The Road Trip

December 6th, 2004


I guess from when I woke up this morning, I had this irritant in the back of my mind that something was going to go wrong. And it did, as it always does. It was another one of those days that accumulate as the day progresses. This particular morning started out gray, overcast, and heavy, and ended gray, overcast and heavier.

Today was the day I went see Dr. Alterner. I sat down, expecting to hear some news about how I have high cholesterol or something. Judging from the look on the doctor’s face, it wasn’t good news. And it wasn’t. It was Stage IV Colon Cancer that had made a home in my liver and spread to my lymph nodes. The doctor told me he was sorry; I told him that it was too early. He told me that there were a few things that he could try; I told him that I had a wife and grandkids. He told me that my “disability” wasn’t curable; I told him that I can’t die. I repeated that for a while in my head as he talked about how I was one of the guaranteed ones. It wasn’t anything I’d done, but more of what my mother and father had done; they had me. Alterner told me that I was one of the few as unfortunate as being a genealogical guarantee. This wouldn’t be so hard to fathom, except for the fact that in the end, my insides will end up killing me. It is one thing to say that one day you are going to die, because one day, we all will I suppose. But knowing approximately when is the part that gets you.

But now that I am putting this down, I don’t even think death is the worst part, seeing as though you can’t prevent your impending fate.
The worst part is that part I won’t get to see. The hurt faces with tears streaming down their face. They are just kids. They just want to be loved. I won’t get to see Brian get married and start a family of his own, and I won’t get to see Amanda’s baby. I know that one day, I will see them all eventually, and I will be waiting.

December 10th, 2004

Dr. Alterner gave me my meds today; the anti-depressants he told me about.
Oh lord.
I feel terrible. It’s been four days, and I am already driving towards the cliff. Jacqueline tells me I have to enjoy life now, so she is making me write at least once a week. “Before you get too progressive,” she says. Jacqueline refuses to say the word. She doesn’t want the negative connotation that comes along with it. Sarah came to see me today. She brought Henry and Lauren along with her while Andy was at work. Henry is almost four now. He is a big fella, too I can barely lift him anymore. Lauren look my cane and started chewing on the handle. I don’t mind though. In the days ahead, I am going to need the mobile help more and more often. The grooves give me hope and reminds me that the world doesn’t end here. There will be others after I am gone. But Alterner said that it was genetic, so will Sarah, Brian, and Amanda have it? Henry, Lauren, Amanda’s baby?
Why did I have to do this? Why am I such a monster? They are at risk because of me. I would take my last breath right now as I write this, to secure their livelihood. But the world doesn’t work like that, does it? Otherwise, I suppose, we would all be living the good life, caviar and salmon every night.
Life is really just like a big game of trial and error if you look at it the right way. And I hope that I have made enough error in my lifetime for another to have an extra trial.

December 15, 2004


9 days to Christmas. Alterner congratulated me. You aren’t supposed to get congratulated on surviving to another Christmas.
Maybe I haven’t been as immersed in reality as I ought to be at this point. Jacqueline and the kids made it clear to me that they want this Christmas to specifically be a very non-materialistic Christmas that we all spend as a family.

This is all coming at me too fast. I don’t think I want this on my shoulders all at once. I don’t know if I can support it all.

I guess it is the way the universe deals us our cards sometimes. I just lost life’s game of rummy with the queen of 40 in my hand.

Speaking of which, tomorrow I am teaching Henry how to play go-fish. I taught Sarah, Brian, and Amanda when they were all four, and I want to teach Henry before I, you know…

So I guess I have tomorrow to look forward to. Now I am starting to see why Alterner prescribed me those anti-depressants. I already used the entire box.

December 28, 2004


Sorry, Jacqueline, I guess I broke the rule. I was just having so much fun with everyone over the holidays, that it must’ve just...slipped my mind. Today was the day Brian went home to his house in Minnesota, leaving Jacqueline and me to roam without tripping over all of the new Christmas toys. We have been making sure that I don’t have too much excitement in one day, in fear of my eventual plummet onto the ground below. For Christmas, the kids pooled their money and decided to give me something larger. We would all pack up the old Coachmen RV and take it down to the East Coast. They planned for next f all, but while I was on my way to do my business, I heard Jacqueline and Amanda talking. The conversation contained too many “can’t”’s and “cannot”’s. Jacqueline prohibited the use of those terms on our property. She says that it brings “too much negative energy” into the house and “right now, we need all of the positive we can get”.

