Sunday morning.

It's such a strange reality to go to the store to grab eggs and coffee and have the daunting thought that the woman behind you buying Sunday's paper will soon be open up to the obituaries and see your fathers picture. I woke up at 5 this morning, like I have pretty much every day since my dad entered hospice, (and when I say entered hospice, I don't mean the hospice house, I mean when he was entered into the program in September), and just couldn't shake the anxiety. I watched a stupid mindless chick flick, got way too invested in the characters and was just about to do laundry when I heard the paper hit the front steps. "Oh ya..." I thought to myself, "today is that day."

You just start to move slower. At least I have. Quieter. Looking for the next thing and waiting far too impatiently for the rest of this earthly purpose to run me over. I guess now I go to school and move on with my life? Right? That's what people are supposed to do? That's what people keep encouraging me to do... it just doesn't seem so simple. It seems so small and insignificant compared to the last year of my life. To go sit in a classroom full of people my age with newly found independence from a stifling suburban life style, looking to become a world changer and keepin the revolution alive for peace and justice for all. It sounds annoying. It sounds like real life is going to intrude and rock their idealistic revolutionary soul. And for the rest of us that have been rocked... what? Now we roll?

Maybe cancer can bring out the existential cynic in us? Or maybe it just meant something? Maybe I got kinda attached and for the first time felt like I was doing something that wasn't hurting someone else. Like I was finally doing something right. Something real and so full of truth. Something that wasn't only beneficial to him... but something that changed me. And the way I look at life, and the way I think about family. And how you just realize that the small things are special.

Maybe I was the one being cared for.

October 24, 2010

   On my 22nd birthday, October 24, 2010, my dad gave the best gift he could ever give. He ended his fight and took his last breath at 5:35 pm. My grandparents were both by his side.
    Because I have had a few days to process and cry myself dry, I can write this in clear conscious and say I could not be more honored to call him my father. We are all so very proud of him for fighting as long as he did and look at his passing as such a beautiful release and a peaceful end to such a long war.
    I’m in the process of writing a “eulogy” that will be read at the celebration of his life. In the mean time here is what I wrote for his obituary. To those who knew my father, were witness to his amazing spirit, and moved by his brilliant determination, please celebrate with us.

    Lee Jeffry Fouts ended his six-year battle with cancer on October 24, 2010 in the thoughtful and caring hands of the Franciscan Hospice House. He is preceded in death by his sister Ruth. Lee is survived by his three devoted children Cody, Jessie and Jake Fouts; their mother, Mollie Fouts; his loving parents Bud and Marje Fouts; and his four supportive siblings Linda Grist (Eddie), Marie McKechnie, Keith Fouts (Peggy), and Ann Fouts. Lee also had 14 nieces and nephews, all of whom he loved spending time with.
Lee was born in Tacoma, Washington on July 13, 1956. His family later moved to Bellingham where he graduated from Sehome High School in 1974. He worked as an electrician for thirty years at various companies in Tacoma and retired from Totem Electric of Tacoma in 2004.
Lee’s passions included hunting, fishing, camping, golfing, jazz music, cooking, and supporting his children at sports events, music concerts, dance recitals and graduations. He devoted 20 years to the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation and served on numerous state committees including the Washington Wildlife Recreation Coalition.
Lee was diagnosed with cancer in the fall of 2004 and outlived a six-month life expectancy. His fight was admirable and taught us the limitless boundaries of the human spirit. As his family, we could not be more proud of his determination and utter strength.
Please join us to celebrate that strength on November 5th, 2010 at the Puyallup Elks Lodge (314 27th ST NE Puyallup, WA 98372) at 2pm. In lieu of flowers please instead, make a donation to the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation (www.rmef.org).

God willing.

I was talking to a girl at school and I was telling her that I was really worried about my grieving process. The whole first week my dad was in the hospital, I was very emotional. I was feeling through everything. I was, so I thought, grieving. But I hit this wall. I just became numb. I go to hospice house, listen to my dad's painful, desperate breathing and I just sit there and stare. The only prominent emotion I have is anger. And I don't even know who or what I'm so mad about half the time. Maybe just the overwhelming sense that there is this force invading my life and there is nothing I can do about it.


Whoever said that death is like the movies, lied. People don't die in hospital beds with family standing around whispering words of wisdom and encouragement. It's this slow drawn out process and when you think the moment is upon you, they bounce back. And when you think you've accepted it, think again. And when you think "comfort" means pain free, it doesn't. There's a lot of beautiful moments in death, don't get me wrong. Someone told me, "I think we're meant to watch people suffer through death to provoke a higher level of acceptance." The reality of it being, every time my dad struggles to take a breath I start pleading with God to put him out of his misery.


My therapist brought up a point I've been throwing around. He told me that the saying, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," is bullshit. And I'm drawing closer to the conclusion of agreeing with him. Besides the sheer obviousness of suicide, there are just some situations that defeat us. And not that defeat is even necessarily a bad thing. I think it's just the reality of life to experience defeat. It's the purest form of death we can experience in life. It's means to start again.

I’ve kept myself busy studying the ways those around me cope. It was hardest to watch my grandpa in the hospital fight with all his might to not cry. To just hold it all inside. And then one day he broke. And he let my dad go, and the rest of us felt at peace. Now my grandparents just sit. Day in and day out they stay in my dad’s room, knitting, working on crosswords, bickering. Waiting. Taking care of him like he’s a little boy again. My grandpa talks to him and refers to him as “kid”. My grandma takes his hand and assures him that “mom is here.” And this is where God was unfair… if this whole situation has to have a root for the blameful. It’s not right for anyone to bury a child. It’s not right that this is the second they’ve said good bye to.

When I’m sitting next to his bed and it’s just us, I feel this sense of emptiness. I wonder daily where his soul is. If it’s just hovering over his body deciding when the right time is. I wonder what he’s waiting for. I wonder if there’s anything more I can say. I wonder when. I wonder if I’ll be here. I wonder if I want to be here. A friend, who lost his mother in March to cancer, told me you think you get to acceptance when they’re still “here”. You think you’ve grieved and you assure yourself you’re ready to let them go. Then it happens. And you break down. Again. Harder. I don’t know if I have it in me to mourn again. I don’t know if I even mourned. I just know it hurts.

