Thursday, February 25, 2016

Weary as a lizard

I am tired. Seriously tired.

When I hear it in my head, though, it sounds like it does in the parts of America where it comes out “Tarred. Ah'm tarred.”

“Ah'm tarred” brings me a picture, likely from John Ford's movie version of 'The Grapes of Wrath.” Dust and dirt piled on top of the simple presence of fatigue... tarred.

Yet, it also brings about a sense of tired that initially seems to be 180 degrees from tarred, yet, to me, it is not.

I once played a part in a production of Tom Stoppard's amazing play, “Rosenkrantz and Guildernstern are Dead.” At one point one of the lead players review the space around him and the other players in it and declares himself “Wary as a lizard.”

Only, he couldn't do it. This particular actor couldn't say wary as it should have been said but had pretty much nailed his pronunciation of weary. A line designed to declare a character particularly on edge and looking for secrets, became a line proclaiming the character out of steam and looking for someplace to lay down.

If this were not an important point in the play, we could certainly have muffled the line, had someone cough over it, or otherwise color it in a way that would let audience members more or less get the gist. But it was an important moment, so every effort was made to get the pronunciation right. The actor was not stupid, au contraire. He had the part nailed. But as this wary/weary thing failed to be resolved, his confidence waned and we had bigger issues.

As only certain dogs will hear a certain pitch from a pipe, everyone in and around that moment finally decided they heard the dog whistle, the message from which was, “The heck with it. Act like he said something close to correct and then move on.”

Amongst a couple of my friends, “Weary as a lizard” came to mean a type of fatigue that defies understanding. And that's where I am now. I am tired. Tarred. Wary. Weary.

The struggle that is going on right now, which may in fact be at the base of this feeling “Weary as a lizard,” is this: It's the fight between what's true and matters versus what's true and matters right now.

I can't help it that the laundry needs to be done... again, and I'm the only one, from a practical standpoint, that can do it. I don't have the energy right now! Same with taking the trash to the dump. I know it needs to be taken. I know that for a fact. What I cannot do, is work up the desire to make taking the trash to the dump seem like something that would be worth the effort.

The chest pains... the latest ones that I battle with now... I believe are caused by deep-seated stress. It happened when I was first put on chemo. We didn't know what the pain was about, but eventually realized it was caused by stress at a deeper lever.

That sort of pain is made up of a bunch of tricky little bastards. There you are all stalwart and bracing against the pain, when one of these little worries gets in a shot and scores a hit on your defense. The another and another. Pretty soon you've had three palpable hits, rendering pain, fatigue and stress and not one blow was worth even mentioning.

Tarred.

Ah'm tarred of having cancer. Ah'm tired of poor Sheri having to get around on only one good leg, never quite knowing what, if any movement, might set her recovery back. Ah'm tired of having to revisit problems I thought were already settled. We just got a bill for one of my chemotherapy medications that I had spent a fair amount of time making sure we wouldn't be billed for. So, back to the phones.

While being tarred is far from the worse thing, it does drain your soul... drop by drop, until you realize you're down a quart and that particular refill comes hard.

So, as I leave you for this week. That's where I am. Soul weary, or as my actor friend might say, soul wary.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere


Thursday, February 18, 2016

Life in the House at Poo Corner

You've had periods of time when everything seemed to be going wrong, right? I mean everything.

As it mounts up, you might have found yourself comparing yourself to Job in the Bible, maybe? It's easy enough to happen. You have a number of things go wrong, add a soupcon of self-pity and a dash of why me? And voila- Just like Job.

But what happens if someone else takes a look at what's going on in your life and they declare “You're situation is positively Jobian...Jovian? Just like Job in the Bible.” That's a little different, don't you think?

The other day a number of Sheri's friends came out to the house, to keep her company and to cheer her up. By the time they left, they were shaking their heads and Sheri was in tears, all be it briefly.

You may recall that I had written about our toilet not flushing... Well, we actually had to replace it in the end. We got it prior to the weekend, but could not get a plumber to install it until Monday. This meant that Sheri's friends had to use the one upstairs.

