Take and Give

Take me back,
back to home,
take me to the place,
a child could roam.

Take me far,
far from here,
take me to the boy,
who knew nothing of fear.

Take me out,
out in sight,
take me to the place,
where you must stand and fight.

Take me in,
in your pain,
take me to be your shelter,
from oncoming rain.

Give me burdens,
burdens you bear,
give me everything in life,
that goes beyond fair.

Give me inside,
inside your sole,
Give me this,
and I will become whole.

Give me years,
years not days,
give me time after time,
with no delays.

Give me more,
more of your best,
Give me what you can,
and I'll take care of the rest.

Pool Party

Everyday life eventually fades into past memories. Situations that preoccupied me for hours on end only a few weeks ago, no longer register in my daily life. I wonder if each twist and turn of this journey will hold true to that belief?

Days blend into weeks. Weeks accumulate into months. Months huddle up to form seasons. Seasons make up the year. Years get categorized into periods of life. Eventually all I remember are benchmarks of those years.

I've been searching my thoughts. Sifting for life's little moments that Dad did this year. I'm afraid to loose them. I want to get them down before I do. My Dad is many things, goofy he's not. For that reason alone this memory I will always hold.

Fish Creek is many things to many people. Sometimes one of those things just happens to be boring. Everything you set out to do is done, and all there is left to do is wait for dinner. Usually, on nice days you locate the sunscreen, grab the pool key, and head on out. Tracy, the kids, and I did just that.

Tracy tried to read her magazine as Cru sat in her lap attempting to make confetti out of it. Jersey had her hair pulled back in a high ponytail in order to have perfect vision of her surroundings. No lifeguard needed for her, unless it's possible to drown your toe. Piper, sporting a Disney two piece, bobbed up and down on the stairs as if she was on a teeter-taughter. There was still an abundance of late afternoon sun. The tall pine and birch trees could only wait for the sun to come to them. Until then, it was spf 30for all of us.

I was worn out from the late night drive and bad vacation sleep. Normally I would be catapulting the girls high into the air to see how loud they would scream. Other times, I would submarine up to them and unexpectedly tickle their toes. Today, I just didn't have it in me.

"PAPA Berrrrrnie...PAPA Berrrrrnie," shouted Piper, my spring breaker in training. "papa? Paaapa? PAPA!" chimmed Jersey. "I thought maybe you could use a grandpa in the pool," said Dad.

He, like his granddaughter, is a toe dipper in every way as he enters a pool. He always proceeds using the stairs, as if reluctant to make a splash. Once the lower half of his body as acclimated to the water temperature he falls backward. It reminds me of a slow motion Nestea plunge. He returns to the top, blowing like a whale. Both hands always outline his face similar to a Muslim praying. He rubs the water off his cheeks like a child putting on his dad's aftershave. Last he uses his hands to squeegee his remaining hair dry. Every time. No exceptions. Set your watch to it.

On that lazy July afternoon he turned a dull day at the pool into a memory. The girls kicked and splashed. He turned them into motorboats and mermaids. They hung on him like a cheap suit. The girls loved it all. I did too. With all three girls now relaxing in the pools new furniture I was sure he would head back home.

Instead he grabbed Cru and eased him around the calm pool.

"WWWWEEEEEeeeeeee...WWWWEEEEEEeeeee...WWWWEEEEEeeeeee," he sang to Cru as he guided him through an imaginary pool obstacle course. Cru laughed and laughed as he hugged him for extra comfort.

A little moment that time otherwise would erase. Not now though, I wont let it.

Like a great artist he left every kid wanting just a bit more. Remember, I too am a kid.

Tell Me

I hate going to sleep really late at night
restless worrying knowing nothings right

tossing turning in my bed
million thoughts spinning in my head

why did cancer knock at Dad's door
Endless not knowing what's next in store

Is this the last time for his this or thats
son, dad, husband too many hats

He says, "We need to keep living everyday"
Tell me some thing's going to take it away!

