The Other Big "C" Word

Perhaps I'm more retrospective as I'm not your average healthy American.  But with each passing year I become more and more appreciative of the other big "C" word.  

This year, my thoughts turned to years way way past.  How as a child, I would lay awake all night long anticipating the coming of morning.  Vaguely I could here the grown ups having their celebrations farther down the hall and out in the living room.  The bedroom of my grandparents house that my brother and I were exiled to seemed cavernous but at the same time stood no chance of oppressing our enthusiastic anticipation of the coming morn.

The smell of cigarette smoke, this was an era when you were imprisoned if you didn't smoke, drifted into our room.  Grown up voices became a little louder as the evening got happier.  Soon, my brother and I eyes could no longer stand guard and we drifted off to sleep  to awake in the morning with a level of energy that can't be achieved on just a few hours sleep.

I've also found myself hoping that not only I, but my family and friends, hell everyone experienced the same anticipation.  Experienced all the family antics around the dinner table, sober, drunk or otherwise.  Hoping they were able to experience sitting in an island of quiet over by the planter watching the rest of the family laugh, hug, nap, sulk and pout.  Phone calls of festive greetings from family far away and friends nearby.

Sure there were years, like this one and some before, where everything wasn't perfect or even half way OK with one or the other of us.  But, still, the spirit of the day seemed to at least white wash those imperfections if not temporarily erase them.  What choice does one have?  Drag everyone down to drown in your woe is me?  Or, post pone the woe is me for a couple of days?

Today and tomorrow I make a decision.  Let the big "C" [Effing Evil Empire] kick my ass.  Make me miserable.  Pull everyone else down with me.  Or, embrace the other big "C" that is Christmas Day and every great feeling that goes with that big "C'.

I'm choosing the big "C" that is Christmas and screw you big "C" that is cancer...for the next couple days you are lower case "c".

Merry Christmas to all.

Talk to you later.

A New View From Two

Recently my progressive Neuropathy succeeded in landing me in  two wheel transportation mode.  Nope not a bicycle but a wheelchair.  I've not written because unlike cancer and everything that has come with it, being wheelchair bound as left me without even a breeze left in my sails.  Words that come to my mind are pointless, frustrating or "really paralysis!  Isn't cancer enough?"  There are days, hours and moods where I don't even recognize myself.

I seem to be slowly climbing out of the muck that is woe is me and selfishly thought it might help me if I share a few early wheelchair experiences in hopes it might help someone even newer at this "View From Two" than I am.  These are purely observations from my experience.  Simple things that wheelchair pros may deem too benign to even mention.  So, this post isn't a how too but rather a this is what happened to me.

Unless you were a young genius when you bought your house not a single thought of A.D.A. compliance crossed your mind nor did you look at the front porch and say to yourself "boy those stairs would be tough for a person in a wheelchair."  I look at the stairs in my home and I immediately think of...

If you have stairs you will need a ramp or a huge bank account.  Until my best friend came over and installed a ramp

we used a medical transport company to get to my appointments.  Quite handy, they would come get me down the stairs haul me off to my appointment and charge $150.00 a trip.  Not a penny of which was covered by insurance. That would have been over $2K just during radiation.  I can't afford that.

As you can see this ramp has a non-skid surface.  Remember, if you are in my situation, you can't feel anything below your waist.  Your feet are below your waist.  So, as you unknowingly have a foot trapped under your chair while going across a non skid surface your foot may end up looking like this;

While not painful, no feeling remember, they are bad enough to be concave wounds and wounds do open your world to infection.  Not good to fight an infection while you are fighting the Effing Evil Empire. Wear shoes.

Transferring from the wheelchair to various places can be a challenge.  It took almost a month for us to get the transfer from the chair to the pick up to be something less than a Laurel and Hardy comedy.  In the house though there are a few things the wheelchairer will need.

My insurance supplied a dinosaur of a wheelchair.  I quickly learned, as did my caregiver, that the wheelchair itself can damage you.  Especially the dinosaur versions as they have pinch 

points that will get you at the most irritating moments.

You'll also need some things to help you make transfers.  Especially two very important places, your toilet and shower.

A riser for your toilet

A shower bench

Unless you want to hassle with your chair and transfer every time you have to pee [if you have prostate cancer then peeing is a seemingly endless proposition] you'll need some portable urinals.  Don't get tricked by the glow in the dark urinals only the lid glows in the dark.  The lid you rip off and throw away first thing.