Their conversation went a little something like this, but don’t quote me on it, they were talking to my bad ear.
Jacqueline: It was so thoughtful for the three of you to do something like this for your father. I think he really will appreciate it.
Amanda: No problem. By then, I think the baby will be healthy enough to travel, and if not, we could just push it back a few months. It is only a roadtrip, no reservations needed.
Jacqueline: Mandy, I don’t know if we can even wait until the fall… It has been what, almost a month? You can see it. I can see it. He isn’t doing well.
See what? See me trying to live? Be happy? Try to forget? Not that you can ever for forget a tsunami, feet from your ankles, licking the heels that support your entirety. Nah, you can’t ever forget.
Amanda: Well, we can’t go in the summer because a) it will just be too hot in that RV, and b) I won’t be ready to travel, and I am sure the baby won’t want to either. So summer, and make that spring, are out of the question.
Jacqueline: We may just want to do something closer to home for him. Just over a month from now is his 68th. We should throw him a surprise party, invite all of his old college buddies, like Uncle Roger, and just do something here.
Amanda: I know, he probably couldn’t handle the road trip, but it just would’ve been nice to do something before he goes downhill any further.
You mean before I die.
Jacqueline: I’m so sorry, honey. I would love to go, but it isn’t something your father can handle right now.
Amanda: I understand.
I walked away from the bathroom. My head and my shoulders felt weighed down with the world. I need to go take a nap or something. I just can’t think about it anymore.

February 2nd, 2005


Today is my last birthday.

Theoretically, your birthday shouldn’t be a celebration for you. It should be a celebration to your parents, especially your mother, seeing as though she did all of the heavy lifting.

Except when it is your last one. Then I guess it is all about you. I got a bunch of pointless gifts that I will never use. Rick got me a full set of golf clubs, Tony got me a year’s membership to all of the Wisconsin State Parks, and Roger got me tickets for us to see our favorite band, Pink Floyd, when they come to Milwaukee.

The concert is next November. Of course, with all the depressing gifts that came, the best memories and even more laughter came also. The look on Jacqueline’s face was priceless when she saw the old crew back together, joking again, one last time.

Alterner took me off my antidepressants. I don’t think it is going too well.

March 21st, 2005


Henry came over. He played go-fish with me today, and he is almost better than I am. He is going to be a great man when he grows up. I’m not worried about it, though. I will be watching over him to make sure he makes all of the right decisions. He is my little man, after all. I am going to miss him so badly.

Alterner has me taking six different meds, twice a day. Jacqueline teases me that I am too drugged to even think straight anymore, but every time she mentions it, an uncomfortable look shades her face. She knows almost as well as I do, it’s not the drugs. I feel like memories have been removed from my head and replaced with these black holes. They stumble over themselves to try and collect the rest of the timeline of my memories before the others get them. I probably got a couple of tumors up there too. Alterner has taken it upon himself to completely educate me as to what is going on in my body, but quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. They can tell me about it all they want. but until they can get rid of it, I am not listening to a single word. I told the old doc that once. I started out playful, but ended on a completely different note, “Listen, buddy. You may want to save your breath instead of wasting it on some doomed old fart like me. In fact, save as many as you can, because you never know when it’ll be your last one.” I then grabbed my hat and cane, and exited the premises. I think he switched me to a different antidepressant after that. I can’t be sure though. Jacqueline takes care of my pills now, because I can’t keep them all straight.

Amanda had her baby a few weeks ago. She named him Toby. Toby James. It has a nice ring. He came in at 8 pounds, 3 ounces. Born March 6th, 2005. My third grandkid. How time flies.

March 27th, 2005


Today has been the best day I have had in a very long time. I was up at 6 for my first dosage. Amanda and Toby were over by 8:30, Brian by 8:45, and Sarah by 9:30. Jacqueline took them all to a nice 10:00 mass at our local Presbyterian, while I trudged around the yard, stashing neon plastic. Before today, I hadn’t done that since, oh man. Years. Many years.

As soon as his car seat was unbuckled, Henry was up and grabbing the eggs left and right, stashing them in his shirt. Soon after, Lauren started bawling because she wanted to find all of the eggs. So Sarah made Henry put all of his eggs back and wait to look for them again until snack time was over. I saw him sneak a few jellybeans out of one of them though. He wondered why I was laughing.

Jacqueline came home with a walker the other day. She tried to casually place in front of my nightstand, so it wouldn’t seem like a big deal. But someone doesn’t forget the first time they needed a walker.
l
June 21st, 2005.


