Y’all [for my northern friends y'all is the perfect word and the contraction for "you all"] are amazing.  Thank you is the most important thing I can tell you.  Your outpouring of support overwhelms me, your friendship and love is priceless.  As I said last week, “I’m a lucky guy!”

I feel great for having had a testicle removed.  The loss of “Leftie” is not painful.  My pain comes from cutting through my groin.  They incised a roughly 4-inch wide by 8-inch deep section in the lower portion of my abdomen.  The pain is very manageable so long as I do not move too much.  I forgot how much connects to my abdomen — laughing hurt until last night and I cringe when I sneeze.

My stamina is fair.  I have indulged in my share of catnaps, and I’m slowly getting my feet back under me.  It’s amazing how much the anesthesia and narcotics worked on me (first experience with Percocet – good stuff).  I think I treated my visitors to some interesting conversations – sorry everyone if I said something that rubbed you wrong.

Regarding my diagnosis and prognosis, I received “the call” from my doctor on Thursday of last week and he confirmed I have stage 1 (hopefully entirely contained) seminomas testicular cancer.  The pathologist found five separate tumors roughly 3-5 millimeters in size each.  The good news is that “Leftie” did not die in vain.  My post-operative follow up appointment is tomorrow, and he will be sending me to a radiation oncologist.  I should be better than ever after a little glow in the dark time.

I would like to leave you with a lighter story.  My mother has been great, and I would be ready to canonize her if she had not spoiled my dog rotten.  If you know anything about my Mom, she will not confess her age and you never wish her happy birthday (we say happy “special day” instead).  For some reason though, she started calling herself Grandma around my puppy Bridget.  Now, I see a brown streak hurtle towards the kitchen anytime anyone goes near my pantry.  Hmmm…I guess spoiling is what Moms and Grandmas do best.

Thank you all again.  You’re the best.

Cheers,
Eric

Would you please allow me to share what is happening with my health?  The post below will deal with my likely cancer diagnosis, how I cope with trauma, and my hopes for what comes next.

Read the rest of this entry »

A friend’s parents never told them about Santa Claus.  When she asked about St. Nick, her parents told her he was not real, at least in the sense of a jolly old fat man scampering down her chimney to bring presents.  They told her that they never wanted to lie to her, and that there was no such thing as Father Christmas.  They told her not to talk to the children at school about her new found truth, because the topic would only upset her classmates.

As noble as my friend’s parents were, something very sad struck me about a childhood without Santa.  While my friend never had the heartache of realizing their parents were sneaking presents into the house, they also never had the wonder a child experiences on Christmas Eve.  They grew up in a world without magic.

I long for the magic of Christmas, the magic of the nativity story and the magic of Santa. I might have children one of these days, and I had been pondering what I would tell them about Santa.  I was torn between my friend’s truthful parenting ideology and the desires of my imagination.  Then, I received the following story via email:

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me.

I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.

“No Santa Claus?” She snorted… “Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor Has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.

“Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store — the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s second grade class.

Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but we all knew Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough. He didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly as I laid my ten dollars down.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa’s Helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: Ridiculous.

Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

My friend’s parents were wrong about Santa Claus.  The truth isn’t always what we need. People deserve more than just a truth filled world, and my children will know the joy of Father Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

Cheers,
Eric