Speaking of the evocative power of music as we were in the last entry: I must say I find underwhelming the lack of response to my call for a song to be played here at St. Vincent's whenever someone's constipation finally lets go. My argument is brief and I will repeat it here.
The Argument, Briefly Stated: A few bars of a lullaby are played upon the birth of every child here. Why the birth canal should get sole attention here is beyond me. Anyone who has experienced a stoppage of the alimentary canal can surely agree that the re-opening of the works is song-worthy. The question remains, "What song?"
My message to the nurses here whenever I come for one of my periodic visits is that I will attempt to be as low maintenance as possible. "Low maintenance" takes on quite a different meaning when the lower portion of the alimentary canal simply clamps down. Lots of screaming for a LaMaze coach and an epidural ensue while one ponders the claim that childbirth is the worst pain of them all. I am more than ready to argue this point. I would never say childbirth is not painful; I simply am ready for a good argument over something that cannot be empirically proven by either side. That's one way in which constipation affects my mind.
"I'm Drinking Canada Dry," would do for the amount of fluids I have been taking, but that only covers effort and not the results of the act. Yes, the effort is extraordinary and, for my money, I could sit on the toilet listening to The Pretenders singing Back on the Chain Gang all day long for all the good the effort seems to do. Maybe the Cowboy Junkies could come up with something. Their Cheap is How I Feel, is close but doesn't quite cover it, although it would cover some of the procedures involved. After today's bout and resultant resolution, the "procedures involved" had me asking the nurse if we are now engaged and if she will respect me in the morning. A leering, "No, on both counts," has left me feeling cheap and degraded.
There are specific lines in certain songs that would cover the situation, such as those great words from Chantilly Lace originally sung by The Big Bopper and later on by Jerry Lee Lewis: "Makes you feel real loose, like a long-neck goose, ooh, baby, that's what I like." Maybe there is not an entire song and there is the possibility that a line taken out of context such as the one just mentioned may have to suffice. This does not seem fair to me, however, so the search goes on.
2010-02-27
Waking up to Townes Van Zandt, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Nanci Griffith, June Tabor and Gram Parsons
Waking up to Townes Van Zandt, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Nanci Griffith, June Tabor and Gram Parsons isn't a bad way to wake up if you have to be in the hospital. Found a free service that has a wide selection of music. There are 25 free plays per month, but it keeps resetting my remaining selections to the upper teens or low 20s. I'll take it. Just finished listening to Banks of the Guadalupe and am about to listen to Red Chevrolet. All hospital rooms should come with this rather than the television. At $13.00/month for individual subscriptions, they should be able to work a deal with the company that would likely be a fraction of cable television, the full menu of which is blacked out here, anyway. It is a much more relaxing way to write this.
Listening to some of what I refer to as "my music," that is, music that instantly calls up a time, a place, a mood, I realize how much this stuff means to me. In my "lost years" from December, 1966 to June, 1986, I remember always being around music one way or another, whether it was at a concert, live music or the jukebox in some bar, or at someone's house or in a car or truck, music always seemed to be playing, although there are those who argue that it's just the road buzz in my head from 19 1/2 years of turning down just one more highway, following one more lead to Utopia. "And I saw my devil and I saw my deep blue sea; and I thought about a calico bonnet from Cheyenne to Tennessee." That's from the Flying Burrito Brothers' song Return of the Grievous Angel.
It took me nearly 20 years to find that calico bonnet (and she didn't even have the decency to be wearing one, but I recognized her anyway) and I had to go further from Cheyenne to Tennessee. Had to go to Washington, D.C. and let her find me sitting on a park bench at about 6:00 in the evening of June 25, 1986. She was from Connecticut and I was from the road. After making a rubbing of her brother's name off the Viet Nam Memorial for her, I walked her to a free concert on the Capitol lawn. Later we went for a few beers and then I walked her back to her hotel. She asked me to meet her there for coffee in the morning and I agreed. We met for coffee and then she was on her way back to Connecticut after giving me her phone number and telling me to call her if I ever got up that way. Nine days later I was in Connecticut with everything I owned.
Now, that was July 4, 1986 and "everything I owned," consisted of a change of clothes, a razor and a toothbrush, along with a spiral notebook and some kind of reading material, the name of which I forget, all of which was packed in a gray cordura bookbag. A more disreputable looking person never graced the bar of the Stamford Marriott from which I called her, only to discover that I was not in Stratford. My ears had not been attuned to the loudspeaker on the commuter train on which I was riding and I mistook Stamford for Stratford, only a 20-mile error. She came and picked me up, anyway. From there, it took me three years to get her to marry me and even then she had people telling her not to do it. I don't bear them any grudges, however, since I was cut pretty rough and the first eight years of our marriage were hell for her due primarily to my drinking. Once I got myself cleaned up, we still had another eight years and a few months, not enough time, to be sure, but it was all good time. We were married for 16 years, 8 months and 5 days. That one song, Return of the Grievous Angel, sort of replays my whole life until I met Mary. It signifies the end of one time and the beginning of another. Good stuff.
Listening to some of what I refer to as "my music," that is, music that instantly calls up a time, a place, a mood, I realize how much this stuff means to me. In my "lost years" from December, 1966 to June, 1986, I remember always being around music one way or another, whether it was at a concert, live music or the jukebox in some bar, or at someone's house or in a car or truck, music always seemed to be playing, although there are those who argue that it's just the road buzz in my head from 19 1/2 years of turning down just one more highway, following one more lead to Utopia. "And I saw my devil and I saw my deep blue sea; and I thought about a calico bonnet from Cheyenne to Tennessee." That's from the Flying Burrito Brothers' song Return of the Grievous Angel.
It took me nearly 20 years to find that calico bonnet (and she didn't even have the decency to be wearing one, but I recognized her anyway) and I had to go further from Cheyenne to Tennessee. Had to go to Washington, D.C. and let her find me sitting on a park bench at about 6:00 in the evening of June 25, 1986. She was from Connecticut and I was from the road. After making a rubbing of her brother's name off the Viet Nam Memorial for her, I walked her to a free concert on the Capitol lawn. Later we went for a few beers and then I walked her back to her hotel. She asked me to meet her there for coffee in the morning and I agreed. We met for coffee and then she was on her way back to Connecticut after giving me her phone number and telling me to call her if I ever got up that way. Nine days later I was in Connecticut with everything I owned.
Now, that was July 4, 1986 and "everything I owned," consisted of a change of clothes, a razor and a toothbrush, along with a spiral notebook and some kind of reading material, the name of which I forget, all of which was packed in a gray cordura bookbag. A more disreputable looking person never graced the bar of the Stamford Marriott from which I called her, only to discover that I was not in Stratford. My ears had not been attuned to the loudspeaker on the commuter train on which I was riding and I mistook Stamford for Stratford, only a 20-mile error. She came and picked me up, anyway. From there, it took me three years to get her to marry me and even then she had people telling her not to do it. I don't bear them any grudges, however, since I was cut pretty rough and the first eight years of our marriage were hell for her due primarily to my drinking. Once I got myself cleaned up, we still had another eight years and a few months, not enough time, to be sure, but it was all good time. We were married for 16 years, 8 months and 5 days. That one song, Return of the Grievous Angel, sort of replays my whole life until I met Mary. It signifies the end of one time and the beginning of another. Good stuff.
2010-02-26
Neutropenia and Wheat Germ: Infection Menace or Myth?
Be very careful what you wish for. Checking in to the hospital today for my 96-hour infusion of chemotherapy, my biggest concern was whether I would get a bed by the window. As luck would have it, some interloper was there ahead of me and I got assigned to the other bed. Apparently, this man and his family have more money than God and spent from around 2:00 p.m. until at least 6:30 p.m. figuring out their stock purchases and sales. I was thinking how nice it would be to have a room to myself if this was what I had to listen to, when my nurse came in to inform me that I was being moved to a private room. The stock talk was still going strong at 6:30 when this occurred and I assumed it would go on through the night as long as the Nikkei opened on schedule. This news of a move immediately made happy and suspicious. Happy: No more stock trading or whatever those folks were doing. Suspicious: You get a private room here for one reason; you need to be isolated for one reason or another. In my case, it is a low white blood count, specifically, the neutrophils. The count is 0.6 and should be between 1.4 and 6.5. Neutrophils are white blood cells that form a pretty good part of the immune system. I call it a low white count. The technical term is neutropenia, the adjective being neutropenic; e.g. I am neutropenic and you're not, so there. So, what does this mean? Glad you asked.
