ChrisMoreau.com

Our family really enjoys the 4^th of July. We recall why we celebrate, we dress up in red, white and blue, we eat barbeque and enjoy assorted beverages. Each year we manage to get a photo of our kids as they are decked out early in the day and email it out to the family. It’s lots of fun.

Our little neighborhood has a 4^th of July parade that consists of all the kids in the neighborhood riding their scooters, skateboards or whatever, down the street to the local park. It’s very small-town, in a good way. You’d never know we were a short drive from our nation’s capitol.

After the parade, we load up a cooler and head for the pool to spend the afternoon in the sun, followed by a dose of meat on the grill, shooting off some fireworks and ending up with everyone in bed at a reasonable hour, exhausted. Even before we had kids, Susan and I would stake out a space along the parade route and root for the kids going by.

There have been some interesting years along the way when we were not in the neighborhood. Last year, for instance, we were at my sister’s house in Hawaii. Her husband is a big cheese in the Navy in Pearl Harbor and it falls on him to throw the annual Independence Day party because his house has the biggest back yard among all the quarters down by the docks on the base. It’s a real bash with people from all over the world attending. My kids had a great time meeting people and eating all they could eat. That evening we watched fireworks over the harbor from the fantail of a frigate moored in Pearl Harbor. Not too shabby.

Another year, we enjoyed the 4^th at my brother’s house in San Diego. His house abuts a huge park, so on the 4^th it falls on him to provide the house that serves as a weigh station for the event. Big fun.

This year we’re back home again and I’m looking forward to it. I’ll ride my skateboard along with my kids and their bikes in the parade. We’ll do the same stuff we do every year. There is a certain comfort in annual rituals like this. It keeps me grounded.

So, go out and enjoy your own Independence Day rituals. Or start a new one this year. If you work it right, you can stretch it out all weekend.

The earth is just a little less funny now. George Carlin died this week. I think the right thing to do is to enumerate the seven words you can never say on television:

• Shit
• Piss
• Fuck
• Cunt
• Cocksucker
• Motherfucker
• Tits

Rant on, you landmark setting motherfucker.

My mom took a sudden and serious turn for the worse last week on Thursday. She’s still alive, but she’s on a morphine drip and is perpetually loopy. The end is imminent. That’s not what this essay is about. It’s about what I’m learning, what I’m taking away from this experience and how much I value the real friendships I’ve forged over the years.

My band has a standing rehearsal on Thursday nights and I had to cancel suddenly late last Thursday afternoon when stuff started to happen. Rather than be irritated about it, they started to call, to check and see what’s going on and how I was doing.

First Greg the singer called. Just checking in. How ya doin’? Then Scott the soundman. Need anything, just call. Then Bob, bass player extraordinaire. Just calling to make sure you’re ok. I’ve know Bob for well over 20 years now; Scott too. I have logged more years on this earth with these guys than without them. They’re the Old Guard from the college days at Virginia Tech. Bob says that he and I are same-sex life partners, which makes me laugh. His point is that we’re friends to the end, through thick and thin.

These calls got me thinking about what wonderful friends I have. I have a small circle of friends, but they are hugely important. Sometimes I don’t hear from one of them for a while, maybe months, but I know they’re out there. My oldest friend James is coming into town this Thursday and I’m beside myself. I haven’t seen him since last year when I went to Washington State to his father’s funeral. It wasn’t exactly a light experience, but I think he and I had as much fun as you can have at a funeral. I’m pretty sure I was the comic relief.

Last night we had some neighborhood friends over for dinner in honor of my daughter’s 9^th birthday. The Johnsons are our local partners-in-crime. We harbor the same outlook on life, we have kids of similar ages and we all like to live life. As we sat at the dinner table, it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember my parents ever having this kind of low-key, throw-it-together-on-the-fly kind of evening. Now my mom is on her last days and although a few people call and an occasional neighbor drops by, she seems to have no interest in having anyone except her children to see her through to the end.

By way of contrast, my wife’s father died a few years ago of a similar cancer, also inoperable. In his last days, his old friends came by every afternoon, poured themselves a drink (including one for Pappy), and sat at his bedside telling stories and laughing for an hour every afternoon. Like my mother will, he died in his own bed. The difference is that Pappy had dear old friends to help him along. My mom has none. That may be what she wants, but I don’t want to go out like that.

I find it tremendously sad that the end is coming but my mom has no real friends left to reach out to. She’s secluded herself over the years, slowly cutting everyone out except her children and their families. Family is important, but we don’t go through this life alone. At least I don’t. Life is a grand party and everyone knows that a party isn’t any fun by yourself.

