there's that and there's this

July 15, 2012

The yarkiness lingered for an eighth day this round—a depressing little day it was.  Gone, it would seem, are the predictable yarks.  What’s interesting about the last couple days of chemical duress is that for all of their milder symptoms they are not more mildly annoying.  After five or six days of irrepressible sickness, you would think two or three days of lingering gripes would come as a relief to the bothered body.  And physically, it does.  The body feels its health encroaching like a slow tide to a parched shore.  The body reassembles its vitality like a storm-downed satellite reacquires its signal.  Yes, the body is notoriously smarter than the mind.  The mind takes that gnawing burn in the stomach to be the clutches of satanic claws.  The mind assumes that the least wooze is the largest war ever waged on the flesh of man.

So now, today, 48 hours clear of my last real complaint, the body once again tells my mind that it told me so.  And I am glad for being wrong in this case.  In this case, I say, because I yield reluctantly, because I already know, know for certain something my body cannot yet know.  Next time will be the killer.  Next time I will not recover.  Just let’s wait and see you obdurate scaffold of bone, you importunate tangle of arteries, you pig-headed labyrinth of entrails.  Just let’s wait and see.

So  . . . there’s that and there’s this:

Rounds 7 and 8, July and August, the dog days of summer rounds, are being brought to you by the good people at Tropical Smoothie.  That’s right . . . a sponsorship.  Thanks in large part to the unrivalled sociability of the ever-considerate Andrea Powell (I do not have her permission to name her in this blog, I’m sure she’d rather her benefactoring to proceed in graceful anonymity; but this is me shooting first, apologizing later) who struck up a conversation with the owner of my local smoothie joint one day while having lunch with her equally generous husband, Kevin (oops, that was a misfire, sorry Kevin).  At some point in the conversation, she brought-up my situation and how on chemo-days my smoothie-sipping hour is greatly anticipated and often the only symptom-relief I’ll have all day.  (I believe I have mentioned this in my journal before.  If not, it’s true—deliciousness deliquesces distemper.)

Whether the owner was moved by my story or Andrea’s gregariousness or both, I’m not sure, I wasn’t there.  I am sure that my friend secured a 10-day supply (two-months) of smoothies in the form of a gift card.  As you may or may not know, smoothies don’t come none cheap so I count this one of those proverbial blessings.

In summation of today’s post, I am still a whiny baby and I am still a fortunate man.

for tommy and gina, keep rockin'

July 3, 2012

In the immortal words of the venerable Jon Bon Jovi: “Whoa! we’re halfway thay-yer!”

Six months down, six to go.  

My MRI yesterday showed continued progress.  If I say a “modicum” of progress, you won’t think me too pessimistic will you?  The problem with my flavor of tumor (oligodendroglioma) is (as I’ve said before but not like this) that it is a chameleo-contortionist.  By “chameleo-contortionist” I obviously do not mean that it lacks the ability to make-up terms in the blink of an eye.   I mean that the tumor is both gray and noodly—it mimics its host in both form and color so it is difficult to calculate its surface area.  There are distinctions, yes.  Mostly visible to the trained-eye.  The MRI contrast dye is useful in lightening the tumor as a few minutes heat will begin to make ashen the charcoal briquette.  But the perimeter of the tumor is smudged into the darker grays in much the same manner as Bob Ross gently drags his brush from a cozy rock into a happy stream—you know the difference between stone and water, but the closer you look, the more you’re not so sure.

In addition to the chameleo-contortionality of the tumor itself, there is another gray area in the gray area that is the gray area of surface area.  Scars.  From my brain-burn.  Radiation left its mark.  What looks like (indistinguishably, I gather) tumor also looks like scarred tissue which means , in theory, some of what appears to be tumor on the scans could be scarring.  So, in theory, I’m relieved.  In practice . . . well . . . I could do without either.

Nonetheless . . . progress—jot, tittle, or not—it’s all I’ve got.  And as the venerable wisdom prescribes:

“We gotta hold on to what we’ve got ” yea, even “hold on, ready or not” for verily “you live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got” so dearly beloved, believe me when I say unto you . . . [skin-cinching, hair-prickling key-change] “WHOA, WE’RE HALFWAY THAY-YER!”

endearing monstrosities

June 18, 2012

10:15 a.m.

