moment reveal the lay of the land.  It is wise to temper one’s speed with prudence lest things are revealed to an unsuspecting public which are best left concealed.  But Dennis really rocks those hospital gowns!

Good news is the new prozac.  Dennis has been on a powerful antibiotic, rocephin, which is specifically designed to target strep anginosis, an evil bug akin to Ellen Ripley’s alien nemesis.  As innocuous as this drug’s name seems, (it sounds like something one would plant in a garden) it has done some serious damage to the abscess.  Unfortunately, it is harsh on Dennis’ already compromised system, and challenges both of us to constantly re-invent appropriate obscenities for talk bubbles over our heads.  We’ve tried channeling our inner Julius Caesar for his inspirational final words, but neither of us speaks Latin, and “Etu Brute!” just doesn’t cut it. We’re big-time into words consisting of four letters.

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we chose to postpone our elaborate anniversary celebration pageantry until today.  This works for me.  “Sympathetic diarrhea syndrome” has caused me to temporarily relinquish the title of “Our Lady of Perpetual Perkiness.”  Daylight Savings Time seems to extract an hour out of EVERY day, and settling our weary carcasses into matching recliners in a synchronized collapse is a major part of our afternoon protocol.  Dennis is particularly angular, and we are constantly shielding him from paleontologists who might be tempted to excavate and carbon-date his bones.

This afternoon, however, we are going to see a live theatrical production of “Zorro,” the musical.  We can’t wait to be swashbuckled by Don Diego de la Vega, who rights wrongs and brings justice to the tyranny in his town.  (Yeah, yeah, but can he tolerate massive doses of rocephin for six straight weeks without the runs?  Now that’s something to sing about!)

We had considered going to see “Hunger Games,” but after a steady diet of rainwater and rice gruel, we much prefer Bacchanalian Excess Games.

And we are preparing for the production big time, donning masks and practicing our thrust and parry like we learned in our correspondence course, En Garde for Dummies. In the absence of rapiers or daggers, we opted for some dull steak knives I resurrected from a kitchen drawer. 

It was rather an amusing exercise in foolishness to slash imaginary Z’s in each other’s underwear while singing “Out of the night/ When the full moon is bright/ Comes a horseman known as Zorro!” with decibels that exceeded city ordinances.  (Too much leisure time creates all kind of mischief on weak minds.) But then in an errant and misguided parry, my new Spanx got snagged. SNAGGED!!!  AAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH! Dang.  Those suckers are expensive.  They’re greater inventions than even the ShamWOW! And, they’re architecturally correct. I grieved.  But, although it felt like death by a thousand paper cuts, I decided to release my angst into the universe and tried not to mourn the loss of the garment that allows me to go into polite society without too much body dismorphia.  We put the knives away, along with our dreams of being adopted by a tribe of Massai warriors.

I know, I know, running with knives is never a good idea.

Every anniversary I ponder the longevity of our marriage. How has it endured?  Why do two people decide each year to remain together? There must be many reasons.  I’m sure a contributing factor must have been my “pre-nup/post partum” vow to give Dennis sole custody of the kids in the event of divorce.  That always gave him pause. The only other plausible explanation is Dennis’ incredible gift of patience, and our strict avoidance of soothsayers, disgruntled senators, and sharp objects.

Mars, Hares and Madness

It’s March already.  It arrived a little late this year because of Leap Day, although it seems the first two months of 2012 have passed at the speed of light.  And speaking of light, on March 11^th, we will all lose an hour of sleep to pick up extra sun at the end of the day.  I guess the exchange is worth it.

March is actually named after a rather angry fellow, Mars, the Roman god of war, and it is known for madness, hatters, hares and ides. 

It is also the month Dennis and I chose to get married.  In fact, our anniversary falls exactly on the Ides of March, the date when Brutus murdered his friend, Julius Caesar.  Brutus must have been madder than a March hare.  Is this a bad omen?  Not necessarily, although we tend to avoid asylums, haberdashers, the Senate, and senators, especially on an election year.

It was nice to have leap day, a bonus 24-hour respite to catch our breath.  We invested that extra time NOT going to the Huntsman.  Not going certain places is nice, especially when we had been there so many times this past week.  I admit I began to understand the probable cause of Mars’ anger.