There are a few more on my short list, Ed & Willie. Others drift in and out and there is a list of recurring players, spouses and acquaintances, all of whom play an important role, but without this core gang of hooligans, my life would be poorer. I hope I am as good a friend to them as they are to me. I know you’re out there, guys. Thanks for being there.

School is out now and my kids are ecstatic. They’re only 6 and 9 but to them the whole idea of 104 days in a row without seeing the inside of a classroom is the bee’s knees. As the end of the school year appeared on the horizon, my lovely bride began to worry about what we would do with them for an entire summer. Would we line up a bunch of camps and shuttle them around all summer? Could they go to SACC (School Aged Child Care – a program sponsored by our local school system)? How could we manage their schedules? How, how, how?

She did the research, asked other parents what they were doing, lined up a bunch of camps on paper and generally had the whole summer planned out in April. It was going to be difficult, for them and for us. We would have to juggle our work schedules, get them out of bed each morning with all the attendant hassles that come along with that, and shuttle them around to preplanned destinations.

Doesn’t sound like much of a summer does it? To me, summer means getting up when you wake up, having breakfast and racing out the door to greet the day, no real plan other than to come home at lunch and maybe spend some time at the pool.

Then Susan came up with the idea of a nanny, someone who could come in every day and look after our kids. Turns out that she works with a woman who has a college-aged daughter who needed a summer job. Voila, a match made in heaven, or at least in a cubicle.

We did the math and it turns out that as far as cost goes it’s a wash, nanny vs. endless camps. So now “Camp Counselor Cindy” arrives each morning at 8. The kids might be up by then, but maybe not. She takes them to swim team at 9 and after that it’s fun time. They go to the library on Mondays; they went to the three-dollar theater yesterday. Helen decided last night that she wanted a “hang out” day today, a totally unstructured day to do whatever, anything or nothing.

Camp Counselor Cindy comes in each day and asks what the plan is. If there is one, I tell her. This morning I told her that it would be a hang out day and her response was, “Works for me.” Works for me, too.

I told one of my running buddies about this and he called it a “Country Club Summer.” I just want my kids to remember their summers as fun. I want them to remember going down to play in the creek, running in the park, riding skateboards in the cul-de-sac. I don’t want them to remember being ferried around, stuck inside a car all summer. So far, this is a much better alternative.

I was reading some of the blog-fodder fallout from Liza Mundy’s Post article about hypercredentialed graduates. (Full disclosure: I didn’t get around to reading it on Sunday. Usually I would have, but not this week and since it’s now past Monday, I’m pretty sure I’ll never get to it.) It got me to thinking about my own children. Mine are 6 and 9, way too young to start thinking about this type of thing. No, my thoughts are for what I want for my children.

I want my children to be happy. I want them to be able to think independently and not rely on groupthink for their answers. I hope they grow up to be well-rounded human beings. I hope they can balance a checkbook and throw a ball. I hope they surf. I hope they are well read. I hope they enjoy the ocean as much as I do.

If genes are any indicator, I’m pretty sure they’ll inhale and imbibe; I hope they aren’t stupid about it. I hope they eat, drink, and are merry. I hope they exercise because it makes them feel good, not just to fit into something.

I hope they find the one person who truly loves them for who they are and that they, in turn, fall in love. I hope they have wonderful, lasting friendships.

I hope they work hard in school, but not so hard that they lose sight of the fact that life is a lot of fun. I hope they attend the college of their choice and have half the fun I had. I hope they have successful careers in whatever field they choose, be it ForEx trading or sculpture. I hope they have children. I hope they have grandchildren.

When it’s all over, I hope that they leave the world a little better for having been here. I hope the journey is a great adventure.

Right now it’s hard to write. There’s no shortage of subject matter, but I’m tired beating a dead horse. I don’t want to write about cancer. I don’t want to write about the Herculean efforts being made to transform my mom’s house into an assisted living facility. I don’t want to write about tempers flaring within the family. I don’t want to write about the child that my mom has become. I don’t want to write about some of my sibling’s apparent denial about where mom is on the continuum.

So much is happening but I’d rather not explore it any more than I have to since I’m living through it. Maybe later. Does that make me shallow? Screw it – I don’t care. It’s my blog.

What I can say is that my lovely bride is making this infinitely easier on me. She has done the great bulk of the research on what has needed to be done. She did the legwork on the assisted care facilities when we thought mom might be interested in going to one of them. She found the companion service once it was obvious that mom was not moving out of her house. She found the hospice service and set up the appointments. She located the Stair Glide on Craig’s list. I look good in front of my family and to those associated with this adventure because she has done the extraordinary.

