A Good Friday

I almost feel guilty telling you what a good week we've had. Believe me, we are h a p p y to be in the glow of goodness. No problem accepting or enjoying it. A happy, event-free week is so unique that I don't know how to describe the experience. But I'll try....

Pablo is happy. Full of joy. Boundless energy. His voice is constantly singing throughout the house—counting, proclaiming facts about Scooby or Santa or asking for food. He is hungry, wanting to put food in his mouth, every waking hour. We are lucky when, after 30 suggestions, something sounds appetizing to him. Poor kid—the chemo has done terrible things to his taste buds. As a five-year-old, he doesn't have the verbal acuity to describe what other cancer patients have told us: chemo installs a metallic taste in the mouth; nothing satiates the appetite, yet certain food smells, textures or colors induce vomiting. Pablo certainly knows that certain formerly fave foods are now revolting. And we are sure that he will have the verbal skill soon. My money says that this whole cancer experience is a springboard for every facet of Pablo's mind, body and spirit. When he's done with the war under his skin, he's going t0 focus his energy and good pure spirit on the rest of us. He's going to rejoin the legions of amazing boys and girls, and contribute to the youth of today.

It's a true gift to wake up before Pablo—to see him still asleep when I get out of bed. This only happens when we are home for at least a few days with no hospital stays. It only happens when P is comfy in bed, living his old life with his parents and his brother and his dogs+cat+fish. Today was one of those days. Tonight was one of those nights. He walked downstairs after kissing me goodnight in the kitchen. By the time I got down to our room, he was o u t. Remarkable. But when you feel safe, and life is good and normal and there are no nurses poking and prodding you, sleep comes easy.

Tonight, I am sleeping in Grady's bed. He is at Jimmy's. I am sleeping in here because I am waking up at 5:40 a.m. so I can be in the car at 6 a.m. and on the starting line of the Planet Ultra Christmas Century in Calabasas at 8 a.m. I told Pablo tonight that I am doing this ride for him—for all the days and nights he's been glued to that hospital bed. For all the times he's had his port poked. For all the times he's been scared out of his mind going into the MRI and CT machines. I kept it simple, and he understood me. His eyes were locked into mine, so I know he was with me. I know exactly how I am going to take all that scary, insane energy and sprinkle it over the 100 miles and 5,800 feet of climbing. By the time I see Pablo, Jo Ann, Grady and Fred on the finish line, it'll all be behind me. And behind us. And we'll be ready for the final two-and-a-half months of chemo. Ferrealz.