Last Friday, Dr. Sharma arranged to have Dennis’ portacathe removed, suspecting it could be the source of the abscess on his liver.  Having an adversarial relationship with abscesses on livers, we ratified that recommendation and showed up on the doorstep of HCH early in the morning…fasting. 

A very competent doctor entered the exam room as the designated predatory surgeon.   By virtue of its simplicity, I was invited to remain in the room for the procedure.  The nurse asked me if I would be all right, since they were just going to inject some xylacaine to deaden the surrounding area. No big deal.

Oh puhhhleeeeze!  After everything we’ve been through, nothing bothers me.  Besides, I wanted Dennis to have the benefit of the potent power of my presence to give an aura of strength and stability.  The doc had me at, “Now this is a pretty simple procedure.”  I opted to stay. 

I mean, how bad could it be?  I would simply avert my eyes by reading an out-of-date smut mag (in this particular issue, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were still together) and go to an alternate universe for the duration.

There were just two teeny weeny problems I had not factored in to my decision. 

1. I  had not eaten.
2. Because Dennis is a physician, the doctor felt compelled to deliver a play-by-play account of what he was doing in maniacally graphic detail.

So, while I could avert my eyes, I could not avert my ears.

The first thing I heard was, “Now Dennis, you’ll feel a little poke and then a slight burning sensation.”  I realized at that point I had made a very bad decision.  I wanted to adopt my daughter Erin’s technique of cupping her hands over her ears and shrieking “LA LA LA LA LA!  I’m not LISTening!” when I tried to tell her the facts of life.

“A little poke??!!!”  I heard a puncture and the nauseating sucking sound of a plumber’s friend being plunged into a backed-up sewer pipe.  He must have been using the trident of Beelzebub! 

“A slight burning sensation??!!!”  The flames of the underworld flared up from the depths of Hades licking at my pant legs and threatened to engulf the entire third floor.  What a backdraft!

This good surgeon, who no doubt was valedictorian of his graduating medical school class because of his gymnastically acute verbal descriptive prowess, then announced he was going to make a slight incision at the port site. 

What I heard was, “And now I will open a gaping cavernous wound which will hereafter be known as The Yawning and Cavernous Black Hole with the gravitational sucking power capable of engulfing the entire universe into everlasting darkness.”

Even his ornate medical terms could not obscure the facts of this “simple little procedure.”  Dennis uttered not a word.  No doubt his hearing was impaired.

The doctor then referred to a “scalpel,” but I testify I heard a Samarai sword slash through the air with predatory force cleaving the atmosphere in two as his voice went all “Miss Piggy” screaming “HYYYYYYY-YAH!”  Never allowing my eyes to wander from the magazine, I had no doubt he was conducting a total evisceration.

The metal tray was heavy with scalpels and adhesives, giving a whole new meaning to “cut and paste.”  And he described shades of pulsating pink, evoking images reminiscent of internal organs at work.  I was sure the incision would have the bite radius of a Great White. The room was suffused with the fusty aroma of alcohol and something orange and pungent. 

In the wild excess of self-indulgent narcissism, I noticed the room getting smaller and swaying slightly, as if it had been chloroformed.  The nurse thought I looked pale.  I explained I was just extremely blond.

I tried channeling my inner Whitney by belting out “They can’t take away my dignity!”  Apparently, they can.

I exited the room clinging tightly to Dennis’ arm…so he wouldn’t fall.  He endured the ordeal well, which restored our credibility. 

But the next time I’m invited to listen to a procedure, I’m going to eat breakfast, get REALLY angry, and then go to a universe far, far away, where there are no ides, hares, madness or senators.   

Romance and Wisdom

It seems the first few months of the new year are scatter shot with clusters of micro holidays specifically designed to wean us off the frenetic pace of the Christmas season.  It’s OK I guess, although I believe many of these second-tier calendar dates are specifically created by someone with a savage passion to sell greeting cards. 

This particular weekend is Presidents Day, in which we celebrate the presidents…Washington and Lincoln specifically.  This date follows close behind Valentine’s Day, which celebrates valentines specifically.

Personally, I prefer honoring the presidents to honoring Cupid.  Especially Lincoln.  He was a man of profound wisdom, a commodity seemingly in short supply these days.  He truly was honor’s voice.  His Gettysburg Address, all 272 words, has the power to transform, no matter how many times one hears it. One is always well advised to take counsel from the wise.