Well, lo and behold, the pipes upstairs had frozen, which even I, complete non-plumber that I am, knew was bad. Until this point, I had been resting in the downstairs bedroom because I didn't feel especially well, and, besides, I like to give Sheri and her friends some privacy. But the amount of noise generated by the fact that the pipes had frozen made it difficult to try to remain oblivious.

But then I heard, “We could probably get at the problem if we did some drilling, or maybe cut through some drywall.”

You see, knowing the players as I do, I thought it unlikely that the person who said that was joking, so I felt compelled to get up off may quasi-sick bed to declare, “No! No drilling. No drywall cutting!”

It was somewhere in here that Sheri started to cry. We'd had so many things piled on our plate, not the least of which were her broken leg and ankle and my having to go back on chemotherapy, that the frozen pipes were just one thing too many.

Also in here somewhere is where our friend Wanda June (not her real name) said, approximately: “You know. As a basically partial outside observer, I give you permission to compare your plight to Job in the Bible. You seem to have had an inordinate amount of tests thrown at you in a very short period of time.” True dat.

Soon enough, it was time for everyone to go, except Sheri and me who would continue to live in the House at Poo Corner for the foreseeable future. But then we had pause to consider: “Could these Job-ian type of curses be catching? Could the misery be shared? A problem shared is a problem halved?”

Maybe so. Because, when it came time for Wanda June to leave, she was unable to navigate the ice on our driveway. Well, she did get past that, only to end up at the bottom of our fire road with no hope of getting back up it, even as far as our driveway, of which the being stuck in didn't seem so bad by that point if I may convolute my syntax.

But here's the thing... We called AAA and they came and helped Wanda June. Our friend Hank (not his real name and not the first name I gave him for column purposes. It will have to do, though, because I have other fish to fry, and forgot what the first one was and don't have the inclination to look it up) came and helped us get our pipes unfrozen. He also carried the new toilet in from the car because the temperature was supposed to dip below zero and we were afraid it might crack, given how everything else was going.
 
With a new toilet on the horizon, unfrozen pipes and Wanda June well on her way... I realized something surprising about these patches of horrible circumstance we all go through at one time or another. As each one ceases to be a problem, you get a little buzz of happiness around the fact that it isn't a problem any more.

I certainly wouldn't go so far as to say let's pile on the problems because it's so good when they stop. But, I will say that looking at it that way made me feel much better.

One last thing. In this midst of all this trial and tribulation, it was my friend Not-His-Real-Name Walter who summed the whole thing up perfectly: “Wow. That's Biblical! The Book of Johns.” Well said, Walter, well said, sir.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere


Thursday, February 11, 2016

What's THAT all about, Alfie?

So. I'm just sitting here thinking about having cancer.

For a while there, I could honestly say that wasn't something I thought all that much about. But, since my multiple myeloma has been active again, it's something I find myself doing again. Mind you, there are times when the myeloma makes my bones hurt and it's hard not to think about it. Likewise, when I feel truly nauseous. But there are times, like now, when I simply wonder, “What's THAT all about, Alfie?”

For example, would I have been better off, in the long run, not to have had the period we call remission where the disease wasn't visible in my blood work? That's sort of a trick question, I think, because I was quite nauseous much of that time with stomach issues, so, it wasn't as if I was living large through that time.

Still, having cancer is about a lot more than simply not feeling well. So would it have been better if we hadn't had that “quiet” period? Good question.

I think for my friends and family it was a very good thing. It let them have some time off, kinda. When they knew it wasn't there, causing further damage, that was a good thing

For me? I'm not really sure. I guess as I went to monthly appointment after monthly appointment and received glowing reports about how well I was doing; how terrific my blood work looked... During that time period, I think it was good.

It's no one's fault but my own, if fault is the correct word, that I started to believe it might not come back. The logical, informed portion of my brain knew that wasn't true, but a guy can hope, can't he?

Anyway, here I am trying to remain positive... again, and I guess it's no harder this time than the last. It is different, though. When a cure isn't possible, having the cancer go away, at least for a while, becomes your wish. Now, I know that even that is something of a false hope. The next time it goes away, and I believe there will be a next time, I know I would be more cautious about getting caught up in hype; enjoy it, yes, but don't trust it to last.

