Saturday, June 21, 2014

Miss You Much

I am a writer. I owe this, among many things, to my father.
Happy Birthday Dad.

6/19/24 to 1/29/2012

Play Date For Dad

The screech of my father’s velcro-fastened sneakers, scuffling across a well-waxed gymnasium floor, catches the attention of everyone in line.

It is Election Day, and the local elementary school is overflowing with civic-minded seniors.

Because Parkinson’s disease transformed his once commanding stride into an unsteady, rigid gate, I insist he use a cane. But he hates his cane more than he hates peas, and so, like a belligerent child, he drags it behind him.

“Address please,” spouts a poll worker.
“Proof of residency,” requests another.
“Name please,” demands a third.
“Hi Roger,” murmurs a fourth.

He doesn’t mind the inefficiency or the formality. It’s a beautiful, crisp fall day, and we are “out and about.”

“That's a sharp hat, Joe,” says Dad to a man sporting a New York Yankees cap.
“Smart purple outfit, Dottie,” he says to a stout woman with waves of freshly set, snow-white hair.

“It’s velour. Want to feel it, Roger?” flirts Dottie.
“Maybe later,” winks Dad.

Dad despises the Yankees and has always considered purple a gauche color, but he knows how to make people smile - most of all, me.

Dottie hands Dad a ballot, hooks her arm in his, and escorts us to a small, makeshift voting booth.

“Fill in the circle next to the candidate of your choice,” instructs Dottie as she hands him a #2 pencil.

 “I can’t see. You do it, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

One by one, I pronounce each candidate’s name and party affiliation. When he hears the one he wants he lifts his hand and declares, “that one!”

With voting now complete, we move to the ballot box at the far corner of the gym.

“Put it in there,” points Dottie.
“I know where it goes,” insists Dad.
“Good for you,” says Dottie.
“You take it, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

As we exit, Dottie says, “You know Roger, Bill doesn’t leave the house anymore.”
“Why not?” asks Dad.
“Parkinson’s,” whispers Dottie.

During their glory days, Bill and Dad were fierce rivals on the high school football team and were often featured on the front page of the local paper. 

“You should stop and see him,” suggests Dottie.
“Can’t…too busy,” insists Dad.

Dad built his company, a security/investigation/detective agency, from the ground up. His work ethic was as ferocious as his athleticism.

“It’s not the right way, or the wrong way, but Roger Kennedy’s way!” he would bellow.

Two blocks away from our office is the Senior Center - a town funded facility that offers numerous social activities including exercise classes, lectures, and well-balanced meals.

“I don’t have time for that place,” insists Dad. “I have work to do.”

Dad comes to the office every day, sits at his desk, reads the paper, and takes a nap.

I know he enjoys watching the mayhem that plays out during a typical workday, and now with me at the helm, there is an undeniable sense of pride in his tone.

“You accomplished a lot today,” he’ll tell me.
“Don’t let it get you down,” he’ll say when things don’t go my way.

I know how fortunate we both are to have this time together, but he lacks the companionship of people his age.

Later that week, I tell him about my plan.

“I’m taking you to Bill’s house,” I tell him. “It’s a beautiful day, come on let’s go.”
“I can’t today. I’m too busy,” insists Dad. “Besides, it’s too far. I can’t walk there.”
“I’ll drive you,” I tell him.

It takes Dad longer to get into the car than it does to get to Bill’s house.

“There it is,” shouts Dad when he spots Bill's modest home. “It’s across from the cemetery, just past the old hospital.” (Torn down in 1951.)

I park in Bill's driveway, walk to the passenger side of the car and open the door.

“Can’t get out,” says Dad.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Too many leaves,” insists Dad.

I kick a dusting of freshly fallen autumn leaves to the side and, with two hands, urge Dad out of the car.

Bill is waiting on the front porch. Joan, his wife of 52 years, peeks out from inside the front door. Just four steady steps separate these former rivals.

“Take your time, Roger,” says Bill.
“I got it. Don’t you worry,” asserts Dad.
“Hold onto the rail,” instructs Bill.
 “Help me, Shannon,” whispers Dad.

Not much has changed since Bill and his wife settled into their home in the mid 1950’s. Pale blue, low pile acrylic carpeting covers the living room floor. Tattered, gold-striped curtains mask cloudy windows. A collection of knick-knacks and family portraits rest on doilies that dot dusty tabletops.

Bill insists Dad sit in his favorite chair - a velvet tufted recliner.

“Go ahead Roger, have a seat,” instructs Bill.
“I don’t need to sit,” says Dad.
“You don’t need to sit, or you don’t want to sit?” asks Bill.
“I don’t need to sit,” counters Dad.
“Ohhh you’d better sit,” urges Bill.

“You need to sit, Dad,” I whisper, as I coax him into the chair.