So while I do my best to not fall apart, she’s the anchor in the storm. I should probably tell her that I love her more often. Because I do. Love her, that is.

Things I’m sick of hearing about:

• Obama vs. Clinton – Decide already.
• Sex and the City (already!) – I don’t own any Jimmy Choo’s
• George Bush – Can anyone say Lame Duck?
• Global Warming – Is it warm in here or is it just me?
• Al-Qaeda – Go back to your cave and stay there you Neanderthal throwbacks.
• Myanmar Junta – see above.
• Denise Richards – It’s not that complicated.
• Television – You deserve what you get. If you continue to bring me garbage, I will continue to not watch.
• $4 Gasoline – $85 to fill up yesterday.
• John McCain – You are a patriot and a great man. I’m just not sure about the rest of it.
• Airlines – You created this business model, now live with it.
• Vladimir Putin – All hail the new tsar.
• Microsoft – Love it in theory. The reality is much more dreary. And buggy.
• Eurosnobs – Cheese eating surrender monkeys.
• Cancer – Need I say more?

Helen’s softball team played the jerk’s team this weekend. I’m happy to report that the Purple Monkeys kicked ass. It was a sound beating. Helen had three at-bats and walloped the ball every time. The third at-bat was an awesome line drive between second and third – frozen rope. What comes around goes around. Heh, heh.

Verizon, who as you will recall dissed me not once, not twice, but three times, called me to ask why I had signed up and then cancelled my request. According to their records, we signed up with the roaming sales team on May 1^st, and cancelled on that same day. I had to tell them that we did NOT cancel. They put me back in the queue. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m not optimistic but I want fiber optics.

Mom – well, mom’s still dying. She had to go to the ER last night because she looked like death warmed over. She had been throwing up for a day and a half and couldn’t even swallow water. They gave her a bag of saline, a shot of steroids, something to calm her nausea and a sedative. Turns out her sodium levels were low, probably as a result of taking fewer steroids (at the doc’s orders). If she had not been brought in, there is a solid probability that she would have seized with one of three outcomes: coma, gorp, or return to normal – probably not the last one. We’re going to have hospice come in Monday or Tuesday. This will deserve a post all its own.

Our Xbox failed due to a broken USB port. I have a pal over at Microsoft who I talked to and who helped me navigate the customer service maze. Looks like we’ll have a new one next week.

The house down the street apparently sold. The grass is being mowed regularly and there are occasionally lights on in the house although no cars are there yet. Not regularly.

Brian, Myopic Ramjet’s monster drummer is still leaving town to go to Springfield, Mass later this month but we have located and recruited a new drummer. The circus rolls on. We’re going out for a band dinner to see him off this week. It’s a big change for him and for us. BTW, book us for your next party. We’ll come and play a bunch of music you know. You’ll drink and dance, we’ll entertain. The only rule you need do know about us is this: the more you drink, the better we sound so remember to do your part.

That’s all for now. Happy June.

Where to start? My brother Art came into town from San Diego a week ago Friday to visit my mom for Mother’s Day. His MO is that he takes a red-eye into Dulles, I pick him up at the crack of dawn, deliver him to mom’s house then go to work leaving him with mom for a day. They chat and have lunch. They both nap and by Saturday, everybody is on the same schedule.

You might know that my mom has had symptoms of vertigo for over a month. She had a visit to the doctor (the oncologist) planned for last Friday to assess the situation after a talk with her GP. Since Art was in town, he accompanied mom to the doc. The doc assessed, as they do. The assessment was that the vertigo has gone on far too long so an MRI was scheduled for that afternoon to see what was going on inside her head – literally.

The MRI occurred at 6:30 pm and was read shortly thereafter. The tumor was noticed immediately.

Prognosis: The lung cancer has metastasized to her brain and she has 3 to 6 months. Please come in on Monday and start palliative treatment.

Ho-kay. Take a deep breath. The feces has struck the rotary oscillator.

By now it was 8 pm on a Friday night and I’d had a couple of vodkas to help alleviate my own long week. I got the news from my brother and it sucked. At least he was here for my mom. So I packed an overnight bag and my lovely bride got a neighbor to give me ride down to mom’s house. After all, I was two drinks in and wasn’t about to get behind the wheel. Lovely bride figures, rightly, that my mom and my brother shouldn’t have to be alone with that kind of news.