Right at this moment, I am being infused with Erbetux. I was scheduled to get the Cisplatin 5FU tomorrow. The plan at this point is to forego the FU and let my levels come back up. This almost assuredly will see me in here longer than 96 hours. If I leave my room, I am required to wear a mask. Other than that, not really all that much to worry about.
Nearly 11:00 p.m. and I just got busted walking the hall without a mask. Time for bed.
Morning and I just had a box of bran flakes explode all over me, my bed and the floor. Good thing I ordered two boxes. Will wheat germ give me an infection?
Now for the, "Boy, did I ever not know what I was talking about," section.
I just found out from my nurse that Cisplatin and 5FU are two different agents, not one. I have been getting the 5FU since sometime yesterday. The Cisplatin still is on hold as my blood levels as of 11:30 this morning (Friday, February 26) have not come back up to par.
Right at this moment, I am being infused with Erbetux. I was scheduled to get the Cisplatin 5FU tomorrow. The plan at this point is to forego the FU and let my levels come back up. This almost assuredly will see me in here longer than 96 hours. If I leave my room, I am required to wear a mask. Other than that, not really all that much to worry about.
Nearly 11:00 p.m. and I just got busted walking the hall without a mask. Time for bed.
Morning and I just had a box of bran flakes explode all over me, my bed and the floor. Good thing I ordered two boxes. Will wheat germ give me an infection?
Now for the, "Boy, did I ever not know what I was talking about," section.
I just found out from my nurse that Cisplatin and 5FU are two different agents, not one. I have been getting the 5FU since sometime yesterday. The Cisplatin still is on hold as my blood levels as of 11:30 this morning (Friday, February 26) have not come back up to par.
2010-02-22
It has been a few days since I have been here but that has been due to a lack of access rather than a lack of anything about which I would like to bellyache and complain in public. Today is different, however, and I am at the house of Sheila, Nick, Genny and Cole. Sheila is Mary's youngest daughter and therefore my step-daughter. She was kind enough to bring grandpa out for a field trip today. I need to be back at the home by 12:30 in order to catch my ride to my three times weekly dressing change. But meanwhile, I get to drink real coffee ands not the decaffeinated stuff the home gives us.
An argument could be made against my use of caffeine due to the tremors that are a constant source of embarrassment to me. Most of the time I look like an alcoholic who has not been able to get his morning pint and am unable to hold a glass or cup of anything without spilling it. Both hands are needed and sometimes that does not work. I need to get used to sippy cups. Do they make sippy cups for grownups? I would like at least one with Munch's "The Scream" on it. Typing is a difficult enough chore. For every character you see typed here you can add several more that are hit by accident due to tremors. But on the caffeine front, my motto is you just can't have enough.
The cause of the tremors is not yet certain. It could be the result of having a bunch of lymph nodes removed back in January, 2009. But that would not explain the left side being just as shaky as the right. It could be the chemo. It also could be an early sign of Parkinson's according to the doctor who is not going to commit one way or another just yet. Of course my theory that it is an unjust fate cast upon me by one of my four humors being out of balance due to the ill will of the gods has been rejected out of hand by the medical community. But they never saw the value in phrenology, either, shortsighted fools that they are.
Thursday will bring another admission to the hospital for a 96-hour infusion. That should put me out of the hospital on Monday if all goes well. The last infusion of this type kept me in the hospital for three weeks. While it was a nice change from the home, it really is not how I want to spend my time. I arrived back in Connecticut on October 31 and have spent a total of 10 1/2 weeks in the hospital since then. Not a stellar record unless looked upon through the lens of Munchausen.
One final note: The intrepid Sheila advertised for a free laptop on Craigslist and after getting a snarky note from someone who told her she was crazy for even thinking about it, she got one for me. It is a Toshiba Portege 7100 series with Windows 2000 Professional. The drawbacks are that it has no mouse which makes me rely on this little button set in the midst of the keys and there is no word processing program. All that is remedied easily enough, however, and will be in short order. It even has a wireless card. Wahoo. Here I am in at least the late 20th Century if not crawling in to the 21st.
An argument could be made against my use of caffeine due to the tremors that are a constant source of embarrassment to me. Most of the time I look like an alcoholic who has not been able to get his morning pint and am unable to hold a glass or cup of anything without spilling it. Both hands are needed and sometimes that does not work. I need to get used to sippy cups. Do they make sippy cups for grownups? I would like at least one with Munch's "The Scream" on it. Typing is a difficult enough chore. For every character you see typed here you can add several more that are hit by accident due to tremors. But on the caffeine front, my motto is you just can't have enough.
The cause of the tremors is not yet certain. It could be the result of having a bunch of lymph nodes removed back in January, 2009. But that would not explain the left side being just as shaky as the right. It could be the chemo. It also could be an early sign of Parkinson's according to the doctor who is not going to commit one way or another just yet. Of course my theory that it is an unjust fate cast upon me by one of my four humors being out of balance due to the ill will of the gods has been rejected out of hand by the medical community. But they never saw the value in phrenology, either, shortsighted fools that they are.
Thursday will bring another admission to the hospital for a 96-hour infusion. That should put me out of the hospital on Monday if all goes well. The last infusion of this type kept me in the hospital for three weeks. While it was a nice change from the home, it really is not how I want to spend my time. I arrived back in Connecticut on October 31 and have spent a total of 10 1/2 weeks in the hospital since then. Not a stellar record unless looked upon through the lens of Munchausen.
One final note: The intrepid Sheila advertised for a free laptop on Craigslist and after getting a snarky note from someone who told her she was crazy for even thinking about it, she got one for me. It is a Toshiba Portege 7100 series with Windows 2000 Professional. The drawbacks are that it has no mouse which makes me rely on this little button set in the midst of the keys and there is no word processing program. All that is remedied easily enough, however, and will be in short order. It even has a wireless card. Wahoo. Here I am in at least the late 20th Century if not crawling in to the 21st.
2010-02-17
Call me Mr. Tasteless. Nothing to write about yesterday without offending sensibilities. What does that mean? Here is a hint. I am in search of a song to announce the restoration of a natural function to its daily nature. The hospital announces births with a few bars of a lullaby over the building-wide intercom and all I am asking for is equal time. Why should the birth canal lord it over the lower GI tract? There must be an appropriate song out there but I am stumped. One of the nurses has suggested, "You Dropped a Bomb on Me," and while that sounds like a good choice, it remains the only choice and it hardly seems fair to base this important decision on a field of one. Any suggestions will be taken into consideration.
There is every chance that I will be discharged from the hospital today, after nearly three weeks in here. I have lost track of time in here and that can be a good thing, but it also cuts me off from reality. Of course, the reality to which I consign myself really has nothing to do with the real world. When you reside in a mental health facility you need to be on your guard at all times. I am not speaking of physical safety; what I am speaking of is the trap of letting your mental state being defined by others, whether they are inmates or staff. And good luck telling the difference.
My friend Grant has been very good about coming to visit on an almost daily basis. He always brings coffee and sometimes a pastry. He and his wife Charlotte both have been very good friends throughout this whole ordeal, providing me with countless services that just make life a lot easier. When my wife Mary was sick, Charlotte used to appear every Wednesday with a complete supper ready to go in the oven. On some Wednesdays, depending on how Mary was feeling, we would go over to Charlotte and Grant's and have supper there. Good people and in no way responsible for my opinions or remarks.
It turns out that I will spend one more night here since I am due to come back for a short chemo session tomorrow. Back here on Friday for a routine dressing change using the fantastic Hydrofera Blue, a kind of fabric that starts out stiff and dry and is antimicrobial. They cut it to the size and shape of the wound and then cover that with this clear stuff called Tegaderm. That gets outlined with tape and we're ready to go. Fascinating stuff, right?
There is every chance that I will be discharged from the hospital today, after nearly three weeks in here. I have lost track of time in here and that can be a good thing, but it also cuts me off from reality. Of course, the reality to which I consign myself really has nothing to do with the real world. When you reside in a mental health facility you need to be on your guard at all times. I am not speaking of physical safety; what I am speaking of is the trap of letting your mental state being defined by others, whether they are inmates or staff. And good luck telling the difference.
My friend Grant has been very good about coming to visit on an almost daily basis. He always brings coffee and sometimes a pastry. He and his wife Charlotte both have been very good friends throughout this whole ordeal, providing me with countless services that just make life a lot easier. When my wife Mary was sick, Charlotte used to appear every Wednesday with a complete supper ready to go in the oven. On some Wednesdays, depending on how Mary was feeling, we would go over to Charlotte and Grant's and have supper there. Good people and in no way responsible for my opinions or remarks.