Hello Mother, hello Father,

Greetings from Camp Ohwhatabother.

But no, that’s ungracious—I have a place to stay, a bed, a roof. And even a cute TV.  So, no, not Camp Ohwhatabother, I’ll call it the Bar None Ranch—a dubbing due to the cell phone situation out here.
Out where?  Bradenton, FL, approximately.  More specifically, on the campus of the Christian Retreat Center—a many-acre facility for church gatherings, preacher conferences, behemoth locusts, and kids’ camps.  This week, it hosts the latter two.  Five hundred [500] children will begin to descend upon these grounds in mere hours.  As for the insect monstrosities, they descended, by my reckoning, when such creatures ruled the earth after precipitating the extinction of the dinosaurs by some maleficent fashion or another.

Why am I at Kids’ Camp?  My wife and son are a song leader and a junior counselor, respectively. I, on the other hand, am a knot on a log.  But no, that’s ungraceful; I’ll call myself the poet laureate of Bar None Ranch for a tenure of six days.  No stipend, honorarium, or appearance fee, though—such is the destitution of arts patronage, these days, especially for the self-appointed, no-one-the-wiser artist.  Alas.

3:00 p.m.

They’re here.  The kids.  Ages 6 to 12.  An inundation of jubilation.  The myriad vocalizations of exuberance.  Decibels and demolition.

5:41 p.m.

I shall call it Aitchsee. As in H. C.  As in Holy Crap! S/he is my locust.  Or whatever these things are.  When the lobby is empty and the campers are at their evening rally, I will perform a Google search.  (I have heard rumors of wi-fi in the lobby.)  Yes, I shall recon when the coast is clear.  As for now, Aitchsee and I will further our acquaintance from opposing sides of a sliding glass door.  Time will tell if our relationship will metamorphosize (insect pun! you’re welcome) into something beyond revulsion on my part and (let’s assume for safety’s sake) bloodthirst on hers/ his.

June 19, 2012

8:49 a.m.

News and Notes.

1)  All campers must be up and at ‘em, per the presumably strict schedule, by 8:15.  And let’s figure that some eager children and no few sleep-deprived counselors have been up since 7 or so.  Given these factors, eight o’clock is not the optimal time to take a shower, temperature-wise.  Unless you are accustomed to the tepid-gelid continuum, then eight o’clock is your cup of lukewarm tea.

2)   Aitchsee and I have come to accept our co-habitation and, I dare say, have even become fond of each other.  Last night while the campers-proper rallied in the Tabernacle, s/he and I watched a movie —me from my relocated recliner, s/he from the glass door.  After the movie, I shut the blinds and read my book; but I frequently checked on my new friend.  Each time, there s/he was latched fast to the pane by some magic of follicled feet.  For variance and for what I like to think of as my personal amusement, Aitchsee would alternate which-sides-up.  Now sci-fi antennae, now crocodilian nethers.  At last check, though, s/he was not there.  Did I feel a loss?  Was that sadness stealing in?  Yes and yes. 

But this morning, upon opening the blinds, there s/he was!  Not gone from my life forever but simply on the other pane of the door!

Now as I write this and watch her/ him do ostensibly, inveterately nothing, I shall rename Aitchsee.  Sidling Slim—both apt and affectionate.

4:30 p.m.

My wife craved a smoothie after lunch.  We left campus and drove into town.  I took the opportunity to catch-up on my emails and play my turns on WordFeud.  Additionally, I did some research on Sidling Slim.  Two things: Slim is a Sally and an American desert locust at the gregarious stage.

When we got back to the room, I discovered a male interloper on the nearby wall.  I did not trust this joker from the start.  I watched them for a while.  Sally acted strangely; the interloper continued to rouse my suspicion.  I did not like his attitude.  No not one bit.