I just know I want it over. Selfishly. Peacefully.

It's been a Long couple weeks

My dad has been staying at the Franscican Hospice House out on Bridgeport in University Place. He needs 24 hour nursing care and is having problems controling seizures and nausae. He no longer has a breathing tube and we have opted out of inserting a feeding tube. I don't really feel like writing anything thoughtful or poetic, so here is just an update. If you ahve any questions, I'd be happy to answer them.

Emergency Update

I found my dad yesterday seizing in bed. I called 911 and he was taken to the emergency room. They were not able to stabilize his seizures, and we opted to have him sedated and a breathing tube put in. We do not plan to keep him alive only on the tube, we just did it for a comfort issue. At this point the fight is his and only his, there is nothing else any of us can do.. For now we ask family only to come see him, and hope those of you who saw and got to sit and talk to him remember him just like that. He would want that. I'll keep everyone updated I promise.

Then and Now

A couple years ago I attended a funeral with my parents days after my dad was released from the hospital for his second surgery. I was still emotionally recovering from the heavyness of his recovery, had just moved out and into my own apartment, and embarking on my adulthood. As I sat watching people talk about this man, I couldn't help but project my situation and see myself standing up on stage saying good bye to my dad. I came home and wrote this narrative. I read it to my roommate and she said that it sounded to her like a letter. I opened the phonebook and sent this piece to a random house, to someone I don't know and rid myself of it. I just recently thought of it and pulled it up. Reading through it's amazing how much things have changed. Even my thought process and emotional state. I decided to put it on here, because this journey has a past and it's just as relevent to the thesis of this blog.

  Today I was at a memorial service for my dad’s friend who died after a twenty-year battle with cancer. My dad has cancer. This man gave my dad a framed picture of a quote that said, “Let us be judged by the Footprints we leave behind,” when he (my father) was diagnosed the first time. My dad would show that picture to people who came over to our house and tell how this man (his name was Robyn) was his hero in his, then, new fight with cancer. I was glad he had someone to confide in going through the steps to recovery.
    When Robyn was diagnosed with Prostate cancer in 1992, the doctors gave him six months to live. He finally died April 9, 2008. Two days before my dad was given news that he had yet another brain tumor and would have to do immediate surgery. What he felt with the news of the two I don’t know. However, I do know he has never said anything about feeling defeated.
    The day after my father’s successful surgery, I tried explaining to my aunt all the emotions I was feeling and how this time around it just doesn’t affect me like it used to.
    “In a way I feel like I had to go through this again to get over what happened last time.” Last time when I went two years crying every time I had to talk about my dad’s sickness. I couldn’t accept it, even when we were sure it was over. It’s like it's drawn this piece of my soul out of me and I wasn’t ready to come to terms with the fact that it was gone.
    And now five days after my dad’s second surgery, I can breathe. The doctors told us this would probably never really go away. They expect a surgery like this to occur every couple years and the more the cells grow it could become more frequent. They told us that the body wouldn’t be able to handle radiation every time and that he’s healthy for now and we should just take it a day at a time.
    And we do.
    When I go into supermarkets, café’s, parks, and I’m standing at cross walks, I wonder how many bodies passing by me are infected with this. This silent disease that doesn’t speak but invades our bodies and changes our course of life forever. You start going through people in your family who you know had it and are certain it’s only years before it gets to you. Like diabetes or something. You just convince yourself it’s genetic.
    To this day I haven’t been able to write out exactly what I want to say about all that we’ve gone through as a family. I find my poetry reflective on my love life, my friends, and the mischief of being 19 but not of this subject. This ache that I still house, but in a sense, feel ok with.
    Sometimes the feeling comes up and I look around frantically for a way to catch it. Put it in a jar and do all that I can to recreate what it’s done in my life. I look for a pen, a brush, my ballet shoes, my camera, I try to play my guitar, but as I hold all these things the feeling just stays quiet. It doesn’t want to be copied or portrayed, it’s like it just wants to sit. And in return so do I. I sit staring at it, feeling it, wanting so badly to ask it all these questions… but I can’t.
    I’ve started to convince myself that it happened to save my parents marriage. That it happened so that I could hear him tell me he loves me before I had decided he didn’t. That it happened to make him sit back and see life for the little pleasures that it gives.
    When my dad was first diagnosed I used to catch him watching the sun come up. He looked deep in thought, and I wondered if I was supposed to reach for him. Tell him I loved him and that I was here to fight with him, and for him.
    Now I see nostalgia in his eye’s, I’m certain a little is fear, but I also see how determined he is to get better.
“It’s no big deal”, he says, “just a waste of time.”

Delicate

   Six years ago this fall my dad was diagnosed with cancer. It seems like a different lifetime. I was just entering high school and enjoying all the trouble of being 16. I remember going up to the hospital on my lunch breaks to see him. I would sit there and never once did it ever occur to me that it was strange. I thought it was a set back, but that it would go away. I assumed it was just a hurdle that we were about to be over. And for a long time I treated it just as that.
   Six years later, and though the hurdle became a bit harder... it looks as though we might almost be over it..
   Last week, my dad was having a hard time keeping food down. Three days went by without him having anything in his stomach. I was nervous he had gotten the flu from someone who had come in the house. That Monday he was scheduled for a chemo session, as usual. I mentioned to the doctor he hadn't been able to keep anything down, so she ordered extra hydration and an MRI. The MRI showed that the tumor had advanced and had grown around larger portions of brain... and tumor was also inside his spinal fluid, moving. They suggested we stop all treatment and spend time with family.
   Yesterday we had our hospice admitting meeting, and I think that was my first moment of reality. I was driving home this morning and the sun was that really heavy yellow that can only happen in the morning, and I wondered if this time was going to fly by? And I wondered if I wanted it to or if I'd rather have it slowly go. It sounds morbid, but you just start thinking death all the time. You start to feel like you're dying alongside them, but you have this strange weight that reminds you of your own mortality.
   I'm still processing it all. I'm still trying to find something inside of him to walk away with. Something to carry with me. I know I could never forget this. I could never forget him.. but I fear what I will remember. I fear the pain inside of me becoming out of control and I fear the places it will rest. I know I won't look back on this and wish I could've done more... because I can honestly say I have emptied my soul into all of this... but I am worried of looking back on it and wondering why I had to lose so much of myself to it.
   I'm not mad at God. I don't believe this is some work of the devil. And I don't think we're reaping the benefits of some great mortal sin that was passed down from a predecessor. I just wonder where we all go at the end of this. It's almost more scary to reach death and then have to keep going. And having to find a new purpose and a new person to spend all your love on. It's almost more scary to have to re-enter the world of being in my early 20's after this being all I know. And I know I can... it just seems like a different world at this point.
   And after this stream of consciousness... I'm brought back to HIM and what HE must be feeling and thinking about. And wonder if he fears the things for my brothers and I that we fear for him...

