Eric Tapley

My Great-Great-Uncle Paul passed away yesterday. He was 93 years old, lived a long and fruitful life, and suffered little before his death.

Uncle Paul was the “cool guy” in the family when I was young. I poignantly remember him from one Thanksgiving at my Grandmother’s house. The whole family had gathered and finished our meal; we sat around laughing, joking, telling stories, and enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“Who wants dessert?” my Grandmother asked. Everyone, of course, wanted to know about the options. Grammy listed off the choices: pumpkin pie, apple pie, lemon meringue pie, pudding, and, of course, a few flavors of ice cream.

“Hell, Rose, I don’t know, bring me a little bit of everything,” Uncle Paul joked. He must have thought she’d pick something and bring it out, not bring a full spread of dessert, but indeed Uncle Paul’s was a plate full of each dessert, generous helpings, while the rest of us had our choice.

At every Thanksgiving after that Uncle Paul, without asking, would get the full selection of desserts. Sometimes one of us would yell out that we wanted “A little bit of everything,” just like Uncle Paul.

Uncle Paul was always a bit of a maverick to me, he was the one who lived as he wished, ate however much dessert he wanted, and who always stood up to others in my family when he believed in something. He spoke with the authority of years and made a great impression on me in my youth.

He was also the last connection I had to Papa and Nana, my Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother, two people who helped tremendously in raising my brother and I after my Dad left and my mom was on her own. They were, in many respects, a second set of parents.

I miss them all.

My mystery rash – let’s not call it poison ivy any more – first appeared on July 22nd. It’s been nearly a month of dealing with this unknown, recurring, mystery thing. It’s painful, itchy, irritating, hot, prickly, and makes my skin feel tight. At times I feel short of breath, almost as if I can’t take a deep breath, and that’s scary. Behind my elbows and knees, and between my fingers, my skin has become inflamed and sensitive and bleeds now and then from the chaffing. When I wake in the morning there is often a little blood on the sheets from my legs.

But I can’t stop moving or using my hands or walking or living. I have to move forward the best I can.

All of this is starting to get to me. I’m trying to be optimistic but I feel a little lost. I’m losing track of tasks that I need to finish, I don’t have the same focus or drive at work (which is in large part due to the medication I’m on). The days seem to bleed together, and on top of it all I’m not sleeping well. Each of these feeds the other.

I constantly worry that this is in fact contagious and that Sam will get sick from it. I’ve had nightmares about that. I obsessively wash my hands an am incredibly careful every time I play with him. I use a separate towel to dry my hands and even have a ’sick sheet’ I put on the couch when I sit there so, just in case this is infectious, even just a little, I’m not leaving residue around.

Even still, he has some kind of rash. The doctor said it’s unrelated, something called “prickly heat rash,” and that he’s fine. But I worry and don’t feel any better that she’s given it a benign name - what if it is from me?

During my long years of battling Colitis I experienced this kind of depression frequently. It’s the unknown that gets to me – I don’t deal well with situations in which I feel helpless or out of control – and with a good long walk and a little reflection I’m able to pull through and get back to a positive, optimistic place. It’s just hard sometimes.

It’s hard right now.

Wow, Sam said his first word!

Kate and I just returned from a friend’s wedding. Sam was a little fussy (it’s after his bedtime and we were in the car for a while, plus he’s hungry). Once inside he looked up at Kate and said “mama”.

Surprised, she looked down. Maybe he was just murmuring syllables, a habit he’s started lately as he learns to vocalize. But no, he looked at her again, more insistent this time, and repeated himself: “Mama!”

Wow. Sam’s first word! I’m overwhelmed.

Kate and I are celebrating our five-year anniversary today. She’s an amazingly supportive wife, a great mother, and just all-around wonderful. Her love, companionship, and belief in me help me every day and encourage me to be a better man.

Happy anniversary, Kate! I’m looking forward to our next five years and sharing more my life with you.

I’ve been trying to write a post, a thank you, an expression, some thing that would be able to capture just how tremendous all the support, prayers, and understanding I’ve received in just the past few days have been. But I can’t. Not without sounding saccharine, or phony, or just cheesy and lame. Under it all there’s a very solid truth, though, my core is swelled with the greatness of others, and it makes it all so much easier to cope. I am not incredible. I am not strong. I am not even unusual. I’m loved, and that’s way more than I could ever hope for, and will get me through whatever may lie ahead.