Father's Day

We had a nice, quiet Father's Day.  Jessica called her dad in the morning to wish him a Happy Father's Day.  We picked Alex up in the afternoon to spend a few hours and have some dinner.  He wasn't feeling very well.  They've warned us that the cumulative effect of the chemo will likely catch up with him.  He was tired and just not himself.  My dad used to describe days like this as "feeling kind of punk."  John and I wondered if Alex was experiencing bone pain and/or discomfort from the Neulasta.  That is a common side effect and, of course, Alex can't tell us.  All we can do is observe.  So we gave him some Advil, picked up a pizza, and hunkered down on the couch for a marathon of Myth Busters.  We also decided to have an impromptu sleepover and keep Alex with us for the night.  Except for the part where Alex didn't feel well, and that the reason was cancer, it was a nice Father's Day.  Our lives never lack for being busy, so quiet family time is always appreciated.

I also did a lot of reflecting on the day.  (Really, it doesn't take much to get me to reflect.  I tend toward being an "over-thinker," and I get quite sappy at Hallmark commercials, kids' books, and dog videos on social media.  I recently learned that there's a website called "Does the Dog Die?" to save people such as myself from being blind-sided at movies.)

Anyway, I was thinking about the meaning of Father's Day, and how the day brings different meaning and emotions to different people.  I thought about my friend Kate, marking the first Father's Day without the love of her life and father of her children, only a couple of short weeks after his death.  I thought about her husband, Jeremy's, parents, marking Father's Day without their beloved son.  I thought about my friend Kaitlyn, celebrating what may be her dad's last Father's Day (have I said lately that cancer sucks?).  I thought about missing my own dad, who I lost when I was only 31.  And I thought about many family members and friends who have lost dads, or have broken relationships with their dads, or have father-figures for themselves or their children that they are so blessed to have in their lives.  It isn't an easy day for many people.  I was wishing I had a way to make the day better for the people I care about for whom the day was painful.

With so many complicated feeling swirling around, I also thought about the most important dad in my life - my husband.  Being a dad is a big responsibility.  Being a special needs dad, and then a dad of a critically ill child (even an adult child) adds on special layers.  John has never, ever been afraid to jump right in and get his hands dirty as a dad.  I'm not sure he had ever even held an infant before the nurses placed Jessica in his arms, yet from that first moment he never looked back.  I think he would say being Jessica and Alex's dad is the best role of his life.

When we realized there was something "different" about Alex and began pursuing an autism diagnosis, John was there every step of the way.  The professionals were kind and complimentary to me, but were genuinely surprised at the level of John's involvement.  More than one professional made comments about how hard it must be for a dad to accept such a diagnosis in his only son.  Don't get me wrong, we grieved plenty for lost opportunity, but our son was still there, and we were devoted to him.  The implication that John would love him less somehow, or view Alex as "less than," did not sit well with Papa Bear, let me tell you.

Since Alex's cancer diagnosis, I've been asked many times if I was still working (I did keep working throughout the school year, at least when I could), but John doesn't get asked that question.  On a pragmatic level, if one of us had to take an extended period of time off, it would make financial sense for it to be me.  I earn less.  On a which parent is more capable level, John is every bit as capable as I am.

When Alex was first diagnosed with autism and was not yet in school, we took him to therapy together.  The majority of appointments throughout Alex's life have been done together.  When the kids were little and got sick, John never had a problem being the one to stay home with them.  He's held plenty a puke bucket in front of a sick kiddo and spent the entire day on the couch with a sick infant/toddler/child on his lap.

When Alex had surgery in January, we both stayed overnight with him at the hospital.  Neither one of us wanted to be the one to stay at home.  John was supposed to be in Arizona for three weeks in January.  He called the client and explained that he couldn't come.  The trip was deferred.  He was supposed to go in February, but then there was the cancer diagnosis, and staging the cancer, and beginning treatment.  The trip was deferred again, and ultimately didn't take place. The client was understanding.  John's boss and co-workers have been fantastic.  Both of our employers have been supportive and amazing.  Alex's group home has been amazing.  They have stepped up.  If not for them, we couldn't have worked as much as we did.

John and I have been at every chemo treatment, together.  We didn't even plan it that way at first.  I think initially we thought we'd take turns, or maybe I would take more time off.  It was too frightening at first.  We felt we both needed to be at every appointment.  Now it's to the point where neither one of us wants to miss anything.  We want Alex to know that we're there for him, no matter what.

So on Father's Day, I watched John sitting next to Alex on the couch, stroking Alex's head as he slept.  I saw him trying to protect his son, knowing that if there was a way for him to take this cancer himself to spare his son no power on earth would be able to stop him.  And I thought about how lucky I am.  Alex's prognosis is hopeful.  And somehow I was smart enough, or dumb enough, or lucky enough to fall in love at the age of 16 with a boy who would become the man I have shared every important milestone of my life with.  How lucky and I that this man loves me, and that we created a family together.  How lucky am I.