Getting Dad in a chair can be a challenge, especially if the seat is too low to the ground. It is more like a well-aimed plop than a steady squat.

Once situated, Dad surveys the living room layout, spots a matching love-seat across the room and asks, “Where are YOU going to sit Bill?”

“I prefer to stand,“ says Bill. “Don’t you worry about me, Roger.”
“You don’t need to sit, or you don’t want to sit?” asks Dad.

It’s as though I’m watching a game of chess, each attempting to outmaneuver the other.

Joan waits in the hallway, smiling. “Want a cup of tea?” she asks me.

I can feel Dad’s eyes pleading for me to stay close, but clearly these two need one-on-one time.

I listen as Joan talks about her ailments but mostly she talks about Bill. She tells me about Bill’s debilitating condition. She tells me about his time in the hospital and later in the nursing home.

“Terrible place,” she moans.

Dad also did some time in a nursing home, but I keep this information to myself.

From the other room I can hear Dad brag about all the things we do together. About our trips to the beach, rides to the cemetery and watching sports. My father paints a pretty good picture. Truth is, we don’t get “out and about” as often as we should.

“We go to the UCONN Huskies women’s basketball games,” he tells Bill.

We've been to two games total.

“We go on the Island Beach boat a lot,” he insists, although we missed all of last summer.

“I like a glass of wine when I’m at Shannon's house,” he boasts. “She's a really good cook."

I have never been known for my culinary skills.

“How old are you, Roger?” asks Bill.
“What?” asks Dad.
“I said, how old are you,” repeats Bill.
“I didn't catch that,” says Dad.
“ROGER, I can’t remember how old you are!” shouts Bill.
“I’m 84,” says Dad. He is 85.

Bill waits for my father to ask him how old he is. My father knows that Bill is younger, so he sits in stoic silence.

“I’m going to be 83 in two weeks and they’re throwing me a big party!” says Bill.
“Let’s go, Shannon!” shouts Dad.

And off we go.

The total time at spent at Bills is just short of 30 minutes.

“Boy, he looked old,” says Dad.
“I thought he looked great,” I tell him.

“Did he brag about his daughter?” I ask.
“Of course he did,” says Dad.

And then Dad surprises me.

“Next time, let’s bring Bill to my place,” says Dad.
“Sounds great!” I tell him.

And so, I set another date. Another play date for Dad.

Roger and Bill

Dad, chasing his man down on Havemeyer Field, where, at his request, I spread his ashes. 

With Love and Sustainable Memories, 

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Happy Birthday to Me

Sunday, June 8th, was the 55th anniversary of my birth. I celebrated this miraculous, much anticipated event, on June 6th, 7th, and 8th. By Monday, June 9th, I was exhausted and spent the day horizontally fixated on a steady stream of rain.

My celebration took place without cake, balloons, or a "Happy Birthday" song. For these are NOT some of my favorite things. Instead, there was a plethora of ponies, free flowing dresses, champagne, and oversized straw hats centered around a much anticipated polo match. And most important to me, there was an abundance of laughter and well wishes from good friends.

These friends included two people I have known since kindergarten – Monkey Gurl and Husband #3. As you all know, #3 had been missing in action since our separation in September of last year.

A reunion seemed impossible. With the help of my close circle of friends, I settled into my new, single life and #3 moved on without me. A cancer-free woman was waiting in the wings. A woman with real breasts, eager hands, and eyes fixated on a man whose heart was clearly broken.

To me, love hurt more than cancer.

And then it happened... a BOLT so fierce that it broke me open.

I was in Baltimore undergoing preoperative testing prior to my reversal surgery when an enlarged pelvic lymph node was detected and a PET/CT scan was ordered to rule out the suspicion of a local reoccurrence of cancer.

"Local reoccurrence" would mean stage 4, terminal, chemo for the rest of my painful, miserable life.

"I'll be dead in a year" was all I could hear. People would talk about everything and nothing and all I could think of was, "I'll be dead in a year, what do I care."

In the depth of my despair, clarity seeped in.

What I knew to be true was that I loved my husband and he loved me. It didn’t matter who was right or who was wrong. I was tired of punishing him. It didn't matter how much pain we caused each other or how we tried to extinguish it. I didn't have time to waste on anger, jealousy or bitterness. I only had time for joy.

And so, I waited for my test results with my husband in the shadows. I cheered my cancer reprieve with my husband at close range. And I celebrated my 55th birthday with my husband by my side.

Because I live my life out loud, (which often includes heart wrenching tears), I have received a LOT of well-intentioned criticism regarding our reunion. And I get it. But my job is not to please others. My job is to be true to myself.

My birthday was divine!

Early that morning, a happy chirp from a text alert prompted me to open my eyes and the first thing I saw was the time.  It was 7:27.

27's are all about Kerry.