Today is a big day in the Beutevy household. This is the first official day of my last official summer. Today is also Jacqueline’s 66th birthday. And the road trip is back on. I never really got to hear why, but it just all of a sudden happened. Jacqueline sat me down and told me to start packing, even though the trip wasn’t for another five months. I am thankful for the chance to spend a little extra time with the people I love the most.

Amanda’s baby is doing well; Toby’s already 16 pounds. He’s a little stinker though. He only sleeps in his swing or right in between his mommy and his daddy. So neither Amanda or Marshall have gotten any sleep lately. I told them to enjoy being young parents, because God knows it doesn’t last very long.

July 26th, 2005


I am now confined to the knobs and cushions of a wheelchair. Alterner ordered it full time. We tried a little bit of PT to try to get things working like they used to, but nothing would budge. I think I am okay with it though. I am always slowing everyone down during the family walks. So, at least now I won’t be at the back of the pack. My hands are starting to go also. I know you can’t see it, seeing as I type this all up afterwards, but I can barely read my own handwriting anymore. My once neat cursive is now a messy slew of squiggles and shaky lines. My hands have started to curve inward, almost like my fingers are collapsing in on each other. It is a devil of a time for eating also. Most of the food ends up in my lap. Jacqueline wants me to start wearing a bib, but I refuse, only because I want to remain independent, and keep the shred of dignity that I have left.

I almost forgot, as I do often now these days. Brian is engaged! He met a nice girl named Shelley at work. They have known each other for two years, and started dating 13 months ago. Their wedding is set for next March. They want a spring wedding in California. Even if I am still alive, I don’t think I will be able to make it. I wouldn’t trust myself on a plane now, forget eight months from now. But believe me, I’ll be watching.

September 23rd, 2005

I am looking forward to my last vacation with both anticipation and angst.

If I looked back at myself a year ago today, I would be amazed at the descent. I can feel it within myself. I cannot imagine what I must look like from the outside. I have refused to look in the mirror since my last journal entry. To tell you the truth, I’m scared. I don’t want to see what I look like. Mostly because I know I won’t like the reflection.

A year ago, I wish that I would have had the common sense to go to get screened, and maybe then I wouldn’t have lit up the scans like a Christmas tree. Maybe then I would have had more than a year to love. We all live with our regrets, but I guess I just have to die with mine.

November 18th, 2005




In two days time, the RV will be filled with happy people making happy memories. Me included. The chemo has now taken my hair, mobility, and energy, but it can never take all of my happiness. I have finally found antidepressants that work like a charm to add to my list of new things that are going well for me right now. The pain or my suffering hasn’t gotten any worse in the past week or so, so I guess that is an upside as well. At this rate, maybe I could live until Brian’s wedding. There are always miracles. Maybe I will be one of the lucky guys who gets one.

Toby is doing just dandy, along with Amanda and Marshall. Henry, Sarah, Lauren, and Andy are doing well also. Jacqueline has taken up a new hobby, knitting. She knits me hats to cover up my shiny bald cap. I feel like a robot, endlessly thanking her with multiple, “I love you”’s or countless “You are the best”’s. But I don’t think she understands my full gratitude. I suppose I wouldn’t either, but I do not because I am not just thanking Jacqueline for the hats, I am thanking her for the memories.

November 19, 2005


Normally, I wouldn’t go through Alan’s journal like this. He likes to keep his belongings private and I respect that. But I think today is a different story. Alan didn’t get the miracle he so desperately wanted. He is now a lone figure of the past tense. His funeral is tomorrow, the day we would have left for our family road trip. Instead of Jersey, we will be rolling on down to the county cemetery for the burial of Alan B. Beutevy. A husband, a father, a grandfather, and a victim of the world.
Alan, you said that when you died, you would want me to speak at your wake. But, I just don’t know what to say. I was going to read your favorite your favorite Emily Dickinson, but even that doesn’t quite capture the beauty of your soul. So maybe, I will read this journal. You had some beautiful words in here, Alan. I will just convey what you have the inability to tell. Henry said that in his 4K class he made a drawing that he wanted you to have. I told him he could put it in your casket. I hope that it’s okay with you. He really loved you Alan, we all did, and we will miss you more than anything.

Thank you for the memories.
I will cherish every one of them.

Jacqueline


P.S. I found the suitcase at the bottom of your bed. I didn't open it. There are somethings that are just too exquisite to bother. I believe you were one of them.