Tell me it was a mistake
Tell me what they saw was fake
Tell me son I got you
Tell me there's a cure that's new
Tell me you have twenty years to live
Tell me you can take anything it can give
Tell me I love you
And I'll tell you I love you too
Tell me it's alright
so I can finally go to sleep tonight

His hugs are different then they were before
A little tighter and just a second more

talk is less about now
and more about future dreams
like he is trying to prelive them,
or so it seems

What is normal in these unnormal ways
pretend the sun is shining on rainy days

He says, "We need to keep living everyday"
Tell me some thing's going to take it away!

Tell me it was a mistake
Tell me what they saw was fake
Tell me son I got you
Tell me there's a cure that's new
Tell me you have twenty years to live
Tell me you can take anything it can give
Tell me I love you
And I'll tell you I love you too
Tell me it's alright
so I can finally go to sleep tonight

Tell me I love you
And I'll tell you I love you too
Tell me it's alright
so I can finally go to sleep tonight

Tell me I love you

Wally World Trip...Part 2

She takes us through every in and out of my dad's cancer and treatment options. Stressing that he doesn't allow any treatment to drop off the table. This conversation makes it very clear she wants him to have the stem cell transplant not once but twice. Back to Back.

About every twenty minutes her pager starts dancing across the table. Four out of every five times it goes off she looks almost discusted that somebody had the odasity to call on her. But that fifth time, she boltS for the door like a underaged kid at a party the cops just busted.

Those two things in themselves are not really interesting at all, but it is what she did apon arrival. She has the ability to pick up at the exact word she finished with.

"Who does that?" I wounder. "My dad's Doctor, that's who!"

The hour appointment, lasted just under two and a half hours. She left by showing the tests my dad has already preformed, followed by a list of the thirty or so more she wanted him to take in order to set a true baseline.

That's when it hit Dad. He is no longer in retirement, cancer is now his full time job. Overtime is often required. With no extra pay. I believe this to be the moment Dad went from ONE person with cancer, to the ONE with cancer.

Back out in the lobby Dad struggled to set up the appointments he needed. Clearly worn out and just beginning Hell Week for his new fraturnity, it was obivous this was going to be a long week for him.

As he hammered away at the appointments the three of us slumped into some hospital furniture. The furniture was the kind where you could easily wipe up "residual" chemo.

Mom is on speed dial to Pure Joy at this point. Anything that could allow her thoughts to escape even for the briefest of seconds is a luxury on the cancer floor. Colette started to organize the notes she had taken with the doctors. After watching her be so maticulas with the information we recieved, I no longer wounder if she has ever for gotten to cross either T in her name.

I sit and people watch.

An old man stuggles with a cane. The cane he is using is as flimsy as both of his legs and I wounder why he is using it. Life always looks different if you give it some time. Apon second glance, I made out "We Love U Grandpa" near the handle. All of a sudden the cane was strongest thing in this place.

Cancer hits every type of person. It doesn't care if your a boy ar girl. Maybe it prefers older, but either way will do just fine. Oh this sickness is equal oppertunity in every way. My mind keeps wanting to catorgorize how much time people have left.

Colette says, "I don't care how tired I am, I could never fall asleep in a public place like this." as she looks at a man whose skin reminds me of a baseball mit my dad once had in the toybox at home. He had three days of salt and pepper scruff. Truth be told, he looked like that just might have been the last time he soaked in a steamy shower. You could tell his cloths didn't know the heat of an iron. His shoes looked as tired as him. This man, that second, was beaten.

It was his wife next to him that had cancer. She wore a scarf on her head that looked like the one the lead guitarist fom Bruce Springstein"s band wears. She was a living Xray. So gaunt was her face, you could see the holes in her skull that expose her temples. Her hands were covered with spotty skin that if pulled away from her knuckles might never return.

I watched her for several minutes. She never noticed I watched her. She smile once, and only once. When she placed her hand in his. Her thin lips crinckled up ever so slightly. This man that appered to have completely given up on himself still takes care his woman even when he sleeps.

After two more hours of blood tests we were given are dismissal for the day.

I walked ahead to get the car out of the parking garage. I said I was doing this for everybody else, I was doing it for me. Standing on the street waiting for the traffic to ease enough for me to slip through, the tears started to toumble. I have no interest in holding them back. My cheeks are soaked and I refuse to wipe them away. Maybe I want everybody to see I hurt, too. I don't know. I found comfort in those tears drying right off my face.

I guess everything passes.