You might want to add some rails to help with your transfers.

A grabber for all the things out of reach which is everything

However, if you drop things and you will, you can teach your puppy to pick them up  and bring them to you.  Connor, pictured below, even brings in the mail.

Make sure you get a decent pair of gloves they will save your hands especially when braking on slopes.

What I don't have a pic of is patience and frustration.  If you wake up one morning and suddenly need a wheelchair everything, every move you took for granted is now a challenge and an adventure.  This goes for you caregiver too.  If your caregiver is your spouse she gets it doubly hard.  Don't think that she isn't frustrated, scared, and trying desperately for patience.  Make sure you tell her you appreciate everything she does and you must realize that she didn't plan on this phase of her marriage to be such a health nightmare.  Being a paraplegic is as tough on your caregiver as it is on you.  Try not to forget that.  Sadly sometimes I do.

RA-223 Xofigo

Caveat:  Once again I remind the reader that I am not a doctor nor do I play one on TV.  I'm just a guy with Stage IV Prostate Cancer sharing so those of you unfortunate to be coming up behind me can do it without so much trepidation.

For most of you this will be the driest reading I've ever posted as it is purely informational and very specific to those of us and our caregivers fighting the Effing Evil Empire with any and all means. 

RA-223 or trade name Xofigo [pronounced Zo-fe-go all long vowels] is a Radium isotope.  In some mystical physics mumbo jumbo RA-223 is in love with calcium.  For those of us with Castrate Resistant P.C. and bone mets this relationship is a great thing.

Where there is a met there is a calcium producing machine. Keep in mind your bones are replaced about every ten years.  Slower as we get older.  If your bone has an ouch, in this case a met, the calcium production is much more prevalent.  This is why they give you an isotope that is attracted to calcium when you have a bone scan.  That isotope also loves calcium and is the glowy part of the resulting bone scan picture.  [I think in the past I might have posted one of my scans if you are curious]

Xofigo is quite new.  In fact so my new my main Oncologist wasn't familiar with it.  This doesn't mean my Onc isn't in the know it means that the medical bureaucracy, even in a world class cancer center, is slow slow slow when adding to their pharmacology.  However, my Radio-Oncologist was familiar with the drug so just make sure you keep asking or bring a web site for reference.

Without becoming even more boring there are many different types of radiation.  For example, Gamma radiation would be the one that will make you all crispy when someone drops the bomb.  Additionally there are different types of atomic particles given off during radioactive decay.  This is a good thing.

RA-223 emits an Alpha particle.  This is new in the treatment of bone mets.  The Alpha particle is much less active than Beta particles and the area the Alpha particle effects, in the case of RA-223, is measured in cell widths.  This allows the RA-223 to embrace its love for calcium, emit its Alpha and kill cancer cells all without terrible bone marrow damage.  Please remember...this is not a cure.

The "drug" is administered in a painless IV push and it takes more time in the waiting room than it does to get your dose.  It is painless, well for me as I don't have a needle issue.  I'm on my second dose with no particular side effects which for my body is pretty damn amazing.  Especially when I seem to always fall into that "less than 1% of patients suffered such and such side effect.  

Six doses over six months.  They will keep close watch on your blood.  I found it easiest to time my monthly Onc blood test to within five days of the Xofigo [five days is the rule] treatment so I don't have to make so many trips.

I won't bore you with increased survivability stats and more technical crap.  You can look it up or ask your Onc.  Just thought I'd share so you all could see there is another new option out there in the ever changing landscape of the fight against the Effing Evil Empire.

I'm assuming some of my posts are entertaining.  Please accept my apologies as I know this one is not.

Talk to you later

Defend Us From Dirt

A few days ago, Connor and I were suffering cabin fever on a sweltering summer's day, both Connor and I welcomed my wife's announcement that she needed to go get a pickup load of dirt as a much needed escape.

The "dirt" place is about three miles from the house and Connor did the dog thing all the way out there, tail wagging and jowls flopping in the breeze.  Hell I wasn't driving so I did pretty much the same thing sans tail.

Arriving at the "dirt" place Connor watched attentively, this was all new to him, the money exchange at the scale house.  We were told where to park and while waiting for the loader Connor enthusiastically took in all the heavy equipment traffic seemingly running randomly amok about us.