It turns out that I will spend one more night here since I am due to come back for a short chemo session tomorrow. Back here on Friday for a routine dressing change using the fantastic Hydrofera Blue, a kind of fabric that starts out stiff and dry and is antimicrobial. They cut it to the size and shape of the wound and then cover that with this clear stuff called Tegaderm. That gets outlined with tape and we're ready to go. Fascinating stuff, right?
2010-02-15
The Sealing of the Paint Cans
February 15, 2006. It was the 46th day of the year with 319 left to go. It was to be another 46 days, April 2, the 92nd day of the year, with 273 left to go, until I would know a day as momentous as this one. It all began with a series of phone calls from Bill in Michigan to me in Connecticut while Mary, my wife was lying in the hospital in very bad shape.
It was only after I had definite assurances that Mary would be taken care of until my return that I finally agreed to drive the 700 miles from Stratford, Connecticut to Pontiac, Michigan. You're right, there is no way it is 700 miles, unless you take into consideration my perverse driving habits and turn north at Maumee instead of Toledo and perform a few other maneuvers that are simply incomprehensible unless you happen to occupy my mind.
It was not until the 13th of February that I left Connecticut and then only after many calls stating that Dad was not long for this world. Mary kept urging me to leave her in the hospital and get myself to Michigan, but she wanted me to stop at our usual place, the Budget Host Gold Eagle Inn in Brookville, PA, almost exactly halfway between each terminus of the trip. Great restaurant there run by the same family that owns the motel. I arrived there early enough in the day that I could easily have reached Pontiac early that evening, but Mary did not need further worry, so I stopped. Besides, there was something about the pickup that was bothering me.
I left for Michigan from St. Vincent's Medical Center in Bridgeport after saying goodbye to Mary. Heading north on Main Street, I turned onto the Merritt Parkway and lit out for the territory. Building up speed on the on-ramp, I noticed cars on the main road still going much faster than my truck and so brought my speed up accordingly. Looking down at the speedometer, I was surprised to see that it registered over 100 miles per hour. I knew that could not be right and so let up on the accelerator with, to my chagrin, no change in the speed registering on the speedometer. Once I got out into the flow of traffic and settled comfortably in the right lane, neither passing nor being passed, but just keeping up with the motoring public, I once again checked the speedometer to find that I was doing approximately 5 MPH. Quick study that I am, it took only seconds for me to say, "Speedometer's broken." Well, I still had the tachometer, the clock, the odometer and cruise control. Figuring 60 seconds for 60 miles per hour, I began doing timed miles and once I was within that 60-second range for several consecutive miles, I hit the cruise control and left it there until I got out of the 55 MPH area. It became easier once I hit western New Jersey and Pennsylvania since traffic was not so congested and there was less need to slow down. But more important is the fact that this speedometer incident gave me a chance to reflect on my relationship with my father, a relationship I insisted on making difficult for reasons still unknown.
Dad would have sat me down as soon as I arrived and would have diagnosed the problem with my truck in minutes as we drank coffee, while he sat at the head of the kitchen table and I sat to his left. Mary would have been to his right if this had been a normal trip. Years were wasted while I lived my life away from Michigan and while never drawing farther away from Dad, I never did grow any closer. Dad and I were strangers to one another even when I was a child. Dad was a gear head, a grease monkey, while I was a bookworm. Dad was an athlete (he played in the minor leagues for the St. Louis Cardinals) and I tripped over my own feet and still do. Dad had a practical common sense approach to things; I have always been a thinker of the very impractical sort. He always had a certain way of doing things and a reason that would back up his methods. There was a proper way to seal up paint cans, for example. It involved using the handle of a screw driver to tap the edges of the lid in a certain pattern that assured a good seal. No other way would do.
All these things seemed to matter no more once I took Mary to Michigan and introduced her to Dad. The two immediately fell in love with one another. He found another daughter while she found a father quite different from her own. Dad was quick to recognize Mary's intelligence and he was very proud of her, even though there was no blood tie there. You would have thought there was the way he treated her. Of course, Mary was a turning point in my life, she was the catalyst that helped to fire the change in me that allowed me to become a reasonably respectable person. He saw a change in me after Mary and I got together and he liked what he saw. It was now okay for me to be a bookworm; Mary added some sort of balance he recognized and of which he very definitely approved.
Dad was in and out of consciousness when I arrived on the 14th of February and I am sure I was able to get through to him enough for him to know I was there. He never asked about Mary but I am sure he would have if he had had strength. I am glad I did not have to answer any questions about her just then. There would have been no lying to him, but it would have been difficult to tell him just what was happening. I am sure he felt some sort of connection with her that allowed him to know what was going on. And speaking of which...
The paranormal, the occult and all that jazz do not impress me. I am sure there are spirits out there but I am just as sure they do not operate in any way that allows for human understanding; that is, I don't think they begin making rapping sounds or throwing jars against the wall or making clocks run backwards. I am sure these spirits do not cooperate with excitable "ghost chasers" who keep mugging into the video cameras on the various "reality" shows. All of this is to state what I witnessed with my six siblings.
Dad died on the evening of February 15, 2006. Almost immediately upon his death the seven of us heard coming from the basement the definite sound of someone sealing shut three or four paint cans. We all heard it and for the most part I never really have talked to anyone about it since it happened. I will say this, though. If Dad was going to have any final words, they would contain some practical advice, perhaps about how to cut your grass, put up a fence or some other project. Just as likely and just as important, though, he would tell you how to seal up your paint cans. After all, you don't want to sit there eating your arnj just to realize the one can of paint you need wasn't properly sealed and now is rarnt.
It was only after I had definite assurances that Mary would be taken care of until my return that I finally agreed to drive the 700 miles from Stratford, Connecticut to Pontiac, Michigan. You're right, there is no way it is 700 miles, unless you take into consideration my perverse driving habits and turn north at Maumee instead of Toledo and perform a few other maneuvers that are simply incomprehensible unless you happen to occupy my mind.
It was not until the 13th of February that I left Connecticut and then only after many calls stating that Dad was not long for this world. Mary kept urging me to leave her in the hospital and get myself to Michigan, but she wanted me to stop at our usual place, the Budget Host Gold Eagle Inn in Brookville, PA, almost exactly halfway between each terminus of the trip. Great restaurant there run by the same family that owns the motel. I arrived there early enough in the day that I could easily have reached Pontiac early that evening, but Mary did not need further worry, so I stopped. Besides, there was something about the pickup that was bothering me.
I left for Michigan from St. Vincent's Medical Center in Bridgeport after saying goodbye to Mary. Heading north on Main Street, I turned onto the Merritt Parkway and lit out for the territory. Building up speed on the on-ramp, I noticed cars on the main road still going much faster than my truck and so brought my speed up accordingly. Looking down at the speedometer, I was surprised to see that it registered over 100 miles per hour. I knew that could not be right and so let up on the accelerator with, to my chagrin, no change in the speed registering on the speedometer. Once I got out into the flow of traffic and settled comfortably in the right lane, neither passing nor being passed, but just keeping up with the motoring public, I once again checked the speedometer to find that I was doing approximately 5 MPH. Quick study that I am, it took only seconds for me to say, "Speedometer's broken." Well, I still had the tachometer, the clock, the odometer and cruise control. Figuring 60 seconds for 60 miles per hour, I began doing timed miles and once I was within that 60-second range for several consecutive miles, I hit the cruise control and left it there until I got out of the 55 MPH area. It became easier once I hit western New Jersey and Pennsylvania since traffic was not so congested and there was less need to slow down. But more important is the fact that this speedometer incident gave me a chance to reflect on my relationship with my father, a relationship I insisted on making difficult for reasons still unknown.
Dad would have sat me down as soon as I arrived and would have diagnosed the problem with my truck in minutes as we drank coffee, while he sat at the head of the kitchen table and I sat to his left. Mary would have been to his right if this had been a normal trip. Years were wasted while I lived my life away from Michigan and while never drawing farther away from Dad, I never did grow any closer. Dad and I were strangers to one another even when I was a child. Dad was a gear head, a grease monkey, while I was a bookworm. Dad was an athlete (he played in the minor leagues for the St. Louis Cardinals) and I tripped over my own feet and still do. Dad had a practical common sense approach to things; I have always been a thinker of the very impractical sort. He always had a certain way of doing things and a reason that would back up his methods. There was a proper way to seal up paint cans, for example. It involved using the handle of a screw driver to tap the edges of the lid in a certain pattern that assured a good seal. No other way would do.
