59. Original

I have received all sorts of requests from my blog followers. Some of you simply like the photographs; some of you like the insights into my personal life, and still some like it when I connect my photographs to history. Others think that my blog is unfocused and I should hone in on one strategy and never stray. Well you can't please everyone. So tonight, it's personnel.

The first year anniversary of my stepfather's death is two months away. He passed in June 2009 just days after his birthday. So it is that time of year in which a lot memories have been dragged to the surface. I am feeling fragile, raw, and weepy. Papa Ken was first diagnosed with prostate cancer around 2006, and by initial reports, the doctors caught it in plenty of time. By fall of 2008 the prognosis changed drastically to less than one year of survival. Of course in all my parents’ optimism I don't believe they ever admitted defeat - always holding out for some hope.

This week my daughters, Katie and Abbey, have their yearly play production performance. Last year's show was called "Music America" and Ken knew all the songs. Katie and him practiced together for months. When the show date finally arrived, I was truly overwhelmed with curling Katie's hair and getting her ready for the performance. Her call time at the theater was less than an hour away when my mom called - Papa wouldn't get out of bed. He was argumentative and non-responsive, two words no one would ever use to describe him. In much of a panic I left Curtis to cope with Katie's hair, make-up, and costume, and drove to their house. My mom had gotten him out of bed. He was sitting at the dining room table with a delicious breakfast in front of him - untouched. I spent childhood sitting next to Papa at every meal. I constantly had to be on the defense to keep him from stealing the bacon off my plate. It wasn't like him to ignore the delicious bacon - totally uninterested. It's not that he didn't want to go to the play, it just seemed that he was unaware of what we wanted or were asking him. It was at this time that reality hit and I understood that his cancer was truly terminal.

Some how we got him dressed without his help. It was hard to be his daughter for so long and then have to help clean and change him. It embarrassed both of us. After he was dressed the next challenge was to get him out to the car. Although he was walking fine the night before (and would walk fine the following day) again he was unwilling to even try. The car was down a couple of steps with no ramp. Even with the recent weight loss he was still easily 190lbs. But some how I got him to the car. I finally solicited his participation by singing "Roll Out the Barrel". I knew he loved that song because I had listened to Katie and him sing it for hours. He had explained that it was a popular song he sang during World War II as a boy.

Curtis was at the theater to help unload Ken and thanks to ADA it was wheel chair accessible from there. We rolled him into the theater as the lights went down and the music began to play. All of a sudden he woke up and knew where he was. He knew what we wanted. He turned into regular Papa and he started signing. He sang almost every song. He clapped and cheered. I sat there holding his hand, and cried softly in the dark theater. I knew this would be the last time for him to enjoy his beautiful K-K-K-Katie on stage. As Katie (and now Abbey) prepares to once again take the stage I have to say with all my heart, “I really miss you Papa.” The girls will be singing for you don’t forget to join in.