As the front end loader pulled up to the truck things began to change for Connor and he adopted his worry look which is similar to his "why aren't you playing me" look.

As the dirt began to fall from the bucket into the back of the pickup Connor decided he wasn't really sure what to do.  Finally the sound of the bucket being shaken back and forth to get the last of the dirt out was too much and Connor dove down to the floor cowering behind the drivers seat.

As we started to drive off Connor repositioned himself on the transmission hump facing the pile of dirt that was seemingly chasing him.  For the entire three miles Connor wouldn't respond, or face forward which would mean taking his eyes off that dangerous pile of dirt following us.

Probably unkind of me but I smiled and laughed the entire three miles.

What's the point of this post.  Well reading back I don't see any Facebookisms so that can't be the point.  I suppose one could say the moral of the story is no matter how complicated your life take time to notice things.  Or don't be afraid to try new things.  Then again...It is, to me, just an amusing time that made me laugh and laugh which felt really good.  Perhaps you had to be there.

Talk to you later.

What is the Point of Pointless Pain

I've been thinking about pain lately.  Not emotional pain.  Not, damn I stubbed my toe pain.  But the agonizing compound fracture type of pain.  I find that level of pain not only useless overkill but piss poor engineering on someone's part.

Yes yes, I know, pain is an important part of the bodies function to protect itself.  Lay your hand on the stove burner, yep that hurts and if you are smart you jerk your hand away.  Cut your finger with a knife, sure enough that hurts too go get a band aid.  But at some point pain just becomes excessive and a waste of our body's energy.

Seriously, think about it.  Mountain climber guy falls off of a cliff leaving him with one jagged edge of his tibia is sticking out the back of his calf.  Now mountain climber guy can look down and assess the situation visually.  "Holy crap that hurts and that bone shouldn't be doing that."  But you see, he can't assess the situation visually as he is writhing in absolute complete agony.  I ask what is the point in that level of pain.

In my case I know I'm in the battle of a lifetime with the Effing Evil Empire.  Lately the E³ has been on the march and the battle rages in my various bone metastasis.  These battles are painful.  No not painful, at times they are take your breath away, whimper like a babe, mewl like a kitten painful.  Why?  Why not tone it down by at least half.  By half would at least cut out the mewling.  I know I have mets. I would know if they just hurt.  I don't need a direct take your breath away shot of pain to tell me something is amiss in my body when a shot across the bow would work just as well.

I appreciate the need for pain.  I really do.  Obviously the doctors do to or they wouldn't have this cute little chart in every room:

TEN WORST PAIN IMAGINABLE!  Hell we don't need that.  That's just stupid.  I propose that five becomes the new ten and there is no pain over five.  Anything over five is just really useless to mountain climber guy, cancer person, birthing women and anyone else with owies, boo boos, and compound fractures.

Don't even get me started on tooth aches!

Talk to you later.

Cannabis, Medicine and FECO Oh My!

I’m no doctor, expert or stoner.  This post is purely based upon my experiences with Medical Marijuana and offered as a reality reference only.

I can’t help but notice in reading the various FB threads and news feeds devoted to the medical virtues of Cannabis how confusing it all seems to be.  This is because, whether proponents want to admit it or not, modern Cannabis is a pharmacology in its infancy populated by many desperate people seeking miracle answers.

I wouldn’t be totally transparent if I didn’t mention I’m a proponent of Cannabis, especially for medical purposes.  I would also be remiss if I didn’t [as I’ve mentioned in previous posts] say that my goal isn’t to get high…I can’t stand being pot-high.  I would also be remiss in not saying I believe through reading testimonials etc. I’ve come to the conclusion that Cannabis is my W.M.D when it comes to beating the Effing Evil Empire.

Now that my “credentials” and disclaimer are out of the way, I can say that medical marijuana plays an important role in my fight against the Effing Evil Empire with the down side that I hate to be pot-high.  That said, I thought I’d throw out a few of my experiences for those of you newly fighting the Empire and those of you that may have misconceptions about the medical Marijuana market place.

The first thing to realize, a lid is a lid is a lid and it is a measurement that only over-fifties will recognize and it, a lid, no longer exists.  Good thing there are no seeds in a bag anymore because there are no more album covers left to help you with the culling process.   Ironically, the second thing to realize, the current dispensary entrepreneurs are mostly over fifty, so their marketing is stuck in the 60s and 70s.

