Richard, Missy had something up her sleeve.

I can tell when she does because of the twinkling in her big brown eyes. She is a person full of heart and compassion and the assistant to my Oncological Psychiatrist. A big, capable gal who deals with life and death every day. And so kind that when she explains the realities of death and disease, you smile while she does. The kind of person you feel lucky to listen to. Cindy at Arts in Recovery could really use your participation in a project. Will you meet with her? Well, I was blind-sided, left totally empty-handed of any believable excuse. Um, I guess. What is it? Oh, youll love it, Richard. I already signed you up. Shell be over here by the end of your session with Doctor Dee today. Well, damn Missy. Wed been playing off one each other for over three years, Im happy to hear Im all signed up for this project we dont know anything about.

I just knew you would be, she laughed her heart-felt laugh. Oops, better get in there. Doctor is really booked today. Just dont sign me up for any more projects while Im seeing Doctor Dee, Okay? Okay. I had just been volunteered for. But I had been in the art gallery business for decades--known to Missy---and I was envisioning helping people on life support with their crayon technique and some dreary collages. This is not the sort of Volunteer Project I could imagine happily joining. I had cancer. Incurable cancer. Wasnt that enough of a contribution? But--and it is a big but--the fact is that my shrink saves my sanity on a monthly basis. She listens. She questions. She helps me figure out how to live with stage four pancreatic cancer. I determined to quit the hermit crab act for the next hour. At least.

And try to drop dealing with the fear of death every ten minutes. At least for the day. At least. It scares me all the goddamn time. My P.C. is ticking away inside me. Ive made it a little over three years. My son Ryan once went with me to one of my Gloom and Doom sessions with her and then made me laugh magnificently at a lunch afterward by pointing out that at least I knew what would eventually kill me. Ry knew that the next person who assured me that any of us could be killed by a bus the next day had a strong chance of being thrown under a bus. By his Dad. My son was twenty-two and we were deciding to live together. When he learned of my problem, he simply told me that he would be moving in to help out. The kid was only a kid. Id love to live with you, I said. But, I dont want to become a . . .

Its all gonna work out. Pops. He grinned, tucking an especially small paintbrush behind his ear. Just dont expect any sponge baths. Nothing personal. . It worked out. Ryan was attending the best and oldest art school in the city and studying what I called the real deal, painting. Oils, Canvas. Brushes of all sorts and sizes were meticulously organized in clear jars in the room set side for his easel and studies. I had made a living as an art dealer for most of my adult life and had loved many years of it. We sat up late into the nights, discussing Dada and Surrealism and new art and old art and bad art and real art (left entirely to our discretion) and baseball and our Giants chances for the season. And hope. He often fell asleep next to me as I lay sick as a very sick dog from the chemo and the side effects and the fear. And our home gave me the freedom to write about my life before it ended and my talented son would design

wonderful covers for my essays and articles when he wasnt deep into his school assignments. It gave us a sense of collaborative art and reasons to insult each others weaker efforts. And Id ask him his honest response to my writing for the art project at the Cancer Center. So we wrote and painted and drew and dined on Ryans veggie meals and drank some good wine and wed laugh and laugh and laugh. And every weekend, this unflaggingly cheerful and happy and hopeful kid of mine would hoist on his backpack and sing out I love you, Dad and crossed the Golden Gate bridge to stay at his moms in Marin and spend those moments with his beautiful and brilliant girlfriend Rachel that is the special reserve of the young and the bright in love. And we shared this life for three and a half years. Against all odds, I stayed alive. And felt it. .

An Unplanned Life was the apt title for the Art In Recovery project. How can I get out of this writing project I got roped into? I shook my head at the prospect. I was under a near constant mental fog from the chemotherapy. The lack of self-awareness was a huge obstacle to my writing. Any writing. A five sentence e-mail to the utility company took nearly an hour. How the hell can I get out of this? The guilt of dropping out would be even worse. The project was a noble effort. High school students who had lost someone to cancer volunteered to become pen-pals to individual patients with a terminal illness. Jesus. Plus, its kinda connected to my shrink, so I cant just bail. Plus, Ry was cooking one of his original vegetarian concoctions, youd have Missy to answer to.

The kale looks especially good tonight, I tried. Artistic commitments make me feel itchy. Its chard, Dad. He was chopping some garlic cloves as the leafy greens sauteed. You wont quit and you know you cant. You said youd do it and so you will. Because its the commitment that makes an artist. Those are some huge mushrooms, I observed. Like when I first volunteered to work at Creativity Explored and hated it at first. This was a direct hit. The previous year a center for developmentally disabled kids invited Ryan to help create art with their clients. A week later a commercial gallery offered Ryan a good salary and decent hours. You have to stand by your commitments if you mean to be an artist, I told him at the time. You have to stand by your commitments if you mean to be a writer, Dad. Remember when you . . .?