Now the sad turn of the tale.  I fell asleep on my watch.  I awoke from a nap and rushed to the window, pushed apart the blinds, and found my fear had been realized.  Sally was nowhere to be seen; the interloper, on the other hand, was perched atop a moldy patio chair—all smug and snide and simpering.

June 20, 2012

8:48 a.m.

By the way, I am here by dint of my invalidity.  Like so many of my darling 19^th Century novel characters, I have been relegated to the briny airs of the sea.  OK, the clime is coincidental.  My disease is unfazed by location.  The truth of the matter is: a week is a long time to be left alone.  By law and doctor’s orders, I cannot drive; by neurology and God’s will (and absent one of those chic medical alert pendants), it is unsafe to count on my self-sufficiency.

On the bright side, my wife will be driving me to the beach today which will be enjoyable, I hope.  Though the salt-air may be powerless against disease, it can certainly penetrate malaise.  Besides, that’s why most of my darling 19^th Century invalids were truly sent to the coast—not for bodily ailment but for a surly attitude.

I trust a view of seeming boundlessness will lighten my outlook for an hour or so.

June 21, 2012

8:52 a.m.

News and Notes.

1)  Regarding the Gulf: I love an expanse that treats the eye to that age-old illusion of flatness.  It’s downright Narnian.  Regarding public beaches:  Did you realize that people still lay out in the sun?  I don’t mean loitering loungingly while the kids muck about in the water.  I mean lather-up with Crisco, put their playlist on loop, splay themselves on sandy beach towels, and wait for the sun to burn out or for night to come.  Regarding ubiquitous bikinis: Not all body-image issues are strictly harmful.  I mean, I’m as feminist as the next guy (a phrase with a nice ring to it, it chimes with negligible liberality, feel free to use it, you’re welcome), but jeepers!

2)  I have nearly come to terms with the interloping locust.  He has been clinging to the moldy chair for over 24 hours now.  I admire his perseverance.  Yesterday a steady rain set in.  At first, the interloper made a pitiable effort at creeping for cover but in the end he bucked-up and suffered what must have been for him a squall of diluvian proportions.

3)  The hour and a half before breakfast is still a bad time to shower.

June 22, 2012

And so the week ends with no locust whatsoever.  A son’s rain-wet clothes are being laundered by a coin-operated machine to preempt mildew and a tangy odorousness for the ten-hour drive home. 

The afternoon and evening will hurry by for young campers as they begin to dread the end of the day.  Because it means going home tomorrow.  Back to chores and siblings, away from fast friends and the euphoria of away-ness.  These past few days will be among the remembered as years heap on top of years and smother the weaker memories.

I remember summer camps.  Crushes and nettle stings.  Sack-races and air-horn reveille.  Camaraderie and loneliness.  Christ and cold eggs.

Now I’m old—addled, riddled, and querulous.  To quote a song of mine, “yesterday’s the only thing that seems like yesterday to me.”  I am most aware of what impends.  My mind is bleared by the non-happened, the presumed yet-to-come.  It’s a silly thing as I’ve admitted elsewhere.  A mindful preacher in George Eliot’s Felix Holt admonishes his anxious daughter in this very sensible way:

. . . the uncertainty of things is a text rather too wide and obvious for fruitful application; and to discourse of it is, as one might say, to bottle up the air, and make a present of it to those who are already standing out of doors.

We are savvy and perplexed in the same instant—in the open air yet accepting empty bottles.  Head-scratching and nail-biting and, as we age, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting.

There have been cold showers, populous beaches, awkward cafeteria meals, and this slapdash journal of mine.  Along with stuff that’s already slipped my mind, these things will too.  But there have been the locusts, those endearing monstrosities with which I passed my days at the Bar None Ranch and to which I owe gratitude for a brand new amazement.  Brand new amazements are not easily forgotten.  I imagine I’ll remember the locusts.

[visuals]

don't trust the diarist

June 3, 2012

Appetite loss, for the win!  

But first, my monthly doctor’s visit went well.  My lab-work looks good.  Blood cell counts are acceptably high.  My liver is a trooper.  My kidneys are stalwart.  In all, I am a fine specimen, to be envied by the well and the infirm alike, to be imitated in practices of bodily-upkeep, to be desired by enamored ladies and whichsoever gentlemen so inclined. I have single-handedly made 36 the new 35 and brought the benefits of profuse drug-use to the national eye.