Thus, the name of the dispensaries and medicine, seem for the most part to carry names that harken back to the mid-sixties and would send any “newbie” back into the arms of Big Pharma.  Don’t let it!  Just because your nearest dispensary is named something like “Holy Crap I’m Really Baked” doesn't mean there aren't caring and informative people tending the store.  Also, get used to the Jamaican flag and Bob Marley. Like I said, many dispensaries are stuck in the past.  Rule of thumb, just like your doctor, if you don’t like your dispensary find a new one.

As for the medicine.  Each and every strain has a medicinal purpose and you get to make an informed choice either through Internet resources or informed “bud tenders.”  What you won’t be able to get away from, for now, are the names of the medicine.  Just smile as you read: Obama, Strawberry Kush, Skunk Wallow, Diesel Spill, Crotch Haze, Ear Wash, Couch Lock, etc.  Okay I made most of those names up, but each strain offers a very specific remedy for very specific side effects if not specific cures.

The big gun in fighting the Effing Evil Empire is Cannabis Oil or FECO [Full Extract Cannabis Oil].  People argue hard and long about how to make it, how much CBN, THC, etc. etc. (bullshit ad nauseam) should be in your oil.  Whether to follow Rich Simpson's plan.  Suffice it to say, a room divided no matter how educated the room thinks it is.

Simply put, Cannabis Oil is made in a few steps.  Place the bud/flower in a solvent, heat the concoction without blowing your house up then evaporate the solvent off and you are left with a potent oil.

Importantly, if you are the FECO consumer [FECO being Full Extraction Cannabis Oil] you need to be concerned about the solvent.  Many of the oils use solvents such as Naptha.  Really?  Do you want that in your body?  Choose oils that use Everclear or food-grade alcohol.  I started with the Naptha version and was poisoned the whole time.

Then there is the alphabet soup….THC, THCA, CBN, Decarboxilation [or some spelling of same].  No one knows what the right combo is.  Get the medicine in you and adjust accordingly.  Simple.  Worst case, won’t cure you, but will make you more comfortable.  No one has ever, ever OD’d from Marijuana!

If you don’t like the side effects of Cannabis there are a couple of things you can do that work famously.  Depending on the strain you choose you may or may not experience a huge case of anxiety.  Simple solution, glass of orange juice…’nuf said.

Or, switch your strain, Indica and Sativa and hybrids there of have distinctly different effect on each distinctive one of us.  Whatever works for you.  Simple!

If you don’t want to get high, two simple solutions.  The first, an easily attainable amino acid from any vitamin aisle, Citacoline.  If that’s not good enough then make your own suppositories with coconut oil.  These are what work for me.

Cannabis oil, or FECO as It’s being called now, benefits many of us - patients and care-givers alike.  Don’t let the infancy, schools of thought and ignorance of the product, steer you away from such an effective tool in the fight against cancer.

Talk to you later.

Faith...no not her.

No, no don't go running for the hills, all of us have faith in something.  Faith isn't reserved for just those of a religious bent.  

Such as, most of us have faith that the sun will come up tomorrow, water will run downhill, bears will do their thing in the woods, the totally despondent have faith they will be totally despondent tomorrow and the really faithful believe that the Seattle Mariners will win the world series this year!

Of late I've been giving faith a lot of thought and though I'm no philosopher, certainly smarter people than I have debated the topic of faith, I do have a couple of thoughts.

Faith is a tricky thing.  You can have faith in your doctor or you can have no faith in your doctor.  In the latter case get a new doctor.  Certainly your faith in someone else can later be misplaced faith but that's life and you have faith it will be different next time.  But what I've really been thinking about is what faith is and the measure of faith.

Measuring faith introduces what particle physics call the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principal.
Yes I said there would be no particle physics sorry.  The Uncertainty  Principal basically says the measurement of a particle is influenced at some level by the "measurer" thus introducing uncertainty in the measurement.

When you start to measure your faith you start to introduce, just as Mr. Heisenberg theorized, uncertainty and uncertainty certainly is the opposite of faith.  Maybe you knew that but I didn't figure it out until recently.  

Also, I think one shouldn't over think faith.  If you think too hard about faith then you are loosing faith in faith.  Yep, I did promise ice cream headaches.  Faith just is.