I don't rember anything from the ride home. Maybe everybody was talking, maybe they were not. I was in the car, but I wasn't there.

We pulled into the driveway early in the evening. Colette went to pick up Merritt and planned on meeting us for dinner. Dad went upstairs to decompress. Mom pretended to work on a timer for the front lights. I found myself shuffling my feet through the freshly cut lawn.

The last part of the lit sky looked like a pack of Starburst exloded. The bright yellow of the sun still hung above the houses in the front yard. The yellow gave way to orange burst that reached for the few wimsy clouds in the sky. Where the orange failed to reach the clouds, the soft red didn't. The red made the clouds looks as if they have been kissed.

I closed my eyes and listened for a lawnmower. All I heard was the laughter of a younger me. That boy knew nothing could ever happen to his Dad. I miss that me.

Family Trip, not Wally World

Do you remember those first few fall days every year, when you were growing up? When I think of them I can still hear the sounds. I remember late saterday afternoons sitting in the front yard with my Buckley jersey on. A few blocks over somebody was cutting there lawn for the last time that year. If I close my eyes and tried hard enough, I swear I can hear every rotation of that lawnmowers blade. The trees try so hard to hold onto their remaining leaves. Some of the leaves would land on the front lawn and others hit Coventry Road. The wind would easily lap them up against the curb. It had a rhythm.

The sky on those first few days of fall found a new shade of blue. It was the type of blue that wispered bring a jacket out with you. I remember the trees in my neighborhood being so much smaller. I would always look for the highest leaf left in the tree and try and hit it with my football.

It smelled healthy. The air was chrisp on those days. To this day I always inhale deeper in the fall. There were times when you could smell somebody burning the last of their leaf piles. It was well before the time when you stuffed them into an oversized lunchbag. Today happens to be one of those days.

At around 7 am the alarm clock buzzed to life. No need, I was already up. I'm not sleeping well at all. There are two seasons in Chicago...construction and winter, and it isn't snowing yet. I was scared to death I would be late so I got a move on. I'm out of the shower by 7:15 and Mike and Mike are on in the backround. They just happen to be talking about Favre.

I don't know what to put on. I feel like a girl trying to get ready for her first date. If this was any sign of how they day was going to go, we could be in for a long one. I heard a great line once on Jonny Carson that sums up the way I feel at this point, "The whole world is a tuxedio and I'm a brown pair of shoes." I go with kackie slacks and a black v-neck sweater.

On the way to my Mom and Dad's house I call Colette. She is as calm as somebody that just found out they invested their life savings with Bernie Madolph. She is all over the place. I hope Mom doesn't do... Mike, I don't want you to do... I hope Dad isn't afraid to ask... I need to make sure... Shit! I'm worn out and it isn't 8am.

I pulled up to their house and keep thinking how quiet it is. Outside of the house it was so calm. Mom was in the downstairs bathroom doing what she does to get ready, and Dad was upstairs finishing up as well. As he came down the stairs he said, "I'm not really sure what to wear." So he went with black v neck sweater and kackies. Then it turned into gameplanning and out the door we went.

As we left I thought inside the house was very calm. Standing by the keypad of the garage I woundered, "Was the storm coming?" We hopped on I90 towards Chicago without anything being said. Ikea went past with only a blue blur. In no time at all we were at Allstate Arena. Still quiet. We zoomed through the tolls without any clogging of the traffic.

"You know what I feel like?" said my Dad. Retorical? Shit. Mad. Sad. All of the above. I gave it a second and thought I sould stick with (a) retorical. "I feel like a fisherman on a beautiful day at sea. Then, out of no where, a black wall of clouds is on the horizon. Turing around isn't and option. So it's time to steer right to the center of the clouds."

This hospital is everything you could have hopped it would be. I found comfort in its architecture. The buildings that comprise this hospital are worthy additions to Chicago's skyline. After some breakfest we headed to Northwesterns oncology departmeny. It was on the very top floor. Was this a good thing for... there best doctors get the best views, or a bad thing...keep the sickest people away from everybody else.

Four things hit me right away as we entered the department. 1) A quick scan of the vast waiting room allowed me to do a unifishal survey in my head. I guessed about 35% of these people look like they are going to beat whatever it is they have. 2) Spouces have cancer too. You can see it in their eyes. 3) My heart brakes for every person there alone. 4) I miss my wife and kids.