All these things seemed to matter no more once I took Mary to Michigan and introduced her to Dad. The two immediately fell in love with one another. He found another daughter while she found a father quite different from her own. Dad was quick to recognize Mary's intelligence and he was very proud of her, even though there was no blood tie there. You would have thought there was the way he treated her. Of course, Mary was a turning point in my life, she was the catalyst that helped to fire the change in me that allowed me to become a reasonably respectable person. He saw a change in me after Mary and I got together and he liked what he saw. It was now okay for me to be a bookworm; Mary added some sort of balance he recognized and of which he very definitely approved.
Dad was in and out of consciousness when I arrived on the 14th of February and I am sure I was able to get through to him enough for him to know I was there. He never asked about Mary but I am sure he would have if he had had strength. I am glad I did not have to answer any questions about her just then. There would have been no lying to him, but it would have been difficult to tell him just what was happening. I am sure he felt some sort of connection with her that allowed him to know what was going on. And speaking of which...
The paranormal, the occult and all that jazz do not impress me. I am sure there are spirits out there but I am just as sure they do not operate in any way that allows for human understanding; that is, I don't think they begin making rapping sounds or throwing jars against the wall or making clocks run backwards. I am sure these spirits do not cooperate with excitable "ghost chasers" who keep mugging into the video cameras on the various "reality" shows. All of this is to state what I witnessed with my six siblings.
Dad died on the evening of February 15, 2006. Almost immediately upon his death the seven of us heard coming from the basement the definite sound of someone sealing shut three or four paint cans. We all heard it and for the most part I never really have talked to anyone about it since it happened. I will say this, though. If Dad was going to have any final words, they would contain some practical advice, perhaps about how to cut your grass, put up a fence or some other project. Just as likely and just as important, though, he would tell you how to seal up your paint cans. After all, you don't want to sit there eating your arnj just to realize the one can of paint you need wasn't properly sealed and now is rarnt.
2010-02-14
Be careful what you wish for
For some reason, I have been thinking about the silly asses of the European Union and their attempt to ignore the part religion has played in the history of that continent. They are not the only ones who attempt to either rewrite or ignore historical truth.
For all the secularists out there who are about to celebrate what has commonly come to be called, "Valentine's Day," rest assured that the original "St. Valentine's Day," owes its name more to Chaucer than to the martyrologies of the Catholic Church. Check out the Canterbury Tales, especially the "Parliament of the Fowles" for more on the mating habits of the birds. There are at least three Valentines in the martyrologies, all of whom have their feast days on February 14. There is no certain connection between any of the Valentines and the ideal of romantic love. But there it is, no matter how loose the connection.
I laugh when I hear of the various political subdivisions of our nation attempting to scrub away any religious reference to their locales. One such happened out in California in either the City or County of Los Angeles. The uproar there had to do with the cross on the government emblem. It had been there for years bothering no one when all of a sudden somebody noticed it and the thing had to be got rid of, as it was in very short order. So, what do you do with the name of the city? It is named for, "Our Lady, Queen of the Angels." That's the shortened translation from the original, anyway. Up to the north, the state capitol of Sacramento was named for the Holy Eucharist. You might take a notion to visit, "The Royal City of the Holy Faith of Saint Francis of Assisi," or, in its more common form, Santa Fe. If the secularists had their way, we would be busy renaming large portions of this country for years to come. Closer examination of our March celebration might bring us closer to the altar rail than to the bar rail if we properly honored St. Patrick on his feast day. Or it might, for the sake of secular consistency be done away with altogether.
The fact is religion has played a part in the history of the world no matter how you look at it. It is time to note something I feel is quite interesting and which has more to do with book cataloging than with religion in particular. Bear with me. The Dewey Decimal System for cataloging books has been in place for well over a century and its purpose is to give every book its proper place in the library's collection of knowledge. This must be done in some sort of order and so it is with the Dewey system. All man's knowledge can be filed in this system and it is done so from the most elementary to the most complex. Beginning with the 000 - 099 numbers are filed what are called "Generalities," that is, general knowledge. Books with 100 - 199 form divisions deal with philosophy. The very next division - 200 - 299 - contains works on religion. That is to say that among the most basic concepts in all man's knowledge, religion comes in nearly first once you get rid of generalities and then proceed through philosophy. It is almost as though the system says that all knowledge begins with philosophy which leads directly into religion. All the rest comes later.
Get that last bit straight and you cannot go wrong. Ignore or reject it and miss out on all the fun.
For all the secularists out there who are about to celebrate what has commonly come to be called, "Valentine's Day," rest assured that the original "St. Valentine's Day," owes its name more to Chaucer than to the martyrologies of the Catholic Church. Check out the Canterbury Tales, especially the "Parliament of the Fowles" for more on the mating habits of the birds. There are at least three Valentines in the martyrologies, all of whom have their feast days on February 14. There is no certain connection between any of the Valentines and the ideal of romantic love. But there it is, no matter how loose the connection.
I laugh when I hear of the various political subdivisions of our nation attempting to scrub away any religious reference to their locales. One such happened out in California in either the City or County of Los Angeles. The uproar there had to do with the cross on the government emblem. It had been there for years bothering no one when all of a sudden somebody noticed it and the thing had to be got rid of, as it was in very short order. So, what do you do with the name of the city? It is named for, "Our Lady, Queen of the Angels." That's the shortened translation from the original, anyway. Up to the north, the state capitol of Sacramento was named for the Holy Eucharist. You might take a notion to visit, "The Royal City of the Holy Faith of Saint Francis of Assisi," or, in its more common form, Santa Fe. If the secularists had their way, we would be busy renaming large portions of this country for years to come. Closer examination of our March celebration might bring us closer to the altar rail than to the bar rail if we properly honored St. Patrick on his feast day. Or it might, for the sake of secular consistency be done away with altogether.
The fact is religion has played a part in the history of the world no matter how you look at it. It is time to note something I feel is quite interesting and which has more to do with book cataloging than with religion in particular. Bear with me. The Dewey Decimal System for cataloging books has been in place for well over a century and its purpose is to give every book its proper place in the library's collection of knowledge. This must be done in some sort of order and so it is with the Dewey system. All man's knowledge can be filed in this system and it is done so from the most elementary to the most complex. Beginning with the 000 - 099 numbers are filed what are called "Generalities," that is, general knowledge. Books with 100 - 199 form divisions deal with philosophy. The very next division - 200 - 299 - contains works on religion. That is to say that among the most basic concepts in all man's knowledge, religion comes in nearly first once you get rid of generalities and then proceed through philosophy. It is almost as though the system says that all knowledge begins with philosophy which leads directly into religion. All the rest comes later.
Get that last bit straight and you cannot go wrong. Ignore or reject it and miss out on all the fun.
2010-02-13
Hot Times on Saturday
Here it is, Saturday morning, nearly 11:00 and I have been up since 5:00. Spoke to a friend out in Indiana and had a visit from Grant, one half of Charlotte and Grant from Stratford. Grant came bearing gifts in the guise of pastries and coffee. He also brought finger and toenail clippers I requested since mine were thrown out along with my pants in the aftermath of the bowel unpleasantness of a few days ago.
More on that friend from Indiana. This is a friend who goes above and beyond the call of duty. She is helping me to retrieve some property of mine that has been held in benign neglect by an agency that long ago should have cooperated with me to get the stuff here to Connecticut. Melinda is a good friend.
It is with some sense of purpose and accomplishment that I announce the ordering of my brand new electric razor through Amazon. Sheila has been kind enough to do this for me. I asked her to go ahead and order it using next day delivery if it came in under a certain amount. The fact that I need this thing as soon as possible is reflected in the additional fact that I am giving serious consideration to cutting off my moustache. Any facial hair right now is simply a gathering place for dried blood, dirt and anything else you can imagine. With only one brief period of about a month, this moustache has been with me for over four decades. It will be strange to not have it.
Saturday has pretty much come and gone with my not getting much of anything done at all. What do I have to get done? I am in the hospital. Well, I could have read more but failed to do that. Stared out the window a lot and thought about my return to my temporary residence with some fear and trepidation.
Despite promises to the contrary, there are no personnel, nursing or otherwise, over at the Temporary Residential Program, where I reside, who can handle my situation, especially if it grows to the proportions it did the other day. If the double-ended purge, as I have come to call it, had occured at TRP rather than here, I would have been out on the street before I even got started. Not an especially great prospect to look forward to. The people there are nice enough and do their assigned jobs very well. It was the nurse who interviewed me who told me all these services would be available when in fact they are not. Of course, the interviewing nurse never is seen upstairs where she eventually sends people. She is selling a product the nature of which she has no idea.