So, if you are battling with the Effing Evil Empire, then as a commonly said salutation in the 60s and 70s, "Keep The Faith".  There's a whole list of things in our battle we have to think about.  Isn't it cool that faith isn't one of them.

Talk to you later.  

A Man, His Cancer and His Dog

I have a new buddy in my life.  His name is Connor Macleod.  Named after the original Connor, the Connor that said "I've been alive for four and a half centuries and I cannot die."  That same Connor described Haggis in revolting detail.  Pretty sure my Connor would love Haggis.

Connor's addition was not a spur of the moment irrational knee jerk "oh he's so cute" action.  There hadn't been a dog in the house for eight years and after debating for the last two years all the stars aligned and voila'.   Connor.

Some of you at this very moment are thinking I'm terribly irresponsible.  How can a man who can't move faster than a snail, who is fighting the Effing Evil Empire, a man who the pundits say, and if you believe them [I don't], is not long for this time, bring a poor little puppy into his life?

My answer is I can still take care of a puppy and the things I can't do, well I have an incredible caregiver that picks up my slack.  Really not the point here though.

I have read that pets do wondrous things for the infirm.  I don't need to read to understand that now.  Since Connor showed up I have laughed, smiled, been concerned and just overall entertained.  I even oft times feel better than I should.

Of course I've been pissed off too.  Afterall  he is just a puppy with a "thirty second puppy memory" and "selective hearing."  Of course he doesn't understand when the deaf foul breathed old cat slaps him in the face that it's not an invitation for frivolity.  He's a puppy and he'll grow up to be a better friend than he already is.

The other night I was terribly sick, it happens, and Connor sat and looked on in confusion as I was retching.  In between retches I asked my caregiver to put him out so he didn't have to watch.  Finally, retching stopped Connor came back in.  Normally, as part of his training, if Connor comes in when called, he may or may not get a little dog treat.  So he's gotten to where he comes in and sits patiently at the top of the stairs to see if he's hit the dog treat lottery or not.

Not that trip back in.  He was so worried he came bounding up to me as only a puppy can, truly worried.  A ruffle of his ears by me and lick of my wrists by Connor and he was satisfied that I was once again good to go.  Melted my heart it did.

I'm not advocating that all of you fighting the Effing Evil Empire run out and get a dog.  Dogs aren't for everyone.  I know a person that actually abhors dogs.  What I will say, and you can't stop me, sometimes this disease makes me feel useless.  Not worthless, useless.  It's pretty cool to have someone, in my case Connor, that I can effectively take care of.  

So if you don't like dogs or aren't lucky enough to have someone who can take up your slack maybe a gold fish.  Even a goldfish needs to be fed, change it's water and someone to talk to.

Admittedly, a goldfish won't do stupid ass stuff that makes you laugh your ass off like Connor trying to figure out the hanging birdbath.  But anything that can get ones mind off E³ is better than any prescription drug.

Talk to you later

Betrayal-My Body Didn't

In the days yore when "things" were decided by smelly men carrying sharp edged metal objects and using said sharpness to slash at each other.  "Betrayal" meant something, I think, different then the word does now. 

Then and before, betrayal meant a nice knife between a rib and into the heart.  Perhaps "Betrayal" could mean an entire legion changing allegiance in the middle of the melee.  But you see the trend....in the days of yore "Betrayal" generally ended bloody.

Now we are more civilized.  There are now a plethora of P.C. betrayal terms; betrayal of trust, betrayal of....well I'm sure there is a plethora.  The point is that betrayal isn't as final as it once was.

To be sure there is nothing worse than  betrayal. No matter how each of us defines "Betrayal" , betrayal leaves an anger unique to all other angers.  "Betrayal" produces a "Are you fucking kidding me", to an incredulous "What the hell this isn't funny", and the "I could just puke."  I asked those questions to myself as I tearfully walked out of the diagnosis that day.

So.  I was wondering lately why I've been so extra angry.  I know I need a certain level of anger to fight the Effing Evil Empire.  How can you fight anything without some passion bordering on anger? Eventually a thought started to percolate.  Then, like a foggy epiphany, I recognize a portion of my anger was solely because my body betrayed me.  

Yep.  As insane as it sounds. My anger! It's my bodies fault! My body betrayed me!

Oh I know.  Some of you smile at this but truth, I struggled with this "Betrayal" for quite some time.