Valentine’s Day is something I wrestle with each year. I appreciate the sentiment, but I find it hard to legislate romance.  It seems that should be part of the daily routine…every day, like brushing your teeth or making your bed.  Affection should always be expressed.

However, this past Valentine’s Day was actually one of my favorites. No, I did not get chocolate or roses.  That would have driven me to spasms of bellicose oaths worthy of a Visigoth warrior.  (Although I have been known to accept any gift with diamonds.  Hey, we all have our standards.) 

Tuesday, I brought Dennis home from the hospital.  He had resided in room 4512 for over a week as he was treated for an abscess on his liver that was causing all kinds of havoc on his body.  Actually, his body withstood the assault admirably, although, it did leave him slightly diminished.  His washboard abs look a little like balsa wood, and his muscle memory has progressed from dementia to full-blown amnesia. But that can be resolved, all in good time.  It does not worry me.  It is sometimes a good thing not to have total recall.

I was so happy to have him in the house once again, I couldn’t restrain myself.  At the top of my lungs I began singing,  “I-eeeeeee-eye-eeeeeee-eye will always love you-ooooh-hooooo-ooooh-hooooooo.”  It gave me chills. Dennis, however, stopped me mid hooo-hooo, muttering something about Alfalfa on steroids, and suggested that the better part of romance (and wisdom) is silence.  He suggested I consider becoming the “Valentine whisperer.” 

I thought about if. I refused to be offended, although I’m not sure why.  We have toilet paper embossed with hearts, and as I placed a new roll on the dispenser, I whispered, “From my heart to your derrier.” That sufficed for the occasion.  It brought a tear to my eye.

Sometimes I think life is a leavening agent.  Shakespeare suffused his plays with Fate.  Whatever the engine that drives the events in our lives, we always have need for wisdom to guide us in negotiating the potholes on the highway of life.  Wisdom diffuses despair.

It is good to seek the guidance from voices of the past, silent mentors whose words echo to instruct and reassure.  I have several mentors that serve as constant reference points.  They are like my North Star. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN:  “I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.”

AESCHYLUS:  “He who learns must suffer.  And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

GALILEO:  “The Sun, with all the planets revolving around it, and depending on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as though it had nothing else in the Universe to do.”

OLYMPIC CREED:  “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle.  The essential thing is not to have conquered, but to have fought well.”

WINNIE-THE-POOH:  “Those who are clever, who have Brain, never understand anything.”

MOM:  “Why make the bed?  I’m just going to climb in again.”

These are a few of my silent mentors.    

So as Dennis mends and recovers from the latest ordeal, I will remember to pray, that wisdom is hard won, but comes even against our will, that our grapes will ripen eventually if we flood them with sunshine, that we will not only fight well, but triumph, that understanding eclipses IQ, and that making the bed is highly over-rated. 

Maybe wisdom really is the highest form of romance after all.  Until someone writes a song to convey that sentiment, I will have to write love letters on our toilet paper.

Score Four

Four years and seven hours ago, Dennis took one for the team and underwent “The Whipple.”  To those whose lives have not required it, “Whipple” may conjure up images of an elderly gentleman inordinately obsessed with Charmin toilet paper.  (Actually, I’m not knocking it.  The older I get, the more obsessed with toilet paper I become. I think it’s a condition of menopause.)

But to those whose health depends upon extreme intervention, The Whipple is much more.  The medical community speaks the name in hushed tones reserved for cathedrals, and genuflect at the mere mention of this formidable operation.

As I understand it, The Whipple is a relatively simple surgical procedure in which the patient is gutted by a skilled doctor with nothing to do for the next 8 to 10 hours, as he performs a total organectomy.  We had the best.  But it was one of the few times I prayed that Dr. Mulvihill had graduated medical school at the top of his class.

Dr. Mulvihill prepared us for what was about to take place by reciting an inventory of preparations for a long list of possible contingencies.  He spoke of “harvesting” the carotid.  “HARVESTING THE CAROTID???”  And then he spoke reassuringly of the tankers of blood should Dennis spring a leak. Oddly enough, I was reassured.