Turns out that my sister was already there. The four of us stay up and chat for a while. It’s a good chat and we go to bed in as good a state as we can be in, given the circumstances. For the past year or so, mom has been fighting inoperable lung cancer and to find out that it has metastasized was a serious blow. I woke up Saturday morning feeling better than I had the right to and made coffee, which I enjoyed alone on the back porch until my brother woke up and joined me. We talked about the state of the union for a while before we were sent out on a donut run. Mama wants donuts, mama gets donuts; especially now.

While we were out hunting for a Krispy Kreme, the doc called back and indicated that it’s not as bad as originally thought. This particular type of cancer is not unusual and they know how to treat it. This, as you can imagine, brightens my mother’s mood considerably. Now she’s feeling pretty good again, mostly because the doc said something to the effect that people with this type of cancer usually have survival rates from six months to six years. Mom only heard six years, so she feels pretty good about the prognosis. The rest of the weekend felt like a reprieve.

Monday’s initial visit to the oncologist was a long one that told us a few things. The odds are 50-50 that the radiation therapy will shrink the tumor significantly. If this round of radiation does not work, there is no other option. This is the last, best chance. Median lifespan of people afflicted with this type of tumor is six months. I have a tough time believing that my skinny, tired, old mother will manage six more months.

She’s in radiation therapy for three weeks, Monday thru Friday, then a week off followed by a single focused dose of radiation to the tumor site. This first round of radiation cooks her entire brain just to be sure that they get everything, then is followed by the focused blast. If mom is unable to handle the daily radiation, they will stop it. The whole thing is barbaric. I hope that cancer research finds a more humane way to treat this insidious disease.

My older sister flew in from Hawaii to be with mom in this time of need. She’s a trooper and without her being here, it would be impossible. As it is, it’s pretty difficult but my sister’s presence makes it more manageable from a tactical standpoint. She’s staying until June 13^th when the radiation will be done, regardless. We will have to come up with a game plan by then since mom requires round-the-clock care. It’s not going to get better.

Now, a week into therapy, mom is confused, tired and petulant. She’s a septuagenarian child. It’s an emotional rollercoaster. One I wouldn’t wish on anybody.

Where are you Verizon? For months I have been trying to get FIOS into my house in Springfield, VA. Last year, Verizon worked hard to get their fiber optic lines into my neighborhood and I was excited. I believe in fiber optics. For years, I have been saying that that one day fiber optics will go to every house in America the way copper wires do now. Turns out I was right. A co-worker had FIOS installed in her house and raved. My neighbor across the street had it installed and is very happy.

I tried to sign up online. The software told me that I could get the service but I would have to get a new phone number. I don’t want a new phone number. I‘ve had the same phone number for 10 years. I intend to keep my phone number. I want all of their services – phone, Internet and television. I’ll even switch my cell phones over. I tried to sign up with their Triple Freedom offer. No dice. I tried with their Ultimate Freedom offer. Same response; need a new phone number. Zero for one.

So I called their call center to see if I could get it done by speaking with a live person. The gentleman on the other end was little more than a salesman. He indicated that there is something called a “Service Freeze” in my area that would prevent me from taking my phone number with me. He implied, though, that it could be done. He plowed through the sales pitch and when I told him I wanted to be sure that I could keep my phone number, he turned into a pushy used car salesman, saying that he couldn’t guarantee the same deal if I called back later. What a load of crap. It’s a national sales campaign and he’s sitting in a cube farm in Texas. I don’t like pushy salesmen and I especially don’t like ultimatums, so I hung up on him.

The following day, I called the call center back to see if I could get a manager on the line. The person to whom I was routed told me to call the local northern Virginia office. I did and was rerouted back to the call center in Texas. Zero for two.

I considered my options and did nothing for a few weeks when a roaming Verizon sales team knocked on my door. I answered their knock with single question, “Can I keep my phone number?” They answered with an emphatic, “Yes.”

The salesman was a pleasant gentleman named Denzel Williams, his partner was Shana. I don’t remember her last name. I told them that the phone number is a deal-breaker and he ensured me several times during our conversation that we could definitely keep ours. They had issues getting a signal in front of my house for their portable sales computer and the people in the office with whom they spoke on the phone were apparently as helpful to them as they were to me, so Denzel took down my information, wrote “pending” on the installation date, left me with my copy of the form and promised someone would call back in a day or two. That was May 2^nd. Today is May 12^th. Zero for three.

What do I have to do, Verizon? I’m not a yet a customer and am receiving deplorable customer service. I want FIOS. I want to sign up and I want to give you my money each month. I have a hard time believing in this era of phone number portability that I can’t keep mine. This is the 21^st Century.

I will no longer try to hunt you down, Verizon. You have had three chances. Call me when you figure it out. Don’t make me call the cable company.