Then I realized that my body probably didn't wake up one morning and say "This guy is a jerk.  I'm calling in the Effing Evil Empire to ... Really I thought?  My body wants to kill itself because my body thinks I'm a jerk?  [smarter people than I will have to figure out that last statement]

I'm not nearly as angry now.

Talk to you later

U.K. Pancreas Cancer Ad and The Sad Truth

I thought for a number of days before I decided to respond to this.  

Rest assured I responded when I first found it on Facebook.  I was incensed to unreasonable anger by the posts of, well frankly, the clueless.  The "I have to save the world even though I've no clue what I'm talking about." people.

Truth be told.  I was angry, so beyond belief,  I broke my rule of "think before you post to social."

Here's the ad that started it all:

A shit storm of "how insensitive", "how could anyone wish that on someone else?", "Oh they are trying to take money from breast cancer research.", "It's not a competition.", "If anyone ever experienced a loved one with breast cancer they wouldn't wish this on anyone."

This poor woman is sending only one message, "I wish I was fighting a cancer that is treatable."

That's all!

That's all!

The only reason I'm responding is that I don't want anyone who is just now starting to fight the Effing Evil Empire, and whom might be considered terminal like myself,  to think they are having evil thoughts when they think:

While driving then sitting at a stoplight, watching the world go by screaming to yourself, "Wait, stop world I'm sick" . Not insensitive.

Pulling into the emergency lane of the freeway after an Onc appointment, getting out of the car, and scream as aloud as you can at the sky.  Not insensitive.

Walk out of the Onc's, terminally ill, and wonder what is the point in stopping by every month if they can't make you well this time. Not insensitive.

When you see two dudes half your age skate boarding seemingly without a care in the world and you wish "Oh I so could use that hope."  Not insensitive.

Or this.  My cancer buddy whom I love.  I was jealous of her cancer. She's kicking the Effing Evil Empire's ass.  Not insensitive.

Or the worst.  You look at your caregiver/spouse and get pissed because he/she is well and you are not.  Not insensitive.

So Miz. Sensitive I say this..."Before you pass judgement on a sound ad campaign.  Look at that poor poster child.  Imagine walking out of a doctor's office with "terminal" stamped all over your chart.  Imagine crying because of all the things your body and mind are telling you you are going to miss a whole lot of life.  Imagine Miz Sensitive, your fucking world turned beyond upside down. 

One person posted "if anyone in your family were suffering from breast cancer would you change your tune?"  Seriously?  Really?

None of us with cancer, surviving cancer, or healthy would wish this fight on anyone.  However, the dark spot in me is wondering when someone makes such disgustingly ignorant "sensitive" statements....nope I can't get that angry

Talk to you later

  

What Will They Remember?

As I watched out the window today, my crow friends were happily surfing the strong East wind with reckless abandon. My thoughts were twirling, diving, spinning randomly just like the crows cavorting in the wind until I landed on a singular thought.  Today is my grandson's birthday.

"Wow he's ten today and I've been fighting the Effing Evil Empire for half of his life.  I wondered, if this battle takes a turn for the worse, what he would remember about his grandfather?

As we all know, in the battle against the Empire, there are good days and bad days.  Would he remember playing pirates down by the river on a balmy summer's afternoon.  Or would he remember his grandfather irritably snatching the Nerf gun away after telling him three times not to shoot the gun in the house?  Would he remember, all of us playing "baseball" over at the school, laughing with abandon when I tried to run, cane in hand ,falling down in dramatic fashion.  Or would he remember when I became irritated and snapped at him for a reason that obviously isn't important because today I can't remember what the reason was?

What about the rest of my family?  Would the decades sum of bad days and good days lean toward their good memories or crumble to a pile of bad? The same could be asked about my friends, acquaintances, passers by, other drivers and Sasquatch.  What is the last memory of me those who, for whatever reason, the last time they saw me was the last time they will see me?

If you think your sum of good plus bad falls into the bad column there is good news.  Humans seem to remember their most recent experiences.  So act now and you can get that sum to lean toward the good.

Whether you are fighting the Effing Evil Empire or cruising blissfully through life you never know when you walk out the door if you will see that person again.  What do you want them to remember?

My grandson is coming over tonight for his birthday.  Whether the Empire has me in it's black grip or not I'm going to make sure when he walks out the door to go home with his mom that he walks with a good memory.

Happy Birthday PJ

Talk to you later.