But seriously, double score for appetite loss!  Shoot, double exclamation while I’m at it!!

But seriously, if I may be serious for a moment and exercise my seriousness, having lost a bit of weight since I began chemotherapy, my dosage was up for re-calibration.  Whereas before I had been gulping down 430 milligrams of devil-compound, I am now taking 420 milligrams a day. 

 

Wait, wait, wait . . . minus ten milligrams is not the boon I'm talking about.  No, my nurse-practitioner warned against happy expectations regarding my over-all yarkiness.  In Temodar terms, 10 milligrams is just a drop in the ol’ proverbial bucket.  So why the several exclamation points that are atypical of my punctuation?!  Well, maybe I’m just grasping at the ol’ idiomatic straws.  Exaggerated enthusiasm notwithstanding, here are the two smiley-faces stickered to my new dosage:

1!  Previously, my pills came in two sizes—a 250 mg and a 180 mg.  Being different pills, they saw fit to charge me two separate deductibles of 60 bucks a pop.  Now, my pills come in one size—140 mg.  The new math is one deductible of 60 bucks for total savings of 60 bucks.  Hooray!

2!  Previously my pills came in two colors—blood-puke orange and pale-death white.  Now my pills come in one color—December-sky azure.   Clean, crisp, inviting.  [see for yourself] In fact, I can hardly wait to take tonight’s round.  Alas, I must wait though the waiting be hard.

June 10, 2012

As we are all no doubt aware by now, don’t trust the diarist before he takes his round.  I have been told that my jocular approach to pestilence will go a long way in ameliorating my trials and accelerating my recovery.  While I have no reason to disbelieve this very hard science, I must confess something.  It might smithereen-smash Big Convalescence.  (You know, like “Big Oil” and “Big Business” and “Bob’s Big Boy,” if that’s even his real name.)  So it’ll be our secret, OK?  

It’s like this [huddle around]:  Speaking for myself, mind you, laughter, medicine-wise, doesn’t even make a great placebo.  Merriment has all the relief value of a donut without the deliciousness.  In terms of real assuagement, I mean.  Aspirin can mask a headache with the help of a frown just as well as it can with a smile.  Smile too hard and your headache will get worse; dare to laugh and the throb will turn to daggers. 

The way I see it, there are two kinds of humor at play in this scenario of ours.

Jocundity: the quality or condition of being merry or cheerful.

Levity:  lightness of manner or speech, especially when inappropriate.

With respect to the jocund, who in pain can claim to be honestly, genuinely full of cheer?  I know that there are people who will claim to be, but, if you’ll excuse the audacity, I question it.  I take happiness and pain to be mutually exclusive specimens in the human experience.  Big Vicissitude, let’s call it.  (I don’t believe this flies in the face of religious “joy” which I take to be a species of the sublime—a teetering sort of phenomenon riding the wobbly fulcrum of the here and the hereafter.)   

Levity, on the other hand . . . levity’s the stuff you’re looking for.  It’s the goofy shrug when you step on the rake.  It’s the Ouch but at least I ain’t Dead.  And it serves two purposes.   

Purpose the First: as manifest in the age old remedy . . . if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.  This a real thing, by the way.  No one told a joke.  There is absolutely nothing funny about suffering, but a gentle laugh beats all hell out of tear-streaming sob-fests.   

Purpose the Second: in short, for the good of the team.  In sickness, your team is your bedside family and your heart-connected friends.  You need their support.  You need someone to empty your bedpans, someone to Resolve your vomit, someone to fluff your pillows, someone to cheer you on.  Someone to love you.  (Big Love, that is.)  You get these things from your team and, like any team, they need encouragement.  Nothing’s worse for a nurse than a nurse in a hearse.  Which is to say, encouraged teams are the winningest teams; and nothing dampens the mood of one like gravity.  Levity, on the other hand . . . levity’s the stuff you’re looking for.