However, I became dizzy with the contingencies. I tried to feign competence, but soon began speaking in sentence fragments.  “What the…?”  “You’re going to put what where?”  “Is that possible?” “Is that legal?”   My final question was, “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” 

That’s not a direct quote.  Anyone who knows The Clot, knows that harsh language is our Mother Tongue.  We actually consider ourselves bilingual.

I looked at Erin and Brodi, whose saucer-eyes resembled the characters in cartoons where only the whites show up in the dark, as Dr. Mulvihill recited all the “what ifs.”  Dennis, on the other hand, seemed quite serene.  But he just had been administered the “I don’t care” drug in impressive quantities. We had not received said drugs. We cared deeply.

By the end of that long day, the girls and I looked pretty disheveled.  But Dr. Mulvihill emerged from the OR looking impressively sheveled. As Dennis surfaced from the anesthetic, the first thing he said was, “What time is it?” I thought it a curious question, but told him it was almost 10:00 p.m. and all was well.  He smiled.  It wasn’t till later I learned that just before going under, Dr. Mulvihill informed him that if he got in and found spread, he would close immediately and terminate the procedure. Dennis accepted the terms of the contract.     

 

I have always told our girls that you move in the direction you are looking. But  sometimes it is good to look back, if only for a moment.  Certain anniversaries must be observed.

It is no small thing to confront what is fearful.  Allowing angst to lie dormant might cause it to fester and abscess.  There are shadows that hover spectrally, but the best defense against shadows is to flood them with sunshine.

Are the uses of adversity really sweet?  Do we need adversity to appreciate what is of value in our lives?  Perhaps there are many answers to that question.  Four years ago, one life was usurped by another.  It was a hostile take-over, leaving a major paradigm shift in its wake.  This event altered everything. 

We look back on lessons we learned.  What occurred during this re-awakening was good.  We are able to hold on to what was of greatest consequence, and loosen our grasp on the unessential.

We cannot change the past.  Nor would we if we could.  Our task is to move forward.  Our great concern is to be guided by our experience as we plan our present. 

We will be directed by the things we love.

We also celebrate another anniversary today.  It’s been one week since Brodi’s book launch. 

She said to me that day, “What if nobody comes.”  I told her that her family would be there.  When we looked at all those present, I realized we have a very big family.

Some things we don’t understand.  Some things we never will.  Perhaps all that is expected is that we reverence the miracles.

We accept the terms.  

It's not about the Book

Last night was Brodi’s book launch. King’s English. 7:00 p.m. Wow!
Yesterday I was not really sure exactly


how to launch a book. Just for the record, we decided not to spray the book with Coke Zero. Being a tribe of “Caf-fiends,” we feared we’d humiliate ourselves, like a pride of snarling lions over a fresh kill, by collectively licking the precious liquid off the pages in a calamitous display of demeaning, degrading Neanderthal anti-polite-society lust for the stimulant. Hey, that stuff is “Mother’s Milk” to the addicted.
No, instead we thought this particular event worthy of slightly elevated decorum. So we pounded down quarter-pound cookies in pairs and stuffed cake into every conceivable unoccupied facial orifice available, then tried to extract tell-tale chocolate chip remnants with our fingers. Nobody can accuse us of a lack of sophistication!
Eventually, Brodi rose to speak. It is a singular sensation as a parent to watch one’s offspring address a group of friends, family, and loved ones who gathered to celebrate her accomplishment.
There is a complex amalgam of emotion…anticipation, pride, excitement. As she was about to begin, there was a mechanics malfunction. The remote for the power-point presentation was not working.
For an anxious parent, the better part of valor is to sit, composed and patient, as she works through the glitch. Not an easy task when said mother is prompted by a primal instinct to protect one’s progeny by tearing off one’s clothes and running in concentric circles shrieking, “We’re all going to die!”
With astonishing grace, Brodi gave humorous audibles to Sam who manually advanced the slides and allowed her to continue her presentation.
I was not surprised. Brodi and Sam are problem-solvers. Just satisfied that random acts of chaos in the universe did not deter Brodi from her appointed remarks. I have always said it is all the unforeseen things that go wrong that make an occasion memorable. Such was the case last night. This was memorable. Nothing could sabotage this moment.
But perhaps the defining elements of this book launch were not entirely about the book. All those that gathered on her behalf were there not just to applaud, but to cheer. It seemed that dear ones came together to celebrate, to rejoice and to invest in one another.
We saw those in attendance embrace each other in reunions and reminiscence that were not just centered on the book.
It was about a spirit of spoken and unspoken exchanges of love and mutual admiration.
It was about seeing generations of family and friends participate in the sweet rituals that renew connections that time and distance do not diminish.
It was about a driving element centered on celebrating the things that make us the elect refined beings that perhaps was originally intended.
The book was the reason for this moment, but not exclusively the essence.
Brodi knew this best of all. With her humorous anecdote about “deletions,” she obliquely taught life lessons about what should be nurtured and maintained.
It was a privilege to be a member at an event that brought together a society of chosen, who reunited, reminisced and rejoiced.
So, to paraphrase Lance Armstrong, ultimately it is not about the book. Last night, it was about all of us.
And that’s how you launch a book.