My new roomie is a decent enough person who is sick to the point of frustration. He is not used to being sick or to having people take care of him. It is difficult for him to talk due to breathing problems, so I do not even try to engage him in conversation. I just wish him well and say hello whenever I pass his bed. His name is Charlie, so say a prayer for him if you want to. I do.
More on that friend from Indiana. This is a friend who goes above and beyond the call of duty. She is helping me to retrieve some property of mine that has been held in benign neglect by an agency that long ago should have cooperated with me to get the stuff here to Connecticut. Melinda is a good friend.
It is with some sense of purpose and accomplishment that I announce the ordering of my brand new electric razor through Amazon. Sheila has been kind enough to do this for me. I asked her to go ahead and order it using next day delivery if it came in under a certain amount. The fact that I need this thing as soon as possible is reflected in the additional fact that I am giving serious consideration to cutting off my moustache. Any facial hair right now is simply a gathering place for dried blood, dirt and anything else you can imagine. With only one brief period of about a month, this moustache has been with me for over four decades. It will be strange to not have it.
Saturday has pretty much come and gone with my not getting much of anything done at all. What do I have to get done? I am in the hospital. Well, I could have read more but failed to do that. Stared out the window a lot and thought about my return to my temporary residence with some fear and trepidation.
Despite promises to the contrary, there are no personnel, nursing or otherwise, over at the Temporary Residential Program, where I reside, who can handle my situation, especially if it grows to the proportions it did the other day. If the double-ended purge, as I have come to call it, had occured at TRP rather than here, I would have been out on the street before I even got started. Not an especially great prospect to look forward to. The people there are nice enough and do their assigned jobs very well. It was the nurse who interviewed me who told me all these services would be available when in fact they are not. Of course, the interviewing nurse never is seen upstairs where she eventually sends people. She is selling a product the nature of which she has no idea.
My new roomie is a decent enough person who is sick to the point of frustration. He is not used to being sick or to having people take care of him. It is difficult for him to talk due to breathing problems, so I do not even try to engage him in conversation. I just wish him well and say hello whenever I pass his bed. His name is Charlie, so say a prayer for him if you want to. I do.
2010-02-12
Shaving Habits Must Change
Friday on the cancer ward and we all look forward to a lovely weekend when, as far as time goes, things slow down from the speed of the sedated sloth to the glacial crawl of the clock. But there is a project afoot that may take up a good portion of the weekend and bring the perceived clock speed up to that of, say, traveling behind an indecisive senior citizen trying to decide whose turn it is at a four-way stop sign. I need to buy a razor.
When I say I need to buy a razor, it comes down to two simple choices, electric or manual. Since my choice here is predicated upon the side effects of the chemotherapeutical agents, I probably should be heading over to the electric razor aisle at about this point. My skin, especially on the face, is beginning to crack and bleed once again, so a manual blade razor seems a poor choice, especially given the constant tremors in my hands. Actually, without even looking at the razor, my face looks like someone has been trying out their birdshot on it. Further checking with the doctor on this subject may be advisable even though all the "consumer" literature (when did I become a consumer as opposed to a patient?) says electric razors are the way to go.
When I say I need to buy a razor, I most likely have no idea what I am talking about, especially if I pay attention to the marketing put out by the various manufacturers of such equipment. No, I do not expect to be let go with a simple purchase; I will need to be educated in what are called, "men's grooming" products, which cover God only knows what manner of strange appliances and devices, some of which appear to be giving a sly wink to the vaguely erotic. And I have seen some ads on the television that suggest the electric razors of one sort or another will have scantily-clad women about a third my age wantonly draping themselves all over me. I can barely take care of myself right now. At this point I have no idea what I would do with a woman of any age, scantily-clad or otherwise.
Getting on to the web sites to look for information for the various electric models is easy enough, once I figure out that I am not looking for an electric razor or an electric shaver, but am looking for something in the line of men's grooming essentials. It is all in the wording and in this case the marketers are in control. Once you realize you are looking for something called a grooming essential, you must decide on rotary or foil. Now we have to define terms again. What is rotary and what is foil? The pictures do help. The rotarys all seem to have three cutting surfaces as opposed to the one displayed by the foil models. Why not trihead and unihead? Those prefixes might make it too easy to figure, thus reducing the mystagogic nature of this selection. We are about to enter into, after all, someone's holy of holies.
The essentials dispensed with, not much is left but basic comparison shopping and it's barely lunch time late on Friday morning. It's going to be a long weekend.
When I say I need to buy a razor, it comes down to two simple choices, electric or manual. Since my choice here is predicated upon the side effects of the chemotherapeutical agents, I probably should be heading over to the electric razor aisle at about this point. My skin, especially on the face, is beginning to crack and bleed once again, so a manual blade razor seems a poor choice, especially given the constant tremors in my hands. Actually, without even looking at the razor, my face looks like someone has been trying out their birdshot on it. Further checking with the doctor on this subject may be advisable even though all the "consumer" literature (when did I become a consumer as opposed to a patient?) says electric razors are the way to go.
When I say I need to buy a razor, I most likely have no idea what I am talking about, especially if I pay attention to the marketing put out by the various manufacturers of such equipment. No, I do not expect to be let go with a simple purchase; I will need to be educated in what are called, "men's grooming" products, which cover God only knows what manner of strange appliances and devices, some of which appear to be giving a sly wink to the vaguely erotic. And I have seen some ads on the television that suggest the electric razors of one sort or another will have scantily-clad women about a third my age wantonly draping themselves all over me. I can barely take care of myself right now. At this point I have no idea what I would do with a woman of any age, scantily-clad or otherwise.
Getting on to the web sites to look for information for the various electric models is easy enough, once I figure out that I am not looking for an electric razor or an electric shaver, but am looking for something in the line of men's grooming essentials. It is all in the wording and in this case the marketers are in control. Once you realize you are looking for something called a grooming essential, you must decide on rotary or foil. Now we have to define terms again. What is rotary and what is foil? The pictures do help. The rotarys all seem to have three cutting surfaces as opposed to the one displayed by the foil models. Why not trihead and unihead? Those prefixes might make it too easy to figure, thus reducing the mystagogic nature of this selection. We are about to enter into, after all, someone's holy of holies.
The essentials dispensed with, not much is left but basic comparison shopping and it's barely lunch time late on Friday morning. It's going to be a long weekend.
2010-02-11
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
"No good deed goes unpunished," is one of those quotes the origin of which no one seems to be certain, but whose veracity can be proven in countless anecdotes from across the spectrum of human experience. Across the face of the globe there are hosts of do-gooders who bear the scars of what seem to be seemingly and completely unrelated causes. Well, then. It all began in a place not far from here, at about 3:00 a.m.
A nurse with something on her mind came by my room. What it was she had on her mind was rather a simple request and not that important to my mind. Of course, that small arms training John Wilkes Booth took bore no particular impression on anyone's mind at the time, either.
The request was that I give up my private room for a semi-private one. It is a measure of the treatment received by the nurses here that I immediately asked where they wanted me and when. If asked to do something here I never question; just doing it is all that is required as far as I am concerned. Or, in other words, there is nothing I would not do for these nurses.
This particular request, coming as it did at 3:00 a.m., seemed to bear some urgency, which my movements reflected. I was ready in minutes and spent the bulk of the next hour sitting in the visitors' lounge. Sitting in that lounge gave me time to think and to hope. Imagine you are on the cancer wing of a hospital, it is 3:00 a.m., and you have just been asked to trade off your ideal room for a room that could prove to be less than ideal. Where, exactly, would your mind wander off to? Lots of answers to that question. Not one of them makes much sense in the larger scheme of things. There is an answer that makes perfect sense and that is my acquisition of Bed #2 or, as I like to call it, the window seat. My mind was absolutely focused on Bed #2. Bed #2 had to be open and then all would be well. In this hospital, all Bed 1 assignments are next to the door while all Bed 2 assignments are next to the window. All I was asking for was a window seat on this flight. I prayed for that bed to be mine; yet, as I used to remind the sixth-graders in my religious education class on Thursday evenings (okay, kids, now that you can conjugate "smite," we are ready to begin), God sometimes will answer our prayers by issuing a loud and definitive, "No." God was in one of his negative moods the other day.
So, there I am, in Bed #1, wondering if I could survive long enough to displace the pretender currently in Bed #2 and then be able to make the move to the window seat. Assassination seems a bit premature, even though the next ides are not that far off. But then...It was meant to be! The interloper has gone home and I am in the window seat. He may have seen my lean and hungry look and decided to vacate the throne before being brought before my forum of justice.