So, Team . . . a tumor, a lesion, and a cyst walk into a bar . . .   

fantasy

May 27, 2012

Let the increasing scarcity of posts in this journal speak for my decreasing vigor in general.  This month, a twinge of toxicity has persisted beyond the usual week and a half.  I can feel it like a headache that threatens all day but never comes full force.  It lingers like dank smoke in a seedy motel room.

But don’t feel jilted, dear Reader.  My other writings go just as unattended.  And we won’t even get started on my non-literary pursuits—those being minimal to begin with.   

I’ve been watching a lot of NCAA softball and I anticipate a fortnight of French Open tennis will be in order.  My fantasy baseball team is on the low end of mediocre but it keeps me occupied here and there, if only to curse my luck and bridge the gap between now and fantasy football season.

Oh, and all my fav shows are on hiatus for the summer, so there’s that to contend, with too.  

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days.
Thursday, Friday, Happy Days.
Saturday, What a day,
Groovin' all week with you.

the prettiness of that butterfly

Pictures here, here, and here.

May 10, 2012

I’m losing hair.  To be fair, the poor follicles were already in a fight for their lives; they had several preexisting conditions which have subjected them to harassment from untoward forces.  Predictable forces like aging and naturally thin hair.  But there are also those forces resulting from my betumored state. 

Let’s begin with my biopsy, these five and a half years ago.  I went giddily into an anesthetic sleep with a decent head of hair and awoke from my stupor to find (what I knew but wanted so badly to disbelieve), circumscribing the stapled gash, a lopsided tonsure as might befit a hip-hop monk.  Being a man in my twenties of so recent a flume of flaxen hair, my follicles fared better in their recovery from surgery than the rest of my body, so well, in fact, that six months later they were in decent enough shape to warrant another mournful destruction as dealt by a concentrated deployment of gamma rays against my right parietal brain-lobe. 

After a month of this abuse, the right side of my head was but a sparsely-grassed terrain.  (All was not a loss, however, on this occasion.  The radiation so scalded my scalp as to necessitate the frequent application of a creamy salve originally designed to soothe the crackled teats of a dairy cow; and you know what they say about laughter and medicine.  Secondly, the coincidence of my youngest brother’s wedding and my third week of radiation afforded the opportunity to forever memorialize myself as the uncle with snazzy newsboy 

cap in all of the groomsmen photos.)

At that point, I knew I would never have a truly full head of hair again.  Nonetheless, the deserted region managed a re-growth to serve the purposes of illusion.  And what with being taller than most people, the scarcity most prevalent on top of my head went largely unnoticed—unless, of course, I happened to be seated.  As it turns out, I spend most of my seated time around family and friends who know better than to fall for the illusion in the first place.

For the next three-ish years, my hair struggled back to a semblance of full coverage.  But then came the great depression.  Being suicidal keeps one up at night.  Sleep deprivation negatively affects one’s seizure threshold.  Teetering at all turns on the verge of physical collapse is cause for great anxiety.  Constant anxiety leads to an asphyxiating depression.  Being suicidal keeps one up at night.  And round and round one goes.  All of these torments, FYI, contribute to hair loss especially for those with preexisting conditions.  After much internal and external debate, I decided to get on Lexapro to chill me out.  Once again, my hair, let’s not say flourished, let’s say, soldiered-on.

And now there’s this darling chemo.  (Which puts the treat in treatment.)  Now the damage is an inside job.  Flesh on flesh crime.  Every day I see a less goldilocks-y fellow in the mirror.  He’s more of a Batman-villain-y fellow these days. 

On the up-side, I still have two of those newsboy caps on-deck and ready to step up to the plate.

May 12, 2012

Two of the greatest wastes of time known to man are ones that mortgage todays in anticipation of tomorrows.  These two are essentially one, categorically, but are of distinct species.  One has to do with impatience, one has to do with dread.

I believe the closest one comes to having nothing to do with either, the closer they come to a happy life.