Are those pine nuts youre using? That looks delicious. Its good for mental clarity, Dad. He tossed the dish n a large earthen bowl. For writing, they say. Then give me a double dose, okay Buddy? . Do you know the basic difference between your Dad, and you and me? Nurse Sheila asked Ryan. I go into the Cancer Center for an infusion twice a month. The monthly bill is over $42,000. The government programs pay these bills and so I stay alive. Whats a life worth? Im sorry. I meant to ask what is your life worth? The infusion nurses have, had, and will see it all. They will tell you the truth if you ask them for it. Sheila has cared for me for over three years. What? Ryan asked. I must add here that my other loving two sons and daughter were present for me whenever possible. But Ryan lived with me and his school knew of my

situation and would adjust his schedule so that he could come with me. Its that you and I might--occasionally--think of our own mortality. That we will die someday. But, your Dad thinks of it everyday. Every day. He might not admit it, but a person cant avoid it. .

How do you find your happy trail in this huge world? My pen-pals and I finally met at a public reading of our shared letters at the programs end. And while I realized I may have answered a few of their life questions in my letters, their missives answered my questions about the meaning of my life. They reminded me of what it was like to be young, and find the world a daunting place, and put a life together, and see the pieces of the puzzle fall together.

One of my teen pen-pals wrote:I frequently find myself thinking about the fact that I am alive, Richard, and it makes me feel privileged to be breathing this beautiful air. The simple things are truly what make me happy. . Nail it, Pops, Ryan and Andrew said as we pulled up to the hall for the reading. The boys like to encourage Pops because Im often placed in one of the last speaker spots. There is true concern and attention paid to the survivors at such cancer events. There is crying by audience and patients alike. At this evenings event a brave young woman--a teen--struggled to read through her tribute to her father. We all reached out to hug her when she was able to collect herself. . The menu of cancers lurking around to kill you leaves a large group of survivors and supporters. They have marches and auctions and dinner fundraisers and other

events necessary to raise the research dough that is simply not to be found. Except for pancreatic cancer. There are no marches or events or gala dinners. Because there are no survivors. There are many bereaved left from this insidious disease. But very, very few survivors. . And this was the part of my little talk that my boys thought hilarious. Once I introduced myself and owned up to be a stage four pancreatic cancer patient, the audience would usually issue a collective gasp. Good God, Andrew would joke with me, they must think; Shit, this guy really has cancer! The boys put their arms around my shoulders as I climbed down from the dais. Quite a few of the recently graduated girls were rather pretty, I whispered to them. Not the place, Dad, Andrew said. Really not the place.

Really, Ryan laughed quietly. Really not the place, Pops. . We made nice with the people in attendance and then crossed town to my flat. It was Pappys bedtime, but early enough for the boys to go to a local cafe. Andrew won a spot to sleep over after a number of solemn oaths to Ryan that his snoring days were over. Even I became convinced that earnest Andrew was capable of monitoring his own snoring while fast asleep. It was easier than simply saying that we loved being together. . I woke them at a decently early morning hour to help me swab out the place as they would be gone to see Mom and friends across the bridge for the long Memorial weekend. The fellows packed up their duffles and told me they loved me. Multiple times. It was something we did and

werent afraid to say in front of anyone. I love you, Dad. And these strong, strapping, blossoming young men would give Pops a kiss on the neck with a See you soon. We had a rule about never saying Good-bye. . After all, we had plans. In just ten days, we were going to spend a week in the Rockies. Just the three of us. It had been made clear to me that if I were to build memories with my kids it should be now. Really, Mister Humphries, now. While you can still can. You can never tell with this stuff you have. So, with oldest brother Clayton off exploring Indonesia and daughter Brooke juggling a lively daughter, husband and business, we concocted a guys trip. My youngest were in their twenties and I was not a long-term bet. So: Lets go play cowboy. Now. This summer now. I spent a few years growing up in Colorado and the Rockies were a paradise I wanted to share with the guys.

After an animated visit to a Western wear store, we moseyed on down Mission Street. Jesus, Andrew, Ryan shook his head, with that Stetson hat and those Tony Llama boots you look twenty fucking feet tall. Yeah, I agreed and asked my youngest to try to hunker down a few inches when he was standing close. We talked constantly of our upcoming camp out/cattle drive/cook-out at the gorgeous Black Mountain Ranch in the heart of the Rocky Mountain Range. I felt, knew, it might be our last summer together. The fellows knew I planned to write about our little adventure. Happy Trails, you know? Ryan had already designed a terrific cover for the unwritten piece. I waved to them the next morning from my second floor window as they left for the weekend. They were wearing their hats and boots to break them in prior to the trip. It was the last time I would ever see them together. .

It always arrives unexpectedly. A knock on the door. A telephone call from the hospital. A sudden crash. It happens to all of us but it should never happen to our children. . What the hell are you up to? I asked my youngest son. Andrew was suddenly shaking me awake. Whats the idea, Andrew? You know. The kid is twenty. A driving arrest? A buddy in trouble? It was just past five in the morning. What the hell was he doing standing in my bedroom? He was supposed to be in Marin. Something horrible has happened, Dad. I saw he was crying. Ryans dead. At age 22. My boy. My artist. My guy Ryan . . Chestnut was my guy. At just under sixteen hands the big Appaloosa carried me, cantering up a steep trail with

barely a snort. Id reach across the pommel and give the big boys neck a pat to ease him. Hed turn his head and look at me, full-eyed, knowing we were on an unplanned trip. Cresting a hill, the strong big horse would gently pause, giving the winds time to dry my tears, the views to calm me. Our place back in San Francisco was too full of Ryans art, too empty of his being. Finding a new trail would be a long way off.

Happy trails, Ryan. Dad