It's My Birtday and I'll Cry If I Want To

...because I have friends and family.  

One of my loved ones told me today how, with my illness, he's amazed how I function.  

Another said I'm an inspiration.

I received facebook, text, voice mail and a very very special card.

I have parents that think I'm somewhat as good as canned soup  

My grandson is right this very moment going through my night stand and asking....well he can't get into the fun drawer.

I have a new friend and her beautiful dog .

I'm sick but  I'm also the luckiest man in the world as I found out today my list of friends is long and the people that love me deeply isn't a short list either.

Why did it take getting sick to get this?

Six hour and thirty four minutes ago the clock turned and I'm another year.  Pretty good all considering

Thanks everyone.  You are all better for me than any drug I'm given.

Love you all.

Talk to you later

Homeless

Not too many weeks ago, as some of you may remember, I found myself on vacation.  Toward the end of this glorious time off in the mountains it was suggested to me that I take an additional day off, a Friday, thus buying us that day and the additional weekend.  Also, suggested to me was that we take the extra time, leave the mountains and go to my “home town” as I had not been home town for quite some time. 

The idea of going “home” appealed to me, up until 100’ from the city limits. As always trepidation set in.  I would get to see my best friend to be sure.  I would get to see another best who is fighting the female version of my cancer and of course I would get to see my Mom and Dad. 

But this town, as my father bizarrely once told me during a visit a few decades ago as I was readying myself for a night out on the “small” town  “Remember Mike this town doesn’t like you.”   Young and stupid I didn’t get it then.  Old and stupid I sort of get it.

Unlike many of you who may have moved from place to place I was the Norman Rockwell kid that grew up in the town.  Sure, for the first years during the summer we would move to whatever site my Dad was engineer and  I truly got to live in some really really cool places and once a really really hot place called Yuma.  In reality, except for being born in Seattle, because rural Eastern Washington only had veterinarians at the time of my birth, I lived in the same town for all my formative years.  The farthest we moved was up the hill, three houses.

So on this visit to my home town, I found myself leaning against a hillside guard rail overlooking town.  Of a sudden, this feeling of absolute “I don’t belong here” over came me. I felt like an alien.  I’ve always told people here in the city “back home”, “I’m going home to see my parents.” “Back home…”  Suddenly  “back home” took on a startling new meaning. 

I was shocked.  To be sure I got to see two people whom I love one of which I count as my best friend of decades.  If you are fortunate enough to still have your parents in this space, which I am, then their home is a haven against all ill so there are two more people that I love beyond belief.   

But, as I looked over this town that no longer knew me from Frank Adam or John.  This town that could care less now that I did whatever I did that made news, gossip, and back room “can you believe that kid.”  I didn’t know this town I once called home and the town certainly had no clue whom I was.  I felt homeless.

My wife and I moved from rural to the city because of work.  I’ve lived here for over three decades and am still amazed that I live in the city.  Everyday whether during a commute or sitting in a Sushi-Bar I’m in wonderment that I live here yet I do not and will not call this place home.  It is where I live.  Recently in the light of health things I count my blessings that I do live here but it is not home.  This city doesn’t even remotely feel like home.

So where is home.  My kids think of our house as home or haven [I hope].  My wife thinks of our house as home [She’s built a beautiful place].  Yet I feel homeless.  I’ve been thinking hard about this for the last couple of weeks since returning from what I once called home.  I think I have the answer.

Home is where the heart is.  Good god, how many times have you heard that?  Our Grandmas embroidered that ad nauseam on pillows infinite.  But!  It is true.  Home is where your heart is and there is no way we can misplace our hearts.  If anything, with each passing day our hearts  become more defined.  Our hearts become more sure.  I know where my heart is.  I know where home is.  I’m the furthest thing from homeless.

How To Survive The Tube

I hate The Tube.  Really really hate The Tube.  So when I walked into the room today I asked the nurse. 

"Is this really a three hour MRI scan?" 

She looked at the tech the tech confirming that it was a CTL with contrast.  Immediately my mind identified CTL as Cervical, Thorax and Lumbar. Poor Sacral area apparently was being left out of the fun. Just as immediately I wondered how the hell I knew what CTL meant?  Another phrase added in my growing vocabulary of things I wish I didn't know.

"Three hours.  Maybe two and a half."  replied the nurse.

For those of you that hate The Tube as much as I do here's a trick I thankfully learned from a nurse where I normally go for all my scans.  A wash cloth.  Seriously.  Ask you nurse for a dry wash cloth.  After they get done looking at you incredulously, lay down on the table as instructed and drape the wash cloth across your  face.

I have no clue why it helps with those claustrophobic responses that cascade through my psyche at the mere thought of The Tube.  But work it does.  For looking silly.  Trust me there is barely room for you in The Tube let alone any observers.

Try it.  It works.  

Oh yeah.  Don't forget the handful those Xanax pills thirty minutes prior to getting in the tube.  For some reason those seem to provide a calming effect too.

 Talk to you later

Cows Kill Salmon

We’ve all seen that ubiquitous bumper sticker “Practice Random Acts of Kindness”.  Generally, you’ll find this exultation plastered on the rear bumper of an old Volvo station wagon driven by some guy wearing white socks and Birkenstocks.To the right or left, depending on your point of view, of that sticker you’ll find the environmentally explicit explanation “Cows Kill Salmon”. 