"It's not that we're scared, it's just that it's delicate...."
   

The Big Rock Candy Mountains

Empty Spaces

  One night I got really mad. There was a poem I had written her hanging on the wall in the kitchen. I had written it for mothers day when I was 11. My grandma had helped me find a frame and print the poem on expensive paper. My mom, must have overlooked it the day she came back for her things.

To this day there are still empty spaces on the walls from the pictures that she took. My dad still has their wedding pictures on display in his bedroom. I hate looking at them. I turn them over whenever I’m cleaning his room. He’s never said anything, but they always seem to be put back up.

I don’t remember what we were fighting about. I don’t remember what triggered it, but in a rage I ripped the poem off the wall. I ran outside and threw the frame against the rock siding of the garden. Glass flew everywhere. Pieces of frame scattered about the garden and there was a sharp pain in my foot. When I looked down, the top of my foot was cut up and bleeding. I sat down and tried to cry but couldn’t. One of my brothers (I don’t really remember which one) came out and asked if I had heard a loud crash. I didn’t say anything, and after he saw my face he didn’t say anything either.

I slowly stood up and saw the paper the poem was printed on, laying on one of the steps. I grabbed it and tore it up.

I then went into the kitchen to grab a broom.

Pieces of the frame are still in the garden. There are still empty spaces between the hangings on the walls.

There are still empty spaces.

Last Omak Entry

By day 3 of our excursion to Omak, we were all feeling the emotional and physical exhaustion of the trip.  Jake and I were eager to get back home to our own friends and interests and Dad was ready to be back in an environment in which he felt more comfortable and secure.  I had noticed the day before that being around the large crowds at the Stampede had really taken its toll on his energy level; it was very difficult for him to process all of the activity taking place and his physical limitations made it hard for him to move in and out of the large groups of people.  However, we still had another full day in Omak and an evening of rodeo, so we had no other choice but to make the best of it.

We left the hotel around 10:30 AM once again and headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the Indian Encampment's "Stick Game."  My dad had mentioned several times that the Native Americans in the Encampment play a "complicated" gambling game and this was it.  The Stick Game is a two team game.  You choose a side and then find someone on the other team to match whatever monetary bet you are willing to make.  One side then begins playing a rhythmic, repetitive anthem while two of their players hide similar-sized dowel-looking pieces of wood in their hands.  Both of these players have two "dowels;" one of these has some paintings on it, while the other does not.  The players on the other team must guess which hands are holding the unpainted "dowels."  For each incorrect guess, they must give a certain number of their "sticks" to their opponents and the "dowels" are hid once again.  When they guess correctly, the "dowels" are surrendered to them.  When both unpainted dowels have been located, the teams switch roles and the process is repeated.  As far as I could tell, the game ends when one side has collected all of the "sticks."  All the players on that team then win the bets they made prior to the beginning of the game.

Despite its repetitive nature, I found the Stick Game fascinating and was almost tempted to start making bets myself (which I wisely talked myself out of).  Jake and Dad were much less interested, so we headed off to grab some lunch after watching the game for about one half of an hour.  An additional interesting note: the stick game was being played under this enormous canopy tent in the Indian Encampment.  In the morning, there were approximately 40 Native Americans seated under the tent and engaged in the game.  Later in the day, at approximately 5:00, I walked by the tent again and there were more than 100 people under the tent playing the game; and I swear some of the same people had been their all day.

For lunch, we stopped at a local pizza joint next to the Omak bowling alley (which, much to Jake's dismay, was closed).  This meal included a little more excitement than we had planned because the waitress accidentally dumped my personal pizza into my lap while she was serving us.  I was fine and the pizza was still edible, but the waitress insisted on making me another one.  So, I ate the "dumped" pizza for lunch, took the other back to the hotel to save for later, and only had to pay for one pizza; it was a pretty awesome deal.

After lunch, we headed back to the hotel for another afternoon rest and then made our way down to the Stampede grounds at approximately 4:00 PM.  We were three hours early for the rodeo, but Dad had wanted to ensure that we got a good parking spot in the handicap zone.  Jake and I set Dad up at a picnic table in the "food court" area and then both of us took some personal time to explore the rest of the Stampede grounds independently.  While we looked around, Dad had the opportunity to converse with three or four different "shifts" of people that shared the picnic table with him (he was there for about two hours).  Again, I believe it gave him great joy to have the opportunity to speak with some people that were not his children about subjects other than medicine, doctor's appointments, or the fact that he is not allowed to drive.  He loves to share his personal stories with anyone that will listen and I am sure that all of his "table mates" heard all of his favorites to tell.

In my own explorations, I found that several of the food vendors near the Indian Encampment were selling something called an "Indian Taco."  Intrigued, I approached the booth with the shortest line and the cheapest price to purchase one.  Much to my dismay, this turned out to be the only stand selling Indian Tacos that was run by Caucasians, but I bought one anyways.  An Indian Taco is more or less like a Mexican Taco Salad, but rather than a taco shell, the salad is placed on a piece of flat bread.  It was tasty, though the bread was a little bland and thick for me and there was twice as much taco as I could eat.

At 7:00 PM, the rodeo started and we enjoyed another entertaining night of bronco and bull riding, roping, barrel racing, and rodeo clown antics.  Prior to the running of the Suicide Race, Jake and I left the stadium and walked down to the river to attain a better view.  We were not disappointed as we had front row seats to the treacherous race down the hill and the dangerous plunge into the river.  When the race finished, we had to take some time to find Dad in the large mass of people leaving the rodeo stadium and then headed back to our hotel to once again collapse into our beds after another great day in Omak.