Out to Launch

Today is Brodi’s book launch.  King’s English.  7:00 p.m.  Wow! 

How do you “launch” a book?  I know how to launch a missile.  All you need is a lot of fuel and  tremendous thrust consisting of foot pounds of pressure per second per second.  “Houston, we have lift off!”  Not exactly rocket science.

And to launch a ship, one needs only a bottle of champagne…and a Royal.  Imagine the flow of the bubbly when Helen’s face launched a thousand ships!  It’s amazing there was anyone sober enough to fight the Trojan War!

But launching a book is different.  Just what is the protocol?  We wanted to do it up right.  However, christening it with any alcoholic beverage would contradict the prohibitions of our chosen life style.  Ditto hot drinks.  After minimal deliberation, we settled on shaking a can of cola and spraying it on the designated book. Of course, it had to be the hard stuff.  Definitely, Coke Zero.  No decaf.  This is a special occasion.

Shakespeare posed the question, “What’s in a name?”  And he reasoned that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  I’m sure he’s right, but it seems to me the olfactory senses would be altered ever so slightly if indeed that regal velvet blossom were known as a kumquat. 

Choosing a name for one’s child is never easy.  Recently a man in Wisconsin changed his name to Beezow Doo-Doo Zopittybop Bop Bop.  Doo-Doo for short.  Since Shakespeare and Doo Doo were already spoken for, and because we wanted something a little unique, we opted to name our second daughter Brodi Shawn.  Dennis’ mother was horrified, and feared she would be called “Little B. S.”  I told her that was entirely possible. No doubt there would be times when it was warranted.  Nevertheless, we kept the name, knowing she would grow up to either love it or hate it.  Turns out she loved it.  It serves as her pen name.

I told Brodi I really wanted to find a red dress like the one on the cover of her book to wear for the launch.  She tried to keep her composure and stifle her giggles.  She said that she was sure I could pull it off…with Pamela Anderson implants, lipo suction, and  massive anatomical remodeling…no offense.  I said, “None taken.”  I rose with great dignity, taking the high road, refusing to be offended by brutal reality.  Contrary to the poets, truth is not always beauty.  However, I kept muttering “Little B. S.” under my breath.  I opted for jeans, but I am keeping “Plastic Surgeons Are Us” on speed dial.

 Once, in a state of supreme neuron disfuntion, Brodi asked me to read the manuscript and make suggestions. As an English teacher, she thought I could be of some use.  I told her that I would, but I was not into flattery.  If it was good, I’d tell her.  But I also had my red pen.  She agreed.  When I returned the pages, she wryly commented that some areas looked like I’d opened a vein and hemorrhaged.  I told her the book was phenomenal.  It was not flattery.

I have read Brodi’s book multiple times.  But of all the words on all the pages of this amazing tale, my nine favorites occur on the third page, before the story begins.  They are Dennis’ Father’s Day gift.  She asked me if I could help her say it better.  I could not.  I could launch a thousand words and still not have said it better.  It was her most inspired writing. 

Writers are advised to write about what they know best.  Brodi knows her Dad. 

(Just for the record, I retract everything I muttered under my breath!)

A Matter of Degrees

A MATTER OF DEGREES

January 13, 2012

Dennis’ weight just made an eye-popping quantum leap of five pounds, and with that excess corpulence has come a clarity of recollection of the recent episode in Houston.  He wants to know more of just what took place.  I’m not sure if neuron-function is directly related to greater accumulation of bulk, but if it is, I’m having my IQ re-tested immediately.

