November
One of my fondest memories as a young child was climbing up into my Great-Grandaddy's lap and having him "count my ribs". More often than not, he was sitting at the kitchen table wearing overalls and a ball cap.
It was hilariously tortuous. I don't think he ever got past 4 before I collapsed into a pile of squirming giggles, running my hands down my sides to rub away the lingering tickles. I'd recover my composure eventually and be begging for a recount before long.
If I was good, he would pull out his pocket watch and let me watch the seconds pass, marked by a ticking noise I had to silence my laughter to appreciate.
I was no older than 8 or 9 but I remember it vividly-- down to the yellowish light and the wood-paneled-everything kitchen. If I concentrate, I can see his eyes crinkling when he laughed.
The first time I ever counted my Dad's ribs, I was newly 29. I had gone in to hug him, as I felt compelled to do more frequently as days passed, and when I wrapped my arms around him I thought I might break him.
I spread my palm along his back and tears sprang to my eyes before I could define the feeling behind them.
Shock? Maybe. I had known it was coming, whatever 'it' was. I didn't know what it looked like or what 'it' entailed'. 'It' was just this flashing yellow caution light on the horizon, that I could only see when I tried to fall asleep at night.
You don't notice change as it happens
. It's so gradual that it sneaks by in plain sight. A thief tip-toeing in the shadows of your every day life, tucking away pieces of what you perceive the world around you to look like.
The change, in this case, was pancreatic cancer. And it snuck pieces of my Dad away, right under our noses. His routine, his love of home cooking, his physical strength. When there was nothing else to take, it stole away fat and muscle.
We sat together on the couch every morning with our coffee-- each with one sugar and one dash of cream-- and listened to the ticking of a less tangible but no less real clock. I kept thinking of Grandaddy's pocket watch in those days, how my 8-year old eyes had urged the seconds onward so I could hear them tick into minutes, hours, weeks, and ultimately... years.
I didn't know then that my Dad had only been granted 56.
It was hilariously tortuous. I don't think he ever got past 4 before I collapsed into a pile of squirming giggles, running my hands down my sides to rub away the lingering tickles. I'd recover my composure eventually and be begging for a recount before long.
If I was good, he would pull out his pocket watch and let me watch the seconds pass, marked by a ticking noise I had to silence my laughter to appreciate.
I was no older than 8 or 9 but I remember it vividly-- down to the yellowish light and the wood-paneled-everything kitchen. If I concentrate, I can see his eyes crinkling when he laughed.
The first time I ever counted my Dad's ribs, I was newly 29. I had gone in to hug him, as I felt compelled to do more frequently as days passed, and when I wrapped my arms around him I thought I might break him.
I spread my palm along his back and tears sprang to my eyes before I could define the feeling behind them.
Shock? Maybe. I had known it was coming, whatever 'it' was. I didn't know what it looked like or what 'it' entailed'. 'It' was just this flashing yellow caution light on the horizon, that I could only see when I tried to fall asleep at night.
You don't notice change as it happens
. It's so gradual that it sneaks by in plain sight. A thief tip-toeing in the shadows of your every day life, tucking away pieces of what you perceive the world around you to look like.
The change, in this case, was pancreatic cancer. And it snuck pieces of my Dad away, right under our noses. His routine, his love of home cooking, his physical strength. When there was nothing else to take, it stole away fat and muscle.
We sat together on the couch every morning with our coffee-- each with one sugar and one dash of cream-- and listened to the ticking of a less tangible but no less real clock. I kept thinking of Grandaddy's pocket watch in those days, how my 8-year old eyes had urged the seconds onward so I could hear them tick into minutes, hours, weeks, and ultimately... years.
I didn't know then that my Dad had only been granted 56.
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