Day 4 of our trip consisted of our return home.  We checked out of our hotel at approximately 11:00 AM and, with Jake driving, headed straight for home, stopping only to fill up the gas tank and eat lunch at one of the burger stands that my dad admires so much; we also got stuck in the Sunday traffic on I-90 outside of Cle Elum, which was absolutely miserable.

As I reflect on the trip, I hope that as time passes I can focus on the positives rather than the negatives.  I want my memories to be of quality time with my dad and my brother in a beautiful part of Eastern Washington at a world famous rodeo event rather than of a weekend of arguing and criticism that served to further wear my patience and reveal the devastating toll cancer is having on my father's quality of life.  Each day is difficult for my family right now and trips such as this one that are intended to be fun and to bring the family closer together often have the opposite effect.  My dad thanked Jake and I for a great weekend once we had returned home and for the bit of happiness that the trip gave him, it was all worth it; hopefully, that is what I remember.

Omak Day 2 by Cody

Day two of our Omak Stampede trip began much like the first: three men bickered about things that do not really matter.  However, as Jessie has mentioned before, our relationships and interactions with one another are what are suffering most in our family's battle with cancer and Friday morning our frustrations were manifesting themselves in pointless arguments.

We were able to put our egos aside long enough to leave the hotel around 10:30 AM.  We headed north from Omak to the town of Riverside, the only true "one-horse town" I think I have visited besides Helmville, Montana.  The "downtown" of Riverside was barely one block long and consisted of a western store, a convenience store, and a tiny park.  The western store, Detro's, was the purpose for our visit.  My dad had stumbled upon Detro's during a hunting trip to the Okanogan area in the fall and had been raving about the store for months.  I was a little skeptical, but when we arrived, I found that the store lived up to the hype.  Detro's was selling Wrangler jeans, western-style shirts, cowboy boots, cowboy hats, lassos, saddles, western-style jewelry, paintings, castings, etc.; and all of these products were of high quality.  I also found out that Detro's has a reputation as a world-class western store with all of the "cowpolk" that pass through the Okanogan region; I highly suggest that anyone passing through Riverside stop to explore Detro's.

From Riverside we traveled a few miles further north to the home of Steve Ayers.  My dad knows Steve through one of his hunting partners and has hunted on land owned by Steve for several years.  This man is a real cowboy.  He wore cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans, and a straw cowboy hat.  His skin looked like leather, worn from years of working long days in the unforgiving sun and he told stories that related the challenges of raising free range cattle and harvesting his crop of hay on the thousands of acres his family owned.  As I listened to him talk, some part of me envied Steve and the life he leads; what a thrill it would be to live as an American cowboy, the heroic symbol of the "Wild West."

As we made our visit, I thought about why my dad had insisted that we go to see Steve; it seemed to me that he and Steve were no more than casual acquaintances that shared some common hunting experiences.  Nonetheless, it made my dad extremely happy to have the opportunity to talk with someone that is not one of his children or his dog.  An enormous smile covered his face during our visit and he was delighted to relate all of the events of the past year of his life, even though most of his stories were about hospital stays.  The more I thought about it, I realized that this was an exercise of my dad's practice of constant networking.  Any time we are out in public and he recognizes someone, even someone he knows only casually, he flags them down to talk.  This is a practice that was key to his professional success when he was working and that has helped him to create an extensive pool of friends that have provided him with unlimited support and love during this trying time in his life.  My siblings and I often criticize him when he encourages us to do the same, however I am beginning to understand more and more the importance of this practice.

From Steve's home, we traveled a little further north to the town of Tonasket, where we ate lunch at Whistlers Family Restaurant; this was a step up from the meal we had eaten at the Koala Street Bar and Grill the night before.  We then traveled back down to Omak and took a short rest in our hotel before heading downtown to grab a quick snack and drink before the rodeo (yes, we ate a lot on this trip) at Mickey's Chuckwagon Cafe and Watering Hole on Omak's Main Street.  There was a poster for Pendleton Whiskey in the window of the cafe and as our hotel also had a plethora of advertisements for Pendleton Whiskey, I had developed quite a hankering for the drink by this time (I guess mass advertising was effective in this instance!).  I asked the waitress for a shot of Pendleton in a glass, "neat."  I do not know if she misunderstood me or if this place only served liquor one way, but when she delivered my drink, it came in a plastic medicine cup like the ones from which I used to drink Robitussin.  Needless to say, it was the worst whiskey drink I have ever had; I think I made it even worse by trying to sip it and savor the taste.

After leaving Mickey's, we headed down to the Stampede grounds.  We were still very early for the rodeo, so we ate again (yes, again) and then followed our ears to a stage with live music.  The band was a worship band from a local church and though that type of music generally does not appeal to me, I was impressed by the musicianship of the band members.  They were primarily teenagers, but the lead guitarist and drummer were both really skillful with their instruments; I would not be too surprised if this group reached at least regional or state-wide fame someday.

By the time the music finished, the grandstands had opened so we headed to our seats.  Unfortunately, I misjudged the location of the section in which we were sitting and we had to walk all the way around the rodeo grounds twice, which made my father quite unhappy; he was exhausted by the time we were finally seated.

The rodeo was quite enjoyable.  I had only been to one other before, at the Puyallup Fairgrounds, and was particularly excited to see the bull riding, as previously I had only ever seen one person last the full eight seconds on a bull's back.  It was also intriguing to be present for a piece of "down-home," American culture.  The MC for the event would frequently ask the crowd if they were proud to be American and used the phrases "God Bless y'all" or "God bless [a certain person]" often.  There was also a presentation to honor the men and women of the military that produced an enthusiastic reaction from the crowd.  I grew up around a lot of "country folk" as a result of my dad's involvement in the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation and many Octobers spent hunting in Washington's forests.  However, lately, I believe I have become more of a modern city boy after focusing on music and academics in high school, attending a private liberals arts college, and working in the city of Federal Way for a year.  I gained a lot of perspective on where I am and from where I have come while watching the rodeo.