Personally, I’m a little reticent to leap blindly into full disclosure.  It’s a little like divulging the facts of life to one’s children.  These things must be done delicately.  Some things may be disturbing.  One must judiciously select what is to be revealed and what is to remain concealed.  When moved upon by discretion, I can actually become the sphinx.

I opted to begin by telling him about steroids.  That’s pretty safe.  The doctors decided to put him on a regimen of prednisone to pump up his batting average, enlarge his quads, and prepare him for his ultimate goal of extreme cage fighting.  They would also assist him in transitioning from NPO to solid food – mainly ice chips.

OK.  The Clot ratified prednisone.  However, as with all potent medications, this one has serious side effects.  Namely:  it increases the appetite and could cause considerable weight gain.  OK.  We can handle that.

Only minutes after Dennis was administered his first dose, The Clot beat a hasty retreat to the nearest exit and headed en masse to Burger King, where we ordered their super-size Orca burger with all the trimmings…and tried to refrain from asking fellow patrons if they wanted the rest of their fries.  Boy Howdy, that stuff is powerful!

We waddled sheepishly back to the ICU, trying to dislodge sesame seeds from our teeth with our tongues as, in a laudable humanitarian gesture, we took turns spooning ice chips into Dennis’ mouth.  Copious consumption of peppermints helped disguise tell-tale whale breath.

Dennis listened to the story without interruption and said, “Sometimes comas are a good thing.”

We are all glad he is off prednisone.  But check out those quads!

I also decided to relate a notable encounter with Dr. Wolff and our daughter Erin.  Dr. Wolff is a brilliant physician whose great brain wields untold quantities of knowledge and information.  His mind is the warehouse of impressive and vital facts.  He is the quarterback of our team.  None better.

One evening he came into Dennis’ room to discuss his condition and current medical circumstance.  We steeled ourselves for a barrage of disheartening information.  And Dr. Wolff did not sugar coat nor mitigate harsh reality.  It was all rather grim.  Dennis’ condition was serious and threatening.  No question about it.

Erin and Brodi listened intently, and I sensed the crushing weight as the severity of the situation settled upon them.  Knowing our daughters as I do, I wondered how long it would be before one of them spoke up. 

Turns out, not long – and, of course, turns out it was Erin.  With great dignity, she said, “Tomorrow my Dad’s going to be better.”

Dr. Wolff responded that he, too, was optimistic.  But, he insisted, “I’m just telling you the facts.”

Once again, Erin, with unmitigated authority, replied, “And I’m telling you my facts.   Tomorrow my Dad will make a 180 percent turn around!”

Dr. Wolff was a little taken aback.  Out of the side of her mouth, Brodi whispered, “Erin, that’s 180 DEGREE turn around.”

Undeterred, Erin continued to pontificate that the day after that, Dennis would make another 180 DEGREE turn around!   

Applied mathematical principles would suggest that two 180 degree turnarounds would put one back where one started.  But such rational calculations had no place when one is making pronouncements.  Erin’s facts defy the numbers.

Dennis emerged from oblivion during this exchange just long enough to mutter, “See what I’ve lived with all these years?”

Dr. Wolff managed a smile after being carpet bombed by a wall of Ashton women, and conceded that both Erin’s facts and scientific facts could reside in peaceful co-existence.

The following day, in fact, Dennis made a 180 degree turn around.  Go figure.

I learned great things that day.  Perhaps, after all, understanding trumps science.  After tracking Dennis’ monitors for 12 straight hours, and watching graphs, numbers, flow charts and alarms react with the latest unnerving news, as well as being swarmed by platoons of technicians, doctors and nurses, even brilliant minds could still arrive at faulty conclusions.  There was no machine to register strength of mind and strength of will.

Erin and Brodi knew their Dad deeper, better than all the technology of modern science.  They possessed the greater understanding that there are certain forces in the universe that conspire and center on someone with particular healing properties.

What the heart understands transcends scientific data.  Erin has always believed that everyone, including the entire medical community at MD Anderson, is entitled to her opinion and the facts as she interprets them.  And why not?  She was right.

After hearing this anecdote, Dennis’ desire to know more seemed sated for the moment.  He’ll eventually get the whole story, but only in degrees.