Circle Game - Cop's Kids

 Usually I start a blog with some sort of pithy quote. When I searched "Cop's kids quotes" all Google gave me were "Kindergarten Cop" movie quotes. Somehow - "It's not a tumor" doesn't seem pithy right at the moment.

What is pithy is how hard it has been to give this post its due. I wanted to address something I can be authoritative about. 

I've written, deleted, re-witten and deleted this blog enough to know that the subject matter - Cops' Kids - is less for me to write than for them. One of my daughters has written on the subject - Kung Fu Birthday, and Behind A Badge - she should write more often, btw. Our oldest daughter - It's the Fifty Yard Line about the strong women she grew up around. Their brother could write about being a cop, as well as a cop's kid, if he wasn't so busy.

I can be authoritative about the kids we raised, and what they have done with the lessons imparted by thirty-five years of watching their parents wrestle with a cop's life. To wit:

In an odd turn of events, I learned I would be hospitalized for "observation" after each of the first three chemo/immuno infusions I received as treatment for this new challenge. It is a novel treatment protocol and the side effects are potentially...well, not good. The best place to core out would be in the hospital, so there I would be.

Beth volunteered to take the first overnight - to take time off from work and away from her own family to stay with me in my room. Of course I told her it would be a waste of time. Katy made arrangements to fly in from Oklahoma City to take the second week's stay. It was all very unnecessary, I told them.

Until the first infusion, which put me on the Pain Train the likes of which I'd never known. Thank goodness Beth was there, to advocate for me at points where I was...the right word is delirious. Ultimately, things improved to the point where I could understand what had happened and explain it to the doctors, but for about 48 hours Beth and Pat made sure I got the care I needed, because I was a little loopy.

Katy, who has worked in and around hospitals since her preemie first was delivered in Ann Arbor, MI almost 16 years ago, took the second week. Not only did she speak the language ("We would probably be friends if she lived closer," said my night nurse) but she knew where all the hidden goodies were on the floor - midnight chocolate pudding from the stash? Hell yes. She knew how to unplug the IV gadgets so I could make a nighttime pit stop and get coffee in the morning. And, she made sure that the pain drug protocols we'd established didn't get lost in the nurse handovers.

Matt, dealing with this all from afar (new home, new job, new responsibilities in Houston) kept up a running text dialogue with encouragement, some levity and soliciting information as thing progressed. He volunteered their home as a base, if I needed advanced care at a famous cancer clinic in Houston (not quite yet). If I needed anything to increase my quality of life, he would make it happen

And, there were gifts. Beth found a hospital-approved t-shirt with snaps along the seams - eminently more comfortable than the gowns. She also had a few other things in a basket - eye masks, hand lotion and those great hospital socks. Katy's gift bag included more socks, a notebook and pens, and a 2026 Oklahoma U women's basketball poster. And, snacks.

Matt's contribution was a great mug (delivered at Christmas, between radiation and chemo) that was... Well, apparently I'm the best dad ever. No question. All other dads are losers. Etc. You probably get the drift.

They are cop's kids. "Tell me what needs to get done. You don't need help? Oh... Did it seem like I was asking for permission to help?"

It is a tumor. And when I needed back-up, they showed up, each in their own way.

That's what I know about cop's kids. Self-sufficient, intentional, resourceful, flexible. Ready to step in when Dad has chemo brain. Un-intimidated even in uncertain times. Generous.

I love them all.