Each rodeo during the Omak Stampede concludes with a running of the "World Famous" Suicide Race.  The suicide race consists of approximately 12-20 horse and rider pairs that race a few hundred feet down an extremely steep dirt hill, plunge into the river at the bottom, swim across the river, and then sprint into the rodeo stadium on the other side.  The whole event lasts approximately five minutes, but is exhilarating nonetheless.  Our seats were not ideal for viewing the entire race, but we could see the horses and riders sprinting down the hill.  As the horse and rider pairs entered the stadium, each appeared indifferent to the results of the race and thankful to have survived; there was at least one rider hurt while crossing the river.

We returned to our hotel around 10 PM, thoroughly exhausted.  We had experienced a fun, full day together and were looking forward to one more in Omak.

Omak

Due to a back injury I was not able to go the stampede. But on Thursday the boys packed up the jeep and headed east. I asked that they document the trip and keep me updated. This is Cody's first e-mail:

Our trip began on a dreary, overcast Thursday morning in August.  I have felt that there has existed a lot of tension between my father and myself in the past few months and this rift was already rearing its ugly teeth as we set off.  I had wanted to leave at 9 AM and had reminded both my father and my younger brother several times the night before that that was our slated departure time.  However, because of his current physical and mental limitations, Dad was slow to pack his things and needed extra help to make sure that he had all of the necessary clothing, medication, and hotel/ticket paperwork.  Though I know these limitations are not his fault, I felt agitated at the time because I knew he would be upset if I had held up a departure time that he had set.  To further add to my frustration, once I had gotten Jake and he loaded in the car and was finally able to pull out of the driveway, he informed me that we needed to stop by the bank because he needed to get cash for the trip.  With clenched teeth, I drove to the bank, grumbling about how this was something that should have been taken care of earlier in the week.  Luckily, the women that work at the bank are genuinely warm human beings and my mood was greatly improved after visiting with them.  With a slightly better disposition, I was finally able to get us on the road by 10:30 AM.

As we drove, the sun broke through the morning clouds and by the time we had crossed Snoqualmie Pass, a beautiful summer day was greeting us in Eastern Washington.  It had been quite some time since I had driven through that section of I-90 with such great weather conditions and I was struck by how beautiful the mountains and valleys appeared in the morning sunlight.  I would often glance over at my father to see how he was enjoying the ride and each time I found him facing forward, one eye closed so that he could focus better on the road and make sure that I had not taken any wrong turns.  And each time I was reminded of how painful it has been to watch my father's mental and physical health decline as it has.  I remember taking similar types of trips with my family back in the "good ol' days."  Dad was the driver, piloting his manly Ford truck with a large trailer in tow; he never seemed to get sleepy at the wheel (as so often happens with me) and he never had to rely on Mapquest or Google directions to tell him where to go.  Now he is forced to be a passenger both in the car and in life, reliant on others (doctors and family) to dictate the direction of his life.

We made our only stop of the trip in Cle Elum in order to gas up and grab some lunch.  It took three Fouts men to put gas in the Jeep as I provided the Safeway Club Card, Dad provided the credit card, and Jake had to listen to each of us tell him how to properly fill up the tank.  We ate lunch at the Cottage Cafe, which is a restaurant my dad insists on stopping at each time we pass through the city.  There is nothing particularly striking about the place, but it is a popular spot for other travelers passing through town as well as for people living in and around Cle Elum (a group that I believe truly encompass all that is "Eastern Washington country living").  In the times I have been to the restaurant as an adult, it has become one of my favorite spots to people watch.

From Cle Elum, we made a grueling 3-hour drive north on Highway 97 through Wenatchee and several other smaller towns to Omak.  Though we did pass through some pretty country, I describe the drive as "grueling" because there was an inordinate number of vehicles on the two-lane highway and we hit a couple of traffic delays in our travels.  When he was not trying to tell me how and when to turn, my dad would relate some tidbit he knew or experience he had had in each little town we passed through or point out a fabulous burger joint we were passing.  Jake stretched out in the back and tried to find a comfortable position in which to sleep; every once in while he would roll down his window and stick his head out like a dog to test the outside temperature (which was in the nineties almost the entire trip).

We finally arrived in Omak around 4 PM.  As we followed the highway into town, one of the first landmarks we passed were the grounds on which the Omak Stampede is held.  I was amazed by the vastness of the facility and the number of campers, trailers, motor homes, and tents that were already staked out around the grandstands.  We checked into our hotel, took a short rest, and then headed down to the Stampede grounds to check out the opening ceremony for the Stampede's Indian Encampment.  I was prepared for a riveting cultural experience that would include tribal dancing, music, and traditional dress.  Though we did have the opportunity to hear some traditional Native American prayer, the "opening ceremony" was actually a dedication of a new pow-wow facility that was built for this year's Stampede and the festivities appeared to primarily be a celebration of the completion of the construction by the local tribe.

Disappointed, we left the pow-wow in search of sustenance.  We found food at a restaurant near our hotel called the Koala Street Grill, which advertises itself as an Australian-themed bar and grill.  We quickly discovered that the only things that were Australian in this place were the fake decorations and cheesy names they gave to the items on their menus; however, we decided to make the best of it.  Because I had become a little agitated with Jake and he as we were leaving the Stampede grounds, Dad pointed and me and told the waitress "He needs a beer" when she asked for our drink orders...and then I had two.  After we had ordered, Dad realized that he had been to this particular restaurant during a past hunting trip and related to us the circumstances surrounding his previous visit.  The food we were served was awful.  Jake and Dad ordered crab cakes, which were served as bite-sized nuggets that looked like they had come out of the frozen food aisle at Costco; my shrimp platter was not much better.  For $60 for three people, the meal was a ripoff.

Tomorrow, I hope to approach the day with a better attitude.  This may be one of the last opportunities I have to spend quality time on a vacation with my brother and father and I hope to make the best of it; I do not want to regret missing the opportunity to form a deeper bond with each of them.