Ensconced at last in my throne overlooking the mighty hub that used to be Bridgeport (Arsenal of Democracy, etc., etc.) I gloat over my rise to power in such rapid and easy fashion. I am at the pinnacle of my preening and pride when a voice carries down the hall and insinuates itself into my ear canal. A silent scream utters, inside my tortured brain, and its cause is the voice of a man who has shared a room with me on three previous occasions, none of which was pleasant. The person in question is called Ted. He shows up here every two weeks or so for chemo.
On each of the three occasions I have shared a room with Ted, he has managed to alienate the nurses and everyone else within hearing range. He is loud, vulgar, crude, rude, overbearing, physically a slob and just not a nice person. In short, Ted is an asshole of the first degree. I have been witness to his pill-hurling fits of anger, his rages when he calls the nurses every name in the book, questions their abilities and barks orders to one and all. My practice always has been to keep quiet simply because if I opened up on him, an argument, the volume of which would soon get out of all control, would ensue. Besides, I really do not think Ted would want to keep it verbal and I might be forced to validate his judgment and kick his ass so hard, his grandchildren would gave to blow their noses in order to fart.
Who says we no longer live in the age of miracles? Ted left today after a stay of less than 48 hours. That must have to due with the new infusion center here where the bulk of his work may have been done, making his stay with me blessedly short. Someone give my a round or two of the Hallelujah Chorus or the Ode to Joy, rinse, lather and repeat.
A nurse with something on her mind came by my room. What it was she had on her mind was rather a simple request and not that important to my mind. Of course, that small arms training John Wilkes Booth took bore no particular impression on anyone's mind at the time, either.
The request was that I give up my private room for a semi-private one. It is a measure of the treatment received by the nurses here that I immediately asked where they wanted me and when. If asked to do something here I never question; just doing it is all that is required as far as I am concerned. Or, in other words, there is nothing I would not do for these nurses.
This particular request, coming as it did at 3:00 a.m., seemed to bear some urgency, which my movements reflected. I was ready in minutes and spent the bulk of the next hour sitting in the visitors' lounge. Sitting in that lounge gave me time to think and to hope. Imagine you are on the cancer wing of a hospital, it is 3:00 a.m., and you have just been asked to trade off your ideal room for a room that could prove to be less than ideal. Where, exactly, would your mind wander off to? Lots of answers to that question. Not one of them makes much sense in the larger scheme of things. There is an answer that makes perfect sense and that is my acquisition of Bed #2 or, as I like to call it, the window seat. My mind was absolutely focused on Bed #2. Bed #2 had to be open and then all would be well. In this hospital, all Bed 1 assignments are next to the door while all Bed 2 assignments are next to the window. All I was asking for was a window seat on this flight. I prayed for that bed to be mine; yet, as I used to remind the sixth-graders in my religious education class on Thursday evenings (okay, kids, now that you can conjugate "smite," we are ready to begin), God sometimes will answer our prayers by issuing a loud and definitive, "No." God was in one of his negative moods the other day.
So, there I am, in Bed #1, wondering if I could survive long enough to displace the pretender currently in Bed #2 and then be able to make the move to the window seat. Assassination seems a bit premature, even though the next ides are not that far off. But then...It was meant to be! The interloper has gone home and I am in the window seat. He may have seen my lean and hungry look and decided to vacate the throne before being brought before my forum of justice.
Ensconced at last in my throne overlooking the mighty hub that used to be Bridgeport (Arsenal of Democracy, etc., etc.) I gloat over my rise to power in such rapid and easy fashion. I am at the pinnacle of my preening and pride when a voice carries down the hall and insinuates itself into my ear canal. A silent scream utters, inside my tortured brain, and its cause is the voice of a man who has shared a room with me on three previous occasions, none of which was pleasant. The person in question is called Ted. He shows up here every two weeks or so for chemo.
On each of the three occasions I have shared a room with Ted, he has managed to alienate the nurses and everyone else within hearing range. He is loud, vulgar, crude, rude, overbearing, physically a slob and just not a nice person. In short, Ted is an asshole of the first degree. I have been witness to his pill-hurling fits of anger, his rages when he calls the nurses every name in the book, questions their abilities and barks orders to one and all. My practice always has been to keep quiet simply because if I opened up on him, an argument, the volume of which would soon get out of all control, would ensue. Besides, I really do not think Ted would want to keep it verbal and I might be forced to validate his judgment and kick his ass so hard, his grandchildren would gave to blow their noses in order to fart.
Who says we no longer live in the age of miracles? Ted left today after a stay of less than 48 hours. That must have to due with the new infusion center here where the bulk of his work may have been done, making his stay with me blessedly short. Someone give my a round or two of the Hallelujah Chorus or the Ode to Joy, rinse, lather and repeat.
Side Effects
SIDE EFFECTS
Is it February 11 already? Let us review. We shall do that by heading on over to side effects.
Well, a couple of days were lost due to the vaunted side effects of chemotherapy deciding to make their grand entrance all at once. Due to the severity of the side effects, several tests need to be run.
Side effects include, but are not limited to, constipation, nausea, light-headedness (more than my normal light-headed state), and a combination of the first two. The combination makes for an interesting pressure situation in which it feels as though one's abdomen is being inflated beyond the legally mandated maximum. After an initial, abortive attempt at trying to make my way from the bathroom to the bed, the nurses would not allow me to stand on my own, not that I wanted to at that point. The old head was spinning at about 50,000 rpm on a wobbly axis.
And it gets uglier but the details are not something that need be gone in to now or in the future. However, I am sure that there is some sick someone out there who would pay money for pictures of the aftermath.
The pain was not bad at first, but it did increase. The increase was marked by the need for two shots of morphine, one at 8 mg followed by one of 2.5 mg about 25 minutes later. It is difficult to describe the pain, except to say that it was a sharp cramp whose intermittent nature was not intermittent enough. Next come all the tests, some of which cannot be run through the port but require a second site access for blood sampling. Especially looked for would be any infection, so they run every manner of examination.
The tests that need to be run include kidney function and a remote heart monitor for 24 hours. There also are the complete blood counts and electrolyte tests. None of this is very detailed, but it is as detailed as I can get through the fog of this chemo hangover. As a survivor of more than my share of major league caliber hangovers of an alcoholic nature, I can assure you, drunks get off lightly when it comes to the cure for a booze-induced hangover. You simply get some more booze or you sleep it off. Now, with a chemo hangover, asking for another shot of Platinum 5FU is quite likely the shortest and quickest route to the loony bin. I'll pass on that trip for now.
Is it February 11 already? Let us review. We shall do that by heading on over to side effects.
Well, a couple of days were lost due to the vaunted side effects of chemotherapy deciding to make their grand entrance all at once. Due to the severity of the side effects, several tests need to be run.
Side effects include, but are not limited to, constipation, nausea, light-headedness (more than my normal light-headed state), and a combination of the first two. The combination makes for an interesting pressure situation in which it feels as though one's abdomen is being inflated beyond the legally mandated maximum. After an initial, abortive attempt at trying to make my way from the bathroom to the bed, the nurses would not allow me to stand on my own, not that I wanted to at that point. The old head was spinning at about 50,000 rpm on a wobbly axis.
And it gets uglier but the details are not something that need be gone in to now or in the future. However, I am sure that there is some sick someone out there who would pay money for pictures of the aftermath.
The pain was not bad at first, but it did increase. The increase was marked by the need for two shots of morphine, one at 8 mg followed by one of 2.5 mg about 25 minutes later. It is difficult to describe the pain, except to say that it was a sharp cramp whose intermittent nature was not intermittent enough. Next come all the tests, some of which cannot be run through the port but require a second site access for blood sampling. Especially looked for would be any infection, so they run every manner of examination.
The tests that need to be run include kidney function and a remote heart monitor for 24 hours. There also are the complete blood counts and electrolyte tests. None of this is very detailed, but it is as detailed as I can get through the fog of this chemo hangover. As a survivor of more than my share of major league caliber hangovers of an alcoholic nature, I can assure you, drunks get off lightly when it comes to the cure for a booze-induced hangover. You simply get some more booze or you sleep it off. Now, with a chemo hangover, asking for another shot of Platinum 5FU is quite likely the shortest and quickest route to the loony bin. I'll pass on that trip for now.
2010-02-10
Port side is on the left (LCW - Left Chest Wall)
Here it is, the 9th of February, and I see that I missed yesterday's entry. The meaningless title of this entry should bear some witness to my mental condition brought on by two days' worth of physical anguish so bad it would take an effort by Dante to describe it.