Fortunately, at least in this regard, adults are generally far too occupied to be preoccupied with the future.  For the majority of any given day, the given day has enough of its own worries.  Unfortunately, the majority of our free time comes at night (depending on what hours you keep or shift you work, some other time of day might apply) when rest is most needed, when companionship is most wanted.  The optimum time for cultivating bodily and familial health transpires during smallest periods of our day.  Wasted leisure is, in matters of well-being, a wasted day.

Children are world class squanderers of time.  And I don’t mean that they spend their time doing things that adults cannot fathom as being necessary or productive in the least.  That sort of time, so long as they take their trash out and clean their rooms, etc. is time well spent.  It’s leisure and it’s right now, so something, if little, is being gained by it.  What I mean is that children (in the First World, at least) have a surfeit of time in which to long-for or dread some future event.

And time is lost in the anticipation.  For our children, we can calibrate these anticipations and thereby alleviate some of its attending anxiety.  Try this with your child next time: Planning a family vacation to Super Awesome World?  Don’t tell them until the day of.  Watch as their homework gets done at acceptable rates, as their bedtimes carry on in regular fashion.  Or this: Kiddo got some dental work upcoming?  See above.

On the other hand, for ourselves . . . well, we are too thoroughly apprised of our plans.  We know what looms and how darkly.  We know what excites and how sparkly.  Our leisure is constantly in jeopardy.  We know too much.  Worse still, we are less likely to have X-Boxes or to be fascinated by sticks that could serve as slingshots.  Doubly doomed are we.

In the last couple of days, I have been challenged to keep my days in a row.  I have found myself already dreading my next round of chemo, already looking beyond my increasing vitality toward its monthly squashedness.  Bad form.  These have been lovely days—the weather and the relative wellness of my body.   

But sadly, being in many respects disabled,  my free-time is like that of a child’s and yet my strictly notated calendar is like that of an adult. 

My days are in jeopardy.

So I have to be vigilant.  It’s hard not to live in fear. It’s hard to play.  It’s easy to lose hope.  It’s easy not to play.

But for Pete’s heaven’s goodness’s sake, is this any way to spend three weeks?  Let me get off of this computer and see what’s happening.  Whatever it is will have happened with or without me regardless of what will happen around the first of June.

May 18, 2012

A lifetime of studiousness, scholarship, and deliberate observation continues to contribute to my impecunious circumstances.  Wit is a poor substitute for grit.  The life of the learner is in constant thrall to the life of the earner. 

These things do not surprise me.  I’m clever enough to know how the world works, just not clever enough to subvert the system.  All I can really do is quantify the instances of its proof.

Add this:

One of gauntlets that slaps your face while running the gauntlet of disability application is the subjection to a psychological exam—half of which ascertains your mental health, half of which ascertains your cognitive aptitude. 

As for my mental health, suffice it to say I am on drugs that divert my attention from anxiety, depression, despair, and the impenetrable darkness of reality as it careens, indefatigably, towards the summation of one’s woeful days to the prettiness of that butterfly over there, all float and flap, flower to flower, flying on felicitous sky.  That being said, which characterizes my actual mental health?  My brain or my brain on drugs?  Fortunately, psychologists have a formula for determining the actualness of one’s feelings.

Let’s move on to the cognitive aptitude portion.  How shall I put this?  Bear in mind that the horn I’m about to toot has already been established as a virtually useless one and should not be taken as anything other than another instance of proof.  Thus disclaimed, I am apt.  Let’s put it that way.   

For those unfamiliar with exams of this nature (I.Q. tests are similar), here are some examples of the feats:  you’re psychologist du jour will read a list of numbers which you will repeat back to her.  As you continue to succeed, the list grows longer.  You continue until the list becomes too long for you to repeat accurately.  As a perennial student, I am practiced in the art of the mnemonic device and was therefore capable of rattling off some ten or twelve numbers in the order they were given to me.  Your psychologist will give you four words to remember stating that she’ll ask you to recall them later.  Then she’ll give you words to define that increase in difficulty as you go along.  As a perennial reader, I know a lot of words.  She’ll give you words to spell, first forward then backward, increasingly difficult.  Again, I know a lot of words and I may or may not have some experience in saying things backwards during field sobriety tests.  (For those of you who don’t know me, I have long since quit my inebriate ways.)  She’ll present you with seemingly dissimilar items and ask you to come up with comparisons.  Analogies are kinda my thing.  I am to them as she is to asking these questions. (At one point, she gave me the following items: book and car.  I thought and thought, convinced she had stumped me but unwilling to let it go.  Hold on, I told her.  And thought some more.  I repeated the items . . . “book and car . . . man that’s a tough one.”  She said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I meant boat and car.”)  These sorts of things will go on for a half-hour or so.  At the end, she’ll ask you what those four words were.