It's August. The summer is winding down, and with the end of the summer comes uncertainty. Cody will be starting another year with Americorps, Jake is applying for a house on Lake Tapps, and I am trying to get things in order for going back to school starting September. And I am so afraid of things not working out. There's just no way that three different schedules are going to work for appointments, at home watch, and on top of all that, cooking, cleaning, and keeping up normal daily lives. We've tried to slowly mention the possibility of hiring someone to lessen the load a bit, such as a caretaker "type". But try telling a Fouts (even worse a Fouts male) that they are in need of extra help.
I missed an appointment. First one all summer. It was a therapy session. The one and only appointment I would've gained anything from and I missed it. And it's not life or death, and it's not even that big of a deal, but it ate at me. For months I prided myself in being able to keep things together. Keep things going, keeping the days full... it's that the last couple weeks I just needed time to get away. And instead of it being a mind clearing, self emptying experience I was slapped in the face with irresponsibility. And the realization that I think I may have given all that I can give.
Brain Cancer patients (depending on their amount of surgeries and the intensity of their treatments) tend to lack everyday filters we use to express humor, observation, and everyday conversation. They tend to sound more senile, become more outspoken and blunt. Often times their humor can come off crude, abrasive, and offensive. And usually they don't know they're doing it. It takes a lot to just let things roll off your skin and tell yourself daily, "He doesn't mean it like that", "He's just joking". But after awhile it wears on you and you just kinda wish it'd stop. And the more you address an issue the more confused they get. Especially because in my family sarcasm and teasing are given as often as daily vitamins. And there are times I wonder if I'm being overly sensitive. I try to evaluate how tired I am and decide if maybe I just blew it out of proportion.. but needless to say... even at 21 you still wish you could get a little cradled from your parents at times.
I think, as I stated earlier, that the three of us maybe have given as much as we can while still being in the "child" position. I think it will take a lot for my dad to realize, as three adults, we just want to see him cared for in the best way possible.  And that may include bringing another person into the mix.
Next week the four of us are making our way to Omak, Washington for the stampede. Stories and pictures will of course follow. If anyone has experience with a similar situation please share your stories and advice. I would love feedback on this one.

The Sweet By and By

Ten hours of driving can make your mind kinda numb...

Sunday morning we woke up and met Jenny, Margi, Shannon, and Peter for breakfast at a casino in town called paradise falls. After the breakfast Jenny, Margi, and I made our way to Mt. Sentinal to hike to the ever famous "M" on the side of the mountain. I was a little nervous in retrospect, considering that the majority of this summer consists of me in a car driving my dad around. This was the first outdoors adventure I would have all summer! And my aunt Margi (who is 75) gets out way more often then I do.
We took it slow, using the time to chat and catch up on our distant stories about our lives to the other distant relative. I really liked having an afternoon with women. I don't realize it til too late sometimes, but living with three men I forget how good it feels to be around women. I had a bit of an identity crisis. "Oh ya... I'm a woman too..."
We reached the "M" sun kissed and accomplished. We stayed up there and chatted about other trails on the surrounding mountains and took pictures (soon to come) of our venture.
Back at uncle Joe's and aunt Margi's, we spent a good deal of time going through old family letters and chronoligies. My great-grandpa was a poet. Uncle Joe tells me that's where I get my love of writing. I had asked to read some of his work, and in the process we found old pictures, letters, and newspaper clippings from past years of our family. Some dating back to the early 1900's. I'm one of those relatives that has always felt a deep connection to my family. Including those I have never met. Listening to Joe and Jenny talk about grandpa carl made me sad to think I would never know him. But I feel so lucky to be able to be in touch with my WHOLE family. Jenny is actually my mom's cousin (their dad's were brothers) but how lucky to be able to be in contact with family that removed? You find out a lot about yourself. I would've never known so much about grandpa Carl if it wasn't for this weekend.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at the mall with Jenny and Shannon (Dad and Joe stayed home to nap). It was fun to look for school clothes with shannon (17) and hear about her friends at school. I was taken back to being 17 and though it was only 4 years ago... how far things have come. It feels like a different life. A different world I used to live on. So strange to look back on those years and think of all the things I wanted and dreamed about... I only hope I haven't let that young 17 year old in me down.
Jenny and the kids left to drive back home to Wyomming, while dad and I had dinner at Joe and Margi's.
The next morning (Monday), dad was schduled to meet an old friend at the new Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation visitor center. My dad has been an active member of this foundation and even worked as a state chairman for awhile. He really enjoyed his "nickel tour" as he kept calling it. I think it's good for him to be able to look back on being apart of something larger than everyday living. It meant a lot to him to tell me about all the projects he helped on and committees he served on. But, as I have told him, he doesn't have to prove to me he did something. I want him to be proud of his accomplishments by himself.
We said goodbye to Missoula Monday afternoon and headed west. We pulled off the 90 in Coeur D'Aliene, Idaho and found a cute motel off Sherman ave. The town was full of families on vacations, groups of friends hanging out, and longboarders. For a Monday night there were a lot of people out and about so we decided to join them. Dad really wanted our last night of the trip to be a fun one, so we headed to the Coeur D'Aliene resort for dinner. There's a fine dining restaurant on the seventh floor that over looks the lake. It was beautiful. It was perfect. We ordered a very nice bottle of wine, shared a delicious shrimp cocktail, and indulged in our own seafood entree's. By the end our main course we were full to the brim!
We walked around just as the sun was setting and found a quaint little wine bar that was having live music. We spent the rest of the night there enjoying creme broulee and a guitarist who, you could tell, was very much into Damien Rice.
We woke slowly this morning taking our time to pack and load up the car for the last time. We met two of dad's old RMEF friends for lunch before heading out of town.
I felt like, though we were half way home, it took longer than it should've! But I was ready to be home in my own bed!

Though I am exhausted and tired and hope not to sit in a car quite awhile, I feel so lucky to have made this trip. It has taught me to stay patient with my dad and understand he's on a journey too. Different than mine and with different prayers.. but he's riding the wave. And I am here purposely to help him stay on it. To love him through it, and learn about him. Who he was and who he is, and still who he longs to be. Realizing my dad isn't a knight in shining armor, and he's not above me and he's not below me. That us, both being adults, both struggling through a tough year, both experienced in losing, both searching for a deeper meaning inside ourselves are here together for a reason. And after this beautiful trip it is more apparent to me that I am EXACTLY where I am supposed to be.