This place is so grand they actually give you a buzzer in order to signal you when your ready. Colette and my Dad go over the list of questions like a nerd crams before a test. My Mom would gladly drop a fifty for a cigerette. She calls Pure Joy for the third time just to try and trick her mind. I flip through and old ESPN the Magazine and stew. I'm so fucking mad. I realize that isn't going to do me any good so I try and change my track of thinking. The best I can come up with is, "I bet people in here think I have nice hair."

I can tell Dad is nervous as hell. He went to the bathroom right before we left home and breakfest. Wouldn't you know it, the buzzer go nuts and he's in the john.

The first nurse that met us had an infectious smile. She was a bigger african american lady who stikes me as everybodys favorite aunt. She took us into the room we would spend mabye the most important few hours of my Dad's life. The room was no bigger than my college dorm. It looked like almost every doctors office room you have ever been in. Altough this one had a computer for the doctor and a blood red outlet that grabbed my attention.

The three of us had chairs while my Dad was placed on the butcher paper. He looked stiffer than a goat up there. So I left and returned with another chair for him.

The first real doctor to enter might be Ickabad Crains son. He stands about 6'3" and might weigh 160lbs. He speaks like the new kid at school. Quiet and extreamly resurved. I kept thinking if there is 2 minutes on the clock you don't want him under center. After 10 minutes of questions he left to report to Seama Senghal.

About time! Lets get to the headliner.

15 minutes later confidence walked through the door. Dr. Senghal knows more about blood cancer than I do anything else in the world. I knew that in thiry seconds. She commands an audience. She has IT. She isn't an imposing person by looks. She is a few inches over five feet tall with jet black hair. She might be 55, but I would believe you if you said she was 38. She is an attractive woman and my guess is she has been down playing that her intire professional career. Five minutes in, I'm glad she is my Dad's doctor. She takes us through every in and out of my dad's cancer and treatment options. Stressing that he doesn't allow any treatment to drop off the table. This conversation makes it very clear she wants him to have the stem cell transplant not once but twice. Back to Back.

Part 2 on Thursday

A Letter to Bill Simmons of ESPN (The night I found out)

I love my Dad.

I am the son of the best person I've ever met. Think about those eleven words. I am the son of the best man I've ever met. To me he is Phelps in China. Sure it's been said before, and at times I bet some people have meant it, but I believe it. So many sons think of their dads as larger than life figures who can tackle anything with force and might. My Dad showed me honesty, thoughtfulness, caring, respect, and patience are more powerful tools for a man to use.

I have three children. They are without question the greatest things I have done in my lifetime. Jersey is four and a half, Piper is three, and my son Cru is not quite 8 months. Having them gave me a new set of eyes. I no longer have the eyes of a son, a brother or a friend. Now I have the eyes of my father.

I see the way he sculpted me into a man. How he made my sister into the a woman every family would be proud of. And how when you find the women of your life you never let them forget how much you are in love with them.

About two years ago I can remember my Dad swinging through town to pick up odds and ends for Door County, when I stopped by his house after work. After the initial Packer talk, Sox talk, Bulls talk, ect...The conversation changed to the future. We talked about things he still wanted to do and places he still would like to see. We talked about my dreams. Dreams I have for Tracy (my wife) and myself, and dreams I have for my children.

My dad said to me, "I am so proud of the man you are, Mike. You have always had many talents, but who knew being a dad would be your best." To me that was the equivalent of Tiger saying, "Mike, I wish I had your short game."

When Cru was born I felt a deeper connection to my Dad. Cru made me realize how important my Dad was in influencing me. The first two months of my sons life I was harder on him than Belichek on a reporter. I didn't see it then, but I do now. My dad and I were talking about how hard life had become between juggling a family and a career in the auto industry when he kind of stopped me and said, "Mike hang in there. Know that I love you."

He listen to me and knew that sometimes all you can offer and all you need are the same, love. He showed me just how much my son needs my love. He needs my hugs and kisses. He needs me to tell him I love you.

I want to watch him sing Christmas songs on an out of tune ukulele to his grandkids on Christmas.

I want to talk him into spending way too much on going to the Super Bowl to watch the Packers, because who knows when this will ever happen again.