Well, yesterday was sort of a blur of the various side-effects one so often associates with chemotherapy. Nausea, described by someone other than myself as, "the technicolor yawn," was not in short supply. This is interesting in that there had been no real food ingested for at least 24 hours prior to the first performance (followed by many an encore). Medication in pill form is just about useless since there is no selectivity in the mechanism that wants to get rid of anything. Thus, we are left to medicine that can be entered through the port or, in the more interesting of cases, through a large muscle. I leave it to imaginations better than mine to further describe the muscle in question.
It has been some time since I wrote that last paragraph and the nausea situation improved after a shot of anti-nausea stuff through the port. I have had since then two pieces of toast with the daring addition of what passes for butter in a health care institution.
The man who caused my sudden removal from my private room died yesterday and his daughter came to tell me and to thank me for giving my bed to her father. What else was I supposed to do? Here is what happened.
At about 3:00 a.m., one of the nurses came to my room and told me a patient had an aneurysm that had popped and that he could last for hours or he could last for days. The problem lay in the size of his family who turned out to be numerous. The question was whether I would give up my room for the convenience of this family who were about the lose one of its members. At that point, how do you negotiate? You simply do what needs to be done. It took about an hour for the move to be finalized, during which time I sat in the visitors' lounge where I met this man's daughter. Naturally uspset, she managed to attempt some conversation and began thanking me. I told her not to think of it but to think of her father and her family. I would have talked to her the rest of the night but it simply seemed to me she needed some time either alone or with her family members. She did mention that her father seemed to respond with hand squeezes to familiar voices. That is when I told her about my idea that hearing is the last of the functions to go and that talking was one of the best things to do in a case such as hers. She appreciated what I had to say and listened with some interest to my experience with Mary in her last hours.
It was good to do something for someone, especially when I was in no position to look out for myself.
Well, yesterday was sort of a blur of the various side-effects one so often associates with chemotherapy. Nausea, described by someone other than myself as, "the technicolor yawn," was not in short supply. This is interesting in that there had been no real food ingested for at least 24 hours prior to the first performance (followed by many an encore). Medication in pill form is just about useless since there is no selectivity in the mechanism that wants to get rid of anything. Thus, we are left to medicine that can be entered through the port or, in the more interesting of cases, through a large muscle. I leave it to imaginations better than mine to further describe the muscle in question.
It has been some time since I wrote that last paragraph and the nausea situation improved after a shot of anti-nausea stuff through the port. I have had since then two pieces of toast with the daring addition of what passes for butter in a health care institution.
The man who caused my sudden removal from my private room died yesterday and his daughter came to tell me and to thank me for giving my bed to her father. What else was I supposed to do? Here is what happened.
At about 3:00 a.m., one of the nurses came to my room and told me a patient had an aneurysm that had popped and that he could last for hours or he could last for days. The problem lay in the size of his family who turned out to be numerous. The question was whether I would give up my room for the convenience of this family who were about the lose one of its members. At that point, how do you negotiate? You simply do what needs to be done. It took about an hour for the move to be finalized, during which time I sat in the visitors' lounge where I met this man's daughter. Naturally uspset, she managed to attempt some conversation and began thanking me. I told her not to think of it but to think of her father and her family. I would have talked to her the rest of the night but it simply seemed to me she needed some time either alone or with her family members. She did mention that her father seemed to respond with hand squeezes to familiar voices. That is when I told her about my idea that hearing is the last of the functions to go and that talking was one of the best things to do in a case such as hers. She appreciated what I had to say and listened with some interest to my experience with Mary in her last hours.
It was good to do something for someone, especially when I was in no position to look out for myself.
2010-02-07
The Real Deal on My Cancer
Here is the real deal on my cancer:
Once cancer has gone to the lymph nodes, it is pretty much in what is called Stage IV. This is not as alarming as it sounds. What needs to be taken into account is what is called the tumor burden; i.e., how much spread there has been. Given my case, the spread appears at this point to have gone no farther than the lymph nodes and, although there are several (don't know an exact number at this point) nodes affected, the important thing to remember is that the cancer has shown no evidence of spreading beyond that point.
I am being treated with Erbetux (weekly) and Platinum 5FU every 3-4 weeks. It is the Platinum 5FU that takes the 96 hours. The fact that I stay in the hospital longer than 96 hours has to do with the fact that kidney function and magnesium levels need to be watched very closely. Since my living and travel arrangements are not optimal, the doctor feels that it is worth it to keep me here a couple extra days whenever I have the Platinum 5FU treatment. I am not going to argue that point with him.
Since this is my first Platinum 5FU (I just love putting that 5FU suffix in there), I will not venture to say anything about side effects. Anything I could tell you would be more adequately covered by looking up on your search engine of choice, Cisplatin. Most of the material I have found does not cover my particular type of cancer, but the doctor has told me that there is relatively new evidence of this stuff work in squamous cell carcinoma, which is my particular type of cancer.
My mental health status has not been the best as of lately. I have been leaning way over toward the depressed side with some episodes of mania which tend to manifest themselves in speed talking sessions in which I talk and talk, going from one subject to the next, all of which culminates in my completely running out of things to say. Then it is back to the more familiar depression. I am being treated for this, but it, like cancer itself, can be described primarily as an annoyance.
I Give Up Sanity for Lent
With a mere 10 days to go before Ash Wednesday, thoughts should already have been turned to what we will be giving up for Lent. Since yesterday's entry fell somewhat short of the 500-word minimum I have set as a daily goal, it seems logical to start there and give up writing for Lent. Somehow, though, this just does not seem to be honest or even logical. The writing is what is supposed to get me out of isolation mode and back into some semblance of normal daily social intercourse with people around me.
I still find it difficult to verbally communicate unless it is on a humorous level. The problem there is that I go from one subject to the next in a manic mode that allows me to make these verbal leaps and bounds that leave my listeners wondering just what it is I am trying to say. Among the dangers in this type of communication is the fact that I often find myself choking in my own dust as I head down the old conversational dirt road, wondering how I got so far behind myself while that other part of me is way up ahead, yakking on and on. Finally catching up to myself, it nearly always comes down to being embarrassed at not knowing what subject had started this entire stream of verbiage, strung out like so much litter along the road behind me, scraps of which can be seen caught in the weeds of the drainage ditch or stuck by the wind to my listener's pant leg.
There are times when I can pull it all back together but not until after I have spent an awkward period of silence, self-consciously gathering up all the loose pieces of thought, trying to fit all the litter into my brain for sorting. This is not as easy as it seems. Mary once told me that I have all these thoughts, words, phrases and ideas in my brain. She told me that between my brain and my mouth there should be a filter, but there are many times when the filter is missing. In short, this brain is loaded and is liable to go off at any time. Upon firing its load, this brain tries to find the lighter side of just about anything. Levity can be a great medicine but there are times when its use is contraindicated. It is differentiating between proper and improper times for its use that has me seeking an alternative means of communication. This is when the trouble begins.
Speaking of the weather is no good simply because nothing can be done about it. Sports hold no interest for me. I do manage to hold up my end of the converstion when it comes to freshwater fishing, but am living next to a fairly large body of saltwater. People around here do no go in much for freshwater fishing. I know nothing about cars. In short, when it comes to talking about what are supposed to be, "man topics," I am left far, far behind and usually keep very quiet, trying not to look lost and stupid. With the exception noted, all else simply is depressing and can put my mind in a downward spiral that rapidly picks up speed and goes out of control. Then it is time to leave for some "me" time or a nap, which amounts to about the same thing. Either way, I am back to isolation mode.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that I shall be giving up sanity for Lent. Just seems to be the best way to handle it. No fuss, no muss, no real change is required. God will get me for this one some day. Pray for me.
I still find it difficult to verbally communicate unless it is on a humorous level. The problem there is that I go from one subject to the next in a manic mode that allows me to make these verbal leaps and bounds that leave my listeners wondering just what it is I am trying to say. Among the dangers in this type of communication is the fact that I often find myself choking in my own dust as I head down the old conversational dirt road, wondering how I got so far behind myself while that other part of me is way up ahead, yakking on and on. Finally catching up to myself, it nearly always comes down to being embarrassed at not knowing what subject had started this entire stream of verbiage, strung out like so much litter along the road behind me, scraps of which can be seen caught in the weeds of the drainage ditch or stuck by the wind to my listener's pant leg.