Ok, that sticker is probably a PNW thing but I love the image it conjures in my mind. As I’m stuck on 5 North breathing the French Fry scented bio diesel fumes of said Volvo parked in front of me… a herd of cows stream side, hoofing salmon onto the beach with evil abandon where the hapless salmon flop wildly, awaiting their torturous demise via calf cud.

Maybe salmon killing Gary Larson cows are a vision for me produced by an over active imagination, a really dumb ass bumper sticker or pain meds.  What has struck me is the sticker, depending on your point of view, to the right or left of Cows Kill Salmon.

Has anyone unexpectedly held the door open for you?  I use a cane now and am always surprised by how many doors are held open for me now.  Surprised you walk through and somewhere between your thank you and their you’re welcome you get this little “GLOWY” feeling.  It is an unexpected little nice thing that happens  during the course of perhaps a great day or the whirlpool of a not very good day.

Kindness works both ways and so does the little "GLOWY"  feeling.  My mother raised me to be a gentleman.  I don’t think about it much.  Being a gentleman just isn’t that difficult. However someone commented on it recently. 

The other day coming out of radiation, magically, upon my push of the button, the elevator door opened on demand.  After I got over the shock of the immediate appearance of the elevator, I regrouped, stepped in and held the elevator door for another patient ten feet behind me who was extolling the virtues of a very pretty flower on the receptionists desk.  She saw I was holding the door and said “Oh gotta go, a gentleman is holding the door for me.”  “GLOWY”

In the Cancer Center I attend there is a fountain in a major intersection of the hospital.  Without fail when I visit I pitch a coin and a wish “for us all”.  Without fail I do this! 

The other day while, at the intersection standing before the fountain, I found myself digging through my pockets for a coin and became worried.  Left pocket revealed as it should:  thumb drive  [my guess is that would float] and the “clicker” to open my pick up doors [need that].  Crap.  Panic!  Right pocket, where change should be, revealed: my worry stone [that’s never ever going] and a dollar bill [how unseemly, a floating dollar bill].  I’m sure I looked about  a little wildly.  I’m serious, this ritual is beyond important to me and by judging the coins that are there each day, important to others.  It’s a random act of kindness. 

  

A guy with no pockets bumps my shoulder  [“No Pockets” are what I call the hospital folks in blue mostly surgeons and op nurses]  and hands me a dime.  Perfect!  I’m guessing he felt “GLOWY” I know I did.

I pitch it.  Lands center top bowl!

“GLOWY”

Practice random acts of kindness.  I never used get that bumper sticker but I do now  and I don’t think you have to get sick to do get it, to do it.  You get that “GLOWY” feeling both ways.  Giving and with a smile taking what's given.

Well, I see a cow headed for the creek and the salmon are running.  Hmm, will it be veal or grilled salmon with dill sauce?

Talk to you later.

Strippers and Nurses

I had a great blog written before I walked into the house tonight.  Sensitive and applicable to the week.

Last night being very unwell my research Onc sent orders to my take care of me Onc for some tests today.

I hadn't seen my normal Onc folks for quite sometime.  They all said how much better I looked than the last time they had seen me and made me feel good as they always do.

Upon arriving to my house after work I walked in and said "Everyone at the Onc mentioned how good I look."

My son says. "Dad you do realize that strippers and nurses are suppose to say that."

My sensitive blog will be tomorrow I guess.

Talk to you.

HOPE

Let’s face it, Cancer no matter what kind, well frankly, sucks, sucks for everyone.  It sucks for those who are fighting the disease, their spouses, their loved ones, their friends and yes even the care givers.  Show me one single oncologist that doesn’t hope to cure this cowardly disease and loan me the money and I’ll go out and buy a hat and eat it.

Speaking from experience with the 2:00 A.M. crying jags, the 3:00 A.M. anger jags and the 1:00 A.M. pity jags I get how hopeless it can all feel.  Throw in the side effects of, in my case being diagnosed terminal, disease management and in other cases, chemo for remission.  Financial instability and insecurity is a mental burden too.    

The “all of that” can and oft does make one fall into despair, futility and hopelessness.  For me, at least those “things” have and do happen. 

But today, today I feel none of the above.  I still have the hot flashes of a 55 year old woman [having a major one now as a matter of fact].  I still have the manageable pain of bone mets, the side effects of the hormone treatment [I had such nice chest hair so I’ve been told] and I still have Cancer.  But things have been postponed.  Big things have been postponed.

HOPE….hope

My numbers were up.  My Onc [for those of you who don’t know slang for “person who tries”] left it up to me for the next stage of treatment.  She also found a research study in its infancy. 

I won’t go into detail s it is boring as hell.

I still have cancer and all that goes along with it. 

HOPE…the study has stopped my cancer in it’s tracks

HOPE…the study has made me some cancer fighter T-Cells [White blood cells]

HOPE…my research Onc  [head of the study] called me a success.

So I blog this why?

I have friends that support me first of all [that’s me being selfish]  but really I want to let you know there are some very smart people helping all of us battle this stupid ass cellular circus. 

Hope.  It’s working for me,  two years as of this coming 8/4.   

HOPE ..for killing this disease for all of us.

HOPE