I want to see him play catch in the front yard with Cru and Colette and Tom's son while the girls cheer. Who am I kidding, Piper will be out there making tackles.

I want to go on a guys fishing trip again and know the only thing I care about catching, is time with my Dad.

I want to play a round of golf with three generations of Lucier men where we all break 50 on the front nine.

I want my best friend to be ok.

I wrote this tonight after I found out my Dad has cancer. I've already read it and reread it hundreds of times, and two things hit me like Reggie White hitting Bledso in the Super Bowl.

The first is that you only get one Dad. In his life, if he does his job as a dad, he will be your hero, best friend, and your greatest loss. Before I met up with him tonight, he was already the first two.

The second is how important sports are to dads and sons. Sports are the single biggest reason to call your dad for no reason. Why else would I call my Dad on a random night in the middle of the week and give him the play by play of last three innings of Buerle's no no? When I really stop and think about it, do my Dad and I really need to know the intrococies of why Scott Wells was demoted? Is it that important to figure out where the Bulls are going to come up with scoring now that Gordon left? In the end of July? I believe it's the way we say I love you to dad.

The Masters has always been held as one of the faces on the Lucier sports Mt Rushmore. One of the last real memories I have of my Grandpa is sitting in his family room the year Jack drank from the Fountain of Youth. I remember goofing around for the duration of the front nine, while my Dad and Grandpa talked about what ever it is adults talk about when you are nine years old. Then it started to happen. As each hole went on, less words were spoken. By the time Jack got to the par 3 neither person would say a word until after each shot. I think they thought they were there. I didn't get it.

I get it now. My dad and I watched the British this year the same way over the phone. There were times when no words were spoken for minutes at a time. Even though he is hundreds of miles away and the bill kept getting bigger, it was the best Sunday of the summer.

Outside of my family I have one true love, the Green Bay Packers. I was born in 1976. It wasn't until the mid 80's that I understood what this team meant to my family. I became a fan at about the same time as Anthony Dilwig and Randy Wright were under center. Bad time to start. They were followed by the Magic Man (he was behind the line). Better for sure, but not great. Then Wolf traded for Favre and the rest is history.

I can tell you every Td he threw and every smile he put on my face. I drove 7 hours both ways all winter long to see him play. Do you know how hard it is to do that when you are going to school at ISU? My Dad and I met at almost every game wondering what he would do next.

I loved the flyovers.

I loved playing catch at the Midway.

I loved the yapping with Sapp.

I loved my Dad's stories of being at the Icebowl.

I loved the wins, and the losses. Because at least we still had Favre.

I loved being a Packer fan.

I loved being my Dad's son.

If Lambeau Field was completely empty and you could pick out any two seats in the stadium, you would pick out the two we have. We have two seats on the 49 yard lines. The midfield line splits your shoulders. I couldn't imagine being anywhere in the world but there when Brett comes back. This year though, the seat next to me will be empty. My best friend will be battling for his life.

If the chemo acts like the 85 Bears D the odds are that he will make it at least another five years. If it acts like the Packers D from last year...he's in real trouble. What I'm saying is that a Packer fan is cheering for the Bears!

Here is what I am getting to. I think you and your dad should take the seats with a couple of stipulations. One...You must cheer for Brett when he takes the field. (I hope he throws 7 td and they loose by 1). Two...You have to do a diary.(Say Bernie Lucier a few times to help his sprits) Three...Midway through the second half there will be a lull during a TV timeout, tell your dad what he means to you.

This is what I would like in return. One...Somehow if my Dad is going strong enough by next April, help us get to the Masters. Two...if not, help send me. If he is too weak to go, I'll come back and tell him what the fairway smelled like and how the curves on Amen Corner are as good as those on a beautiful woman. And If he is no longer with everybody, he will still be with me.(Remember I now have his eyes) Three... Let me write a diary about it.(It will be funny, light hearted and heavy all at once) Last...Post them over fathers day, just in time for the U.S. Open.

My name is Michael Lucier. My fathers name is Bernie Lucier. I can't think of a better gift next fathers day.

You can reach me at H-630-497-1984 / W-847-843-0400 x0 /C-847-769-7696 or email michaellucier@msn.com.