Big Sky Country

After ten hours of my dad yelling at me for the radio being too loud, and me being too tired from staying up too late the night before, we made it to Montana. We rolled into town right around dinner time and I was in desperate need of a nice glass of wine. Our hotel is a block off Higgins so we stopped in at a small Italian bistro for dinner. The food was great, the wine was great and the sun was slowly fading. A block up from the bistro, in the park, there was a weekly concert series going on. I walked over there after my dad went to bed and listened to the music. It reminded me of being at point defiance in Tacoma. Hippies dancing, a beer garden, and bluesy music.
I love Missoula. It's beautiful, quiet, and quaint. The town is full of people in their twenties. Some going to school, some experiencing the great country side and others who were born and raised.
The next morning we drove out to deerlodge to visit with my grandma Eileen's sister's. My grandma passed away almost two years ago and we buried her in hometown of Helmville, Montana. She has four sisters still alive, and even in their elderly age, they are so full of life. We met at my great aunt Marie's place and had coffee. My aunt Lois and Jean soon followed. We talked about the family, caught up about the weather, and discussed small town gossip. My aunt Jean stopped mid conversation, looked me up and down and declared, "you look just like your grandmother in her young age." People have always told me I look like a 50/50 split of both my parents, but that the boys (cody and jake) look more like my mom's side. But I was pleased to hear that I resembled my grandmother, as I have always envied her courageous spirit and great sense of humor. She was a go-getter and didn't take shit from anyone. She raised her children almost on her own, and still experienced life all to her liking. I always think to myself, if grandma never had an excuse to slow down then I shouldn't either!
Jean suggested we go to the senior center for lunch. And so we did. My dad, my two great aunt's (Lois had to ride into Helena), and I all headed to the Deerlodge senior center. Needless to say, I was the youngest attendee.
After lunch we made our way north to Helmville to visit the grave of my grandmother. Pulling into the smalltown (population maybe 75) and seeing the ranch and house she spent her younger years was amazing. It's so peaceful out there. Quiet and beautiful as the hills over look a sleepy town. We walked through the cemetery, filled mostly of my relatives, trying to remember just where we laid her ashes. In the far right corner there was a basket of flowers. My aunt Lois, who lives on the old ranch, must have laid it laid there to show us where she was... as there is yet to be a head stone. I walked up to it silently. Realizing this was my first time of visiting a grave holding the remains of someone whom I truly loved. "Is she there?" my dad called out. Such a strange question to be asked as I stood over a grave holding the remains of my grandmother, yet, I felt, at the same time, it was so void of her soul. "Ya, this is it," I replied. He walked up to it and rested against his cain.
Making our way to Helmville was so important to him. And the whole time I wondered why. I felt as though if I was to make this trip with anyone, if anyone would come here to find any peace in anything... it should've been my mom. The drive from Deerlodge to Helmville I silently wished I was with her. That we were going on some maternal pilgrimage to find peace for her in her mother's death, and maybe I could find peace for me in the hurt and pain I harbored against mine. It felt wrong to be with my dad. It felt strange.
After a long quiet period of him staring off into the after life, he spoke. "I made your grandma a promise that I would always take care of your mom and you kids. I had to come out here today to tell her I was sorry, and that I tried my best." My eyes welled with anger. At that instant I wanted to run into the field behind the cemetery and cry. Cry for how much I missed my grandma and how I wished I could talk to her, cry for my dad being sick, cry for my mom leaving, cry for how abandoned I felt by all these scenerios... but I didn't. I stood there and said nothing.
The wind had picked up at that point and I leaned into it, listening for words of wisdom I longed for from this beautiful place. But the wind was silent. And as we stood in the cemetery holding years of lineage I may never understand, silent we both stayed as well.
That night we had dinner at my Uncle Joe and Aunt Margi's. My grandfather's brother and wife. Their other brother, Uncle Dick, was also in town from Flordia with his daughter, Chrissy. Joe and Margi's daughter, Jenny, also showed up with her two kids, Shannon and Peter. We spent the evening catching up, eating, and playing cards. Just what I had needed after such a heavy afternoon.
This morning we woke up and walked around the Farmer's Market before getting ready for a 50th wedding anniversary of Uncle Joe's and Dick's cousin, Peggy Lakes. We drove out to a beautiful cabin six miles up Pettycreek road for a Montana lunch style picnic.
The trip has been warm. I admit I have been elsewhere in my head, trying my best to remember this trip is not mine but that of my father's.
Tomorrow Uncle Joe and my cousin Jenny want to hike to the "M" on the side of the hill over looking the town.
Wish me luck and endurance.
Wish me patience.

Wish me peace.

"I'm glad it's your birthday. Happy birthday to you"

Yesterday was my dad's 54th birthday. And more than anything this one was MUCH anticipated after such a crazy year of ups and downs. He'll tell anyone, "I'll take all the birthdays's I can get at this point." Which can be a breath of fresh air compared to a lot of adults who more than dread each passing birthday.
The day started with Cody, Jake and I having breakfast with him down at his favorite diner, the rose. He has breakfast there almost every morning. And he HAS to be there at the same time because that is when "the group" is there. There's Francis, a man who lives down town and is very in shape for his age. He has no tv, radio, or car. He seems happy all the time. He's one of those people you don't even have to talk to know their outlook on life. He wears it in his smile, which is always plastered across his face. There's Rose and Hubert. An older couple. Hubert, I think, suffered a stroke a couple years back. And Rose has stuck by his side everystep of the way. I really like seeing them together. It reminds me of my grandparents. You can't deny that even after all these years and hardships, they still love eachother.
Every morning when my dad goes down there, they don't even give him a menu. He has all the specials of the day memorized. And that's what he gets. And black coffee.
After breakfast we ran some errands while I frantically tried to invite people to his birthday dinner at the ram. The plan was to meet my aunt up there, but I really wanted his birthday to have more recognition. I hated admitting it to myself, but what if this was his last birthday? I wanted people to see him. And see how much it means to him to have people around. Because even though my brothers and I try our best, everyone still needs friends. Everyone still gets lonely. When we arrived at the Ram I had to ask to book the banquet room because we had close to 25 people show! I was so suprised to see so many old/new friends!
My dad stood and thanked everyone for coming. We all went around and introduced ourselves and how we knew my dad. People shared stories, gave cards and ate lots. I think all in all it turned out to be a great present for him.
As I'm sure most of you know, tomorrow we will be heading to Montana. There are a few sights he wants to see, and won't rest til he does. I will be documenting our trip with photos and blog updates so please stay tuned, and stay in touch.