There are times when I can pull it all back together but not until after I have spent an awkward period of silence, self-consciously gathering up all the loose pieces of thought, trying to fit all the litter into my brain for sorting. This is not as easy as it seems. Mary once told me that I have all these thoughts, words, phrases and ideas in my brain. She told me that between my brain and my mouth there should be a filter, but there are many times when the filter is missing. In short, this brain is loaded and is liable to go off at any time. Upon firing its load, this brain tries to find the lighter side of just about anything. Levity can be a great medicine but there are times when its use is contraindicated. It is differentiating between proper and improper times for its use that has me seeking an alternative means of communication. This is when the trouble begins.
Speaking of the weather is no good simply because nothing can be done about it. Sports hold no interest for me. I do manage to hold up my end of the converstion when it comes to freshwater fishing, but am living next to a fairly large body of saltwater. People around here do no go in much for freshwater fishing. I know nothing about cars. In short, when it comes to talking about what are supposed to be, "man topics," I am left far, far behind and usually keep very quiet, trying not to look lost and stupid. With the exception noted, all else simply is depressing and can put my mind in a downward spiral that rapidly picks up speed and goes out of control. Then it is time to leave for some "me" time or a nap, which amounts to about the same thing. Either way, I am back to isolation mode.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that I shall be giving up sanity for Lent. Just seems to be the best way to handle it. No fuss, no muss, no real change is required. God will get me for this one some day. Pray for me.
2010-02-06
The Bipolar Manic Depressive Mood Swinging Blues
I used to write an online mental health column for Continuing Medical Education, Inc. out in Irvine, California, home of the UC-Irvine Anteaters. The site I wrote for was called, "The Write Brain," and my particular column was called, "Marginalia" The site was taken down after a couple of years. Although CME was kind enough to send me a CD of two years' worth or my work, I managed to lose the disc without too much effort. I am trying to reconstruct in my muddled mind some of the stuff that struck me as pretty good. There is not much that will come back to me in anything like the original, but I will get as close as I can.
What appears below is a first attempt at writing lyrics. The original was much better, believe me.
The Bipolar Manic Depressive Mood Swinging Blues
Copyright 2010 Marcus W. Koechig
Woke up in the rubber room
They got me in restraints.
I woke up in the rubber room
With those old four-point restraints
And you know that I got that feeling
Like I'm somebody I damn well know I ain’t.
CHORUS:
I got the blues (bi-polar blues)
I got the blues (bi-polar blues)
You know I’m manic-depressive
How the hell can I express it?
I got the bipolar manic depressive mood swinging blues
Norepinephrin is pounding in my brain
Serotonin’s at flood stage, see why I complain
Norepinephrin a-pounding, serotonin’s running away
My mind’s a toxic dump
Somebody call the EPA
CHORUS
My friends all tell me I’m in real good company
They say there’s lots of writers that’s got ‘em just like me
But am I Franz Kafka, am I Voltaire, tell me who
I’ll be anybody, just don’t say I’m Albert Camus
CHORUS
2010-02-05
Belated Thank You
Dear Bill,
It's been over 20 years and I don't think I ever properly thanked you for loading Dad into the car and escorting him from Michigan to Connecticut, via Cooperstown, for our wedding. This is one of my best memories of all time. I remember the two of you entering the mailroom at Cook's Magazine where I was "Mail Services Supervisor," a title I had been given in lieu of a raise in that one-man operation. (To be fair, they did put my name on the masthead for the few issues that remained. And I got a box of business cards. I could have used the raise but them business cards shore wuz purty.)
There had been some mix-up at the hotel and, even though the two of you had had a long drive, I remember Dad still beaming from his time at Cooperstown. You might have been a little more than tense, but didn't let it show; this weekend belonged to Mary and me and you were not going to let anything mar it, least of all trouble at a hotel. What went on behind the scenes you never mentioned but you got it all worked out because the three of us spent the night of Thursday, July 27, 1989 there. Not much of a bachelor party, but the thought of Mary being my wife in 24 hours or less was bachelor party enough for me. Back to Dad.
The time finally came when Debi and Edna, both from Cook's, had everything set up and people were beginning to mill about under the tree closest to the house in Mary's back yard. Just prior to this, I noticed Dad standing by himself and I went over to check on him. The only way Mary's youngest daughter, Sheila, was able to make it to the wedding and to a performance of a play she was in that night was to come in costume. The wonder that lit up his eyes and caused him to grin widely as he asked, "Who is that woman and what is she going to be doing here," was Sheila dressed for her part in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum." She was cast as "Tintinabula, the belly dancer." Everyone was happy Sheila had found a way to make it to the wedding, especially Dad.
It's been over 20 years and I don't think I ever properly thanked you for loading Dad into the car and escorting him from Michigan to Connecticut, via Cooperstown, for our wedding. This is one of my best memories of all time. I remember the two of you entering the mailroom at Cook's Magazine where I was "Mail Services Supervisor," a title I had been given in lieu of a raise in that one-man operation. (To be fair, they did put my name on the masthead for the few issues that remained. And I got a box of business cards. I could have used the raise but them business cards shore wuz purty.)
There had been some mix-up at the hotel and, even though the two of you had had a long drive, I remember Dad still beaming from his time at Cooperstown. You might have been a little more than tense, but didn't let it show; this weekend belonged to Mary and me and you were not going to let anything mar it, least of all trouble at a hotel. What went on behind the scenes you never mentioned but you got it all worked out because the three of us spent the night of Thursday, July 27, 1989 there. Not much of a bachelor party, but the thought of Mary being my wife in 24 hours or less was bachelor party enough for me. Back to Dad.
The time finally came when Debi and Edna, both from Cook's, had everything set up and people were beginning to mill about under the tree closest to the house in Mary's back yard. Just prior to this, I noticed Dad standing by himself and I went over to check on him. The only way Mary's youngest daughter, Sheila, was able to make it to the wedding and to a performance of a play she was in that night was to come in costume. The wonder that lit up his eyes and caused him to grin widely as he asked, "Who is that woman and what is she going to be doing here," was Sheila dressed for her part in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum." She was cast as "Tintinabula, the belly dancer." Everyone was happy Sheila had found a way to make it to the wedding, especially Dad.
To be honest, I do not remember much of the rest of the evening, but I do remember this. Dad smiled pretty much the whole night. When Dad and Mary met for the first time it was love at first site for both of them. Whenever we would travel to Michigan, both their faces would light up and pretty much stayed that way for the duration of the visit. They simply enjoyed one another's company and could sit without speaking a word, quietly smiling at one another. The best ideas for Dad's birthday and Christmas presents always came from Mary. She came up with the idea for the diorama of the farm, including that piece of wood from the actual barn itself. She did the design and construction. It was Mary who conceived and carried out the planning for Dad's birthday party in Missouri, coordinating cabin rentals at Lake Wappapello, catering at the Hickory Log in Dexter, rooms for at least one night in Bloomfield. It also was Mary who despite the offerings made by people, could not possibly eat a thing at the Hickory Log or, for that matter, anywhere else, due to the chemo-induced sores that covered the inside of her mouth. This sounds like a lot of praise for Mary when the point here is supposed to be Dad. Well, it is what it is supposed to be. The things that she did, the effort she put forth were the result of a love Dad inspired in Mary and for her, love was as much a verb as it was a noun.
They both are gone from the physical world now, but it is no exaggeration to say they are in my thoughts every day. Even when I abandon all thought of what is best for me, they are there, watching. When I am trying to see through the fog to get back on the right track, they are there, helping to guide the way one more time. When I am doing as well as can be expected, they smile and give me a push. When I am doing better than that, they are inclined to kick me in the lower posterior and tell me I can go further.
That's about it for now. The calendar says spring is not that far off. The calendar can say what it pleases; when the temperature fails to get any lower than 75 degrees, it will be decent enough to go outside. But the 17th of April, the third Saturday of the month is not all that far off - about 71 days, I think - and that is opening day for fishing season here. Time to get my license as soon as I can.
They both are gone from the physical world now, but it is no exaggeration to say they are in my thoughts every day. Even when I abandon all thought of what is best for me, they are there, watching. When I am trying to see through the fog to get back on the right track, they are there, helping to guide the way one more time. When I am doing as well as can be expected, they smile and give me a push. When I am doing better than that, they are inclined to kick me in the lower posterior and tell me I can go further.
That's about it for now. The calendar says spring is not that far off. The calendar can say what it pleases; when the temperature fails to get any lower than 75 degrees, it will be decent enough to go outside. But the 17th of April, the third Saturday of the month is not all that far off - about 71 days, I think - and that is opening day for fishing season here. Time to get my license as soon as I can.
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