An Old Bull Ridden By Cancer

This morning, bending over a bucket, desperately trying to keep my oat meal where it belongs the Effing Evil Empire was doing it's best to win.  Truth be told puking isn't the issue, it's the prelude up to it [sorry] ask any woman who has had morning sickness.

None the less, this morning I managed to fight my oat meal back down.  I had help this time though.  I now have a mantra.  You old fogies as old as I am just relax, a mantra isn't some Eastern hugaboo boogley.  A Mantra is something you say to yourself to remind you how strong you actually are.

Recently I was given a gift.  Turned out to be a huge gift for me.  A gift from a co-worker whom easily  has become my friend.  A wise friend.  Here's why.

Decades ago, I decided that the best profession for me was to become a Bull Rider in the Rodeo.  Well duh, joining the rodeo for me was the same as running away with the circus.  But none the less I became a Bull Rider. 

The rules then; long sleeve shirt, chaps and a hat.  Don't look at the PBR guys in this day and age with disdain, wearing their flack jackets, helmets and mouth pieces.  Bulls today are twenty million bazillion times larger than the bulls I would find myself on back in the day. Frankly, today's bulls,  they can murder you in a blink.  Not an exaggeration.

I could be called stupid for even attempting such a thing as riding.  Stupid or not, I would climb into the chute, sit down on a ton or so of "I will kill you" and nod my head with massive trepidation.  I was always scared to no shit.  

Alas, I also have to add there is no drug, no event in life, that remotely compares to the rush the millisecond before you nod your head to the chute boss and that gate opens. You forget all of your past and future at that point.  For me that was the point.

The point?  The point now is a gift I received recently.  As stupid as riding a bull may sound it did take a certain amount of insanity and, well, for me guts.  Though I was riding for the wrong reasons I still remember the guts it took.

So for you all that are fighting the Effing Evil Empire find a rallying cry or listen for someone to deliver the gift of a rallying cry so you have a shield against the Effing Evil Empire.

My gift, my rallying cry that now hangs in my office so I can see it constantly.  My rallying cry when I'm fighting the Effing Evil Empire....is;

Perfectly framed and matted...the simple words "I once was a bull rider."  That's all.  A reminder of how strong I was and how strong I can be.

Seriously, find your Mantra.  Hell find a pebble on the street if that works for you.  There is a terribly awesome power in anything that reminds you how strong you are while you hover over a puke bucket, lay in radiation, chemo or...

Ride cowboys ride.

Thanks Katrina.

Talk to you later.

Looking Forward To Cancer I Wish I Knew

The other morning I awoke laying on my right side which means I was staring at the tall trees outside our westward facing window.  Bizarrely my heart rate was accelerated and the blood in my veins was/were boiling  Oh no, don't think I was raling [wordsmiths it's a word] against the Effing Evil Empire.  No, what was pissing me off was Norm  Vice-Principal of the high school I attended forty years ago.

You see one day while my best friend and I were out having a smoke, a habit my friend quit and one I unfortunately kept for kept for years, Norm in all his sanctimonious prickness came marching up to our location.  It seems Norm, took exception to my friend  smoking while wearing a letter man's jacket.  An ultimatum was issued.  Drop the smoke or surrender the letter man's jacket.  NOW!  God what a dick.  My B.P. is up again just writing this.

Norm seemed to have forgotten that my friend had personally paid for the jacket not just monetarily but with sweat and dedication to the tyrants, uhm, I mean coaches of the era.

Wait!  Why the hell would I wake up aggravated by something so stupid from so many years ago?  After all I'm pretty sure I've more pressing matters.  First thought that comes to mind is a lyric, Rod Stewart I believe, "I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger."  Man I really would have kicked ass.  No I wouldn't.  I lived ten foot tall and bullet proof.  I would never have believed what I know now.

After that ridiculous morning awakening I've thought a lot about why I look backwards so much lately.  I've decided it's because being terminally ill looking forward kind of sucks.  If I and my Care Giver can't fight myself to wellness there will be tomorrows that are worse than today. Hell even when we kick the Empire's ass there will be really bad times.

But...I've made a decision today.  Every day in my future, your's too no matter how shitty you feel, will have a good thing happen at least once.  A thing that you may make happen.  A thing that maybe someone you don't even know may make happen to you. 

I'm going to look forward...certainly not back to Vice Principal Norm.  

Talk to you later.