Thank you to all for making his birthday so special. He appreciated it MORE than you know. And so did I.

When it don't come easy

On any given day, if anyone was to ask me if dealing with cancer has brought us closer as a family, without thinking I'd say yes. But when I step back and look at the situation from a different vantage point, I'd have to say that I've found us all a little broken in our own dark corners. The emotional consistency of the family goes up and down as fast as the wildest rollercoaster, and the hardest part is realizing that though we yearn for it, at times we absolutely refuse anyone to catch us on the way back down. Including, at times, one another.
I think the side of the disease least talked about, is the way a person changes. I may speak only for myself, but before my father was diagnosed.. I can't say I really knew him. He worked long hours and spent weekends hunting and fishing. Infact half the time in my childhood i tried to avoid him at all costs because he was the "no" parent, and any direct confrontation with him meant I was in trouble. I met my dad when he was diagnosed. Like really met him.
I remember it being important to him to talk to each of us individually about the doctors putting, as he put it, an "expiration" date on him. I asked him one time if he was scared. And for the first time in my life I saw my dad cry. My dad, strong, masculine, flanel wearing, hard calloused worn hands from working since the day he was 18. A strong tower weeping and melting. I think it was that day my emotional state of mind changed forever. I wasn't safe any more. I didn't have the excuse of being young and blissfully ignorant. I was dealing with death. And at the beginning of my journey, how strange to be at the end of his.
I was in New York the morning my mother left. The phone beside my hotel bed rang at 11 am. He was crying on the other end. Sobbing. Through a trembling voice he told me she had left. He sounded like an abandoned child. I was thousands of miles away. There was nothing I could do but cry with him. I found, inbetween my own sobs, I wasn't even crying for my own saddness but because I was scared for him. He said he was alone, and though I knew it was a hard promise to make, I promised him I would make sure he never felt alone. After that summer I moved home.
There are days I feel like no matter what I say, or what I do, it's never enough. Like no matter how much I give and give he'll always want her here. He'll always wish it was her making him dinner, driving him out to do things. And though I know better than to let it get to me, sometimes I wish he'd be comforted by my presence. I think in a sense we all miss her. It makes the house seem, even now, incomplete. It lack's that kind of motherly glue. That sureness, that other voice of reason.
Relationships become chores. Even between my brothers and I. When we fight, we fight about things that have nothing to do with one another. We fight because we have no one else to fight with. Because we can't be mad at my dad, because he can't handle it. Because he didn't really do anything wrong, because all the things he does do wrong he doesn't know he's doing them wrong. We let little things offend us. The fact Cody hasn't cleaned the bathroom in a week bugs me. The fact I don't cook red meat bugs my dad. Cody's "sqaureness" bugs Jake, and Jake's job bugs Cody. Things that mean nothing. But irritate us because the cancer can't. Because the cancer has no resolve. Because it's hard to wake up in the morning feeling like you have control. Because we know, whole heartedly, that we don't.
I know he, my father, hates it. One time Cody hit the end of a tempermental rope and it broke my dad's heart. "I hate that this is happening to my family." I hate it too. But I have to reassure him we'll have good days and bad ones, and that we know better than to let the bad ones define us. And I hope more than I know, but someone has to say it. Someone has to stop the crying, the yelling. Even break the silence. Someone has to soften the fall. And that is how we deal with cancer. By falling... landing on the softest earth we can find and walking it off.

 I wrote this poem a couple moths ago and have since performed it at a few open mics. I hope you like it...

On my 16th birthday
I
turned 30
And
found out what it meant
to be grown.
I was weighted by
disease
and
became emotionally prone…
To loss
I suffocated
childhood
Drowned out
angst with
ekg machines and shots of chemo
I am old
in my unforgiving
basking
in toxic mishaps of
 my past
and
my present
He is a rock
And I
liquefied in a
huge mass
of ocean
crash into
his strength
His one job
is to survive
My one wish
is
So do I.

And what happened
On the day
the music died?

The plane went down
And
cancer was born
From
The broken hearts
Of the
left behind.
Survivors shaken blind
The moon draggin
The daily grind
And I was touched by
A force
Unkind

I was
Quaked awake.
Faked
Out
By
Faith

God,

if you can hear me now

Can You make a noise?

Electrocute my stubborn poise

Make me silent
Make me coy
And make
All this
MOVE.

I’m budging on
My world view
Breathing on beat
But never on que
He was like the color blue
Deep
and always soulful.

And what is to become
Of this
My heart obstructed
Our lives
Dismissed.
My lips longing
For a healing kiss.
And in the midst
Of suffering…
My love has been revealed.
And in the midst of inner war
My love has been revealed
And in the midst of all of this
My love has been revealed

Brilliant Corners.

I never thought I'd be living this summer. At home cooking, cleaning, and tending to my father. I, like many other 21 year olds, cherish the summer as play time. Hiking, traveling, camp fires, parties, concerts, happy hours and dating. But I had a different calling this summer.
My father, Lee Fouts, has been struggling with brain cancer for the last six years. When he was first diagnosed the doctors told us he had six months to live. Six months later he had entered his first remission. I was 16 at the age of his first diagnosis.
He had been in and out of the hospital with reoccurring, blinding headaches. On my sixteenth birthday in October of 2004 he was rushed into the hospital for having a, so the doctors said then, a stroke. After more months of complications we found out soon after Christmas and after him suffering a grand maul seizure, that he had been suffering from a fast growing brain tumor. The tumor type is one called a "Glioblastoma".
To put this into perspective I'll start with saying that brain cancer is statistically the rarest form of cancer diagnosed and a gliobastoma is THE rarest form of brain cancer. There are less than 200,000 cases of gliobastomas diagnosed in the U.S. I think I had read somewhere that 25 million people were diagnosed with cancer in the United States in 2006.
After his first remission he continued to struggle with tumor growth trying new radiations and chemotherapies. In the spring of 2008 he went in for another surgery and another in the winter of 2009.
This blog is set up to document the summer, and hopefully coming years, of my family. Specifically my father's battle with cancer. I plan to talk about his treatments, his experience, our family, our adventures, our struggles, and our triumphs. People are constantly telling me to share my story. So here we are. Let the story begin. I will be divulging through series of posts our story of the past and also journal entries of the present. And tons of prayers for the future.