What does all of this amount to?  In all likelihood, denial of disability.  “You seem plenty smart to figure some way to make money without having a seizure or panic attack.”  It’s the same as with my physical therapy records which they have commandeered.  “You seem plenty handi-capable what with all those big, bouncy ball routines you’re banging out.”  It’s true, I  am not utterly disabled.  I can, in fact, endure an hour’s worth of light exercise twice a week.  I can, in fact, glide through an hour’s worth of brain teasers.  Anyone hiring for an hour a day?  I’m your man.

By the way, those four words: river, book, shoe, and cloud.

in which i title my days

May 3, 2012

I have some news and some other news.  The some news is . . . I had that “next” seizure that I practically hexed myself into in my last post.  The some other news is . . . my MRI on Monday indicated a small reduction in the size of my tumor.  We’re talking a millimeter or two here—not drastic but significant.  Significant if for no other reason but as testimony to the chemo’s positive effect.  Unless you’re the tumor.  Then, I suppose, the effect would be negative.  Poor thing.

May 9, 2012

Blink, blink, blink.  Even this rainy day is bright out from under my rock.  The week in my rear-view reached a new level of discomfort.  They say this is to be expected as the treatment wears on.  The body recovers less in the three weeks allotted to its convalescence between its one week of ambush and decimation.

Back in the glory days of March, you’ll recall my reckoning that the severest effects of the chemo lasted for a week.  You may recall the conversation I had with a stuffed dog with respect to this matter.  At the time, I stated that it was nice (if such a word can find purchase at all in the dark days . . . hmmm . . . the dark days . . . I like it, it’s got a Stephen King feel to it, as does my week of poisonous torment . . . yes, The Dark Days it is, a nice ring to it. . . there’s “nice” again, said twice now  it is settled, nice does not apply), barring nice, at least a small consolation to know how long I could expect to feel yarky.   A full week.

This month, the consolation turned to nightmare.  The converse became the truth.  The Piercing Truth of the Dark Days.  Which is?

Well, you know how it is when you have a “24 bug”?  You’re wracked in body and ruined in spirit and all the world seems a Death Star Trash Compactor (“What an incredible smell you've discovered!”)?  But, for all of its crushing inhumanity, the 24 hour bug lasts, as you well know, 24 hours.  Now ask yourself, is this an invigorating knowledge or a damning knowledge?  In March, I’d have said invigorating—at least in terms of hope. 

But this is May.  And in May, allow me to suggest the knowledge is a suffocation by certitude.  Certitude of what?  Well, sure, your bug will have run its course by tomorrow and you’ll be back up and at ‘em by the day after at the latest; but what is the converse of that surety?  You will not be up and at ‘em by this afternoon.  Cancel your dinner plans, stay in your pajamas, and curl-up (double-over as the case will be) with a book from which you don’t mind missing entire chapters due to your woeful distraction.

[Jonathan fetches a calculator.  Musical interlude.  Wagner, perhaps.  An Oompa Loompa lamentation, perhaps.]

[ . . . doompity-doo, have I got another bummer for you . . .what do you get when your chemo’s a beast . . . ]

I’m back.  My bugs are of the 168 hour variety.

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A bit of positivity to end this post, because that’s how I do.  I made an expensive discovery this past week.  Maybe you will find it useful come your next bug.  It is impossible, impossible, I say, to feel sick when you’re sucking-down a delicious, cold concoction from Tropical Smoothie or when spooning-up a sloppy Banana Split from Bruster’s.  A thirty minute reprieve.  Open up and sigh ahhhhhhhh . . .