That same morning, I stepped into the day and found a perfectly formed pink rose bursting from a bush outside my door. It was the first bloom of the season and I knew it was for me.

When we arrived at polo, I was greeted by a handsome man who asked, "Aren't you Kerry Magann's mother?" It was the catcher from Kerry's high school baseball team. He was a badass then and now, almost 20 years later, carried a diaper bag and a sweet baby girl who would NOT stop smiling.

I cannot tell you how good it felt to hear my son's name. To know that he is not forgotten is the best gift imaginable.

Love, real love, never dies. And so, I celebrate it.

"Oh no, the ladies getting arrested. How will I get home," worries Sasha.

 #3, Monkey Gurl, Sasha and at the line, little Miss Lucy (she's hard to see)

Monkey Gurl and Monkey ME

Where is Sasha?

Typical Bernese "Berner" behavior

xo, MonkeyME

Saturday, May 31, 2014

Bottoms Up

After eight months of sporting a stoma, I am finally free! My bottom now functions like your bottom does. It's an amazing thing. The reversal was, for the most part, a breeze thanks in part to my sphincter muscle exercises and my will to succeed.

Gently put, the job of your colon is to move digested food along. The job of your rectum is to store it. When you remove your rectum (I don't recommend it) and utilize part of your colon as a rectum, your colon still thinks it's a colon. It doesn't know it's been upgraded to a rectum unless you tell it. It doesn't know how to hold it, or for how long, or even why it's holding it. It just wants to keep moving things along.

So... I now talk to my colon, or Colonel Mustard as I call him (my new rectum is a man, who may or may not have done it with a candlestick in the library). And he obeys me just as all my men do (don't spoil my fantasy).

Now that I am stoma free, I have never felt more alive, more vibrant, and more beautiful. It was hard to rock that stoma, especially when the "baby head" (incisional hernia the size of... you guessed it, a baby's head) was jutting it forward.

But now, finally, for the first time in my life... I am sexy and I know it!

Talk about little unexpected gifts. I never felt confident about my body before, but now, when I stand in front of a mirror with my two fabulous, 450 cc fake breasts (and thinking about enlarging) laced in scars that stretch across the center, an impressive frankensteinish scar that runs from my belly button to my pubic bone, 3 drain hole scars (don't ask), a chemo port chest scar, two melanoma scars, and an itty bitty 2 inch stoma scar, I can't help but think... DAMN I'M HOT!

After all, what is more attractive than an overexposed woman who faces her flaws and fears with humor.

I so want to show you the beauty of being cancer free but blogger says I'd need a "mature audience" warning in order to do that, so for now I will have to settle on a well scripted visual.

And... I have news, exciting news. I have a new man in my life. His name is Chet.

Chet is sexy and sophisticated. Chet is efficient. Chet knows exactly what a girl wants. And... he comes with a remote control!

Chet is my ultra cool, brand spanking new, bidet from Why I feel the need to name inanimate objects I cannot tell you, but I can tell you that Chet puts the "OH" in Bi-O-Bidet.

Everyone.... meet Chet -  part of the "Bliss 2000" collection.

Isn't he gorgeous! 

I first fell in love with bidets back in my late twenties when I saw one at a friends house, mistook it for a seatless toilet, sat backwards on it, and was overjoyed when a gentle stream of mis-aimed water ignited my little lady in the canoe.

But unless you live in Europe, bidets aren't typically implemented in bathroom so to compensate, I took several trips to Paris. It was expensive but invigorating. This also explains why I have very few photo's to highlight these trips, I barely left the bathroom.

When Mark (husband #3) and I first bought our condo, I considered reducing my bathroom vanity space to half in order to make room for a bidet but it simply wasn't practical.

Then, thanks to my rectal cancer diagnosis, and the information I found on the colorectal cancer boards (cancer victims version of Facebook), I met Chet.

With Chet you don't need extra space. The magic of Chet is built right into the seat!

In less than two weeks time I had Chet trained. Chet knows exactly where to point his nozzle, and at what speed and temperature.  Chet keeps the seat warm on days when the weather dips below 60 degrees, and if I feel the need to freshen up my lady parts, with just the touch of a button, Chet is eager to please.

For a while there, I was so enamored with Chet, that I couldn't find a valid reason to introduce a two-legged man into the equation until I stumbled upon this Mack Weldon's underwear model and was instantly reminded of what Chet was missing.

Sorry... blogger, made me put that CENSOR shield in.

Chet can't be the complete package without a package. And that package is... very important.

For now, Chet will be my appetizer and my dessert, until the right underwear model comes along.

xo, Sexually Ignited, MonkeyME

Want more two-legged Chet?

Watch two-legged Chet disrobe, rub his belly, run his fingers through his hair, smile and adjust his glasses. Damn, this Chet has got it going on! What else does a girl want or need.

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Shannon E. Kennedy


Photo by Joan Harrison