One of the constants about cancer, I've found, is that, no matter what else, life goes on. Sheri and I are on a run of tough times right now. My cancer is back. She fell and broke her leg in three places. Our bathroom toilet isn't working.

In the grand scheme of things, which of those would you pick to cause the most immediate distress? You betcha. No toilet. It has led to a number of schemes for us, all of which have given us new appreciation for modern toilets. As always, we manage, but it would be better if we didn't have to.

It would be nice to given a free pass on all those sorts of little vagaries of life by saying, “But, I have cancer.” Or, “But I have... whatever other difficult problem you find yourself facing.” Of course, then you face the question of setting the standard. “I have cancer” is probably more deserving of a pass than “I have four overdue library books,” but is it more deserving than “I have chronic back pain”?

Like all of those types of things, it's a fool's game. Life is life and that's all there is to it. If we take a look at our life... I mean, really look at the entirety of it, we're going to find more good than bad, with a huge helping of “just okay” and some “not so bad” thrown in.

The difficult times doubtless seem to be larger in number because they take so long to pass, or at least that's how it feels. Happiness, joy and all the good bits can be fleeting. It's what makes it more important to hold on to them and really take your time with them.

And in the end, consider this: the song, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” was written in 1929, and first recorded in November of that same year, less than two months after the stock market crash that would lead to the Great Depression. I'm just sayin'.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere






Thursday, February 4, 2016

Well, that's not exactly what I wanted to hear

My cancer is back.

Actually, since it's incurable, I guess it was never really gone. But it was not actively making my life difficult. And now it is... again.

I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when my doctor told me my proteins were elevated, which indicated the remission was over. I mean, I've written here any number of times that on one of these Fridays when I went in for my blood work, he was going to tell me my cancer was back.

And this last Friday was it.

Here's the thing, though. Yes, I knew it was going to back some day, I just didn't expect it to be that day. It's not as if my blood work had been just OK over the last few months. Not at all. My doctor was beyond delighted with what he was seeing, and kept raving about how terrific things looked.

Well, I must admit, after a few months of that, I let my guard down. Maybe I figured my multiple myeloma would sneak back, a little at a time, and I could be ready. But, it was no one's fault that I was surprised by the news. The doctor even said, at one point, that that was why we refer to it as incurable, with no guarantees that remission would be forever.

On top of all that, I have the chromosome 17p deletion issue that I was told would affect any remission. The deleted piece is designed to manage things like my cancer treatment, and, without it there, stuff happens.

So, here we are again. As I was driving home from the clinic, with the news still a secret between my doctor and me, I realized there was a heavy sense of deja vu all over again.

I would have to find a way to break the news to Sheri. There were our kids to be told and a number of friends who needed to be told personally... just like the first time. It wasn't necessarily easier for having done it before, it was... well... different is all. We all know so much more than we did the first time around that it is easier to talk about, somewhat, and easier to separate the words and medical terms we need from those we don't.

So, everyone is as OK with it as we could expect them to be. I mean, what are you supposed to say when someone tells you their cancer is back? The teller has the advantage of knowing what is coming. The tellee can only take the hit and respond as best they can. Everyone feels bad, of course, and I wish they didn't. Even more than the first time, I know what Sheri and I are up against and I know many of the things we need to do to come out on top in this deal.

The majority of bits remain as they were: having cancer still sucks, the feeling of powerlessness remains strong, there's still no point in asking why me, there's still a fight to be fought.

One of the things I had (mercifully) forgotten was the busy-ness of cancer. The biggest part of that so far is, how are we going to attack it this time? We quickly decided it would be, at least at first, with the oral chemotherapy I had been taking before. It made me nauseous, so we're starting with the smallest dose.

Once that was decided, we had to figure out how to pay for it. It's very expensive and the co-pays we were going to be responsible for were considerable. We immediately made some phone calls and arranged for the financial assists we would need.

Then there's the re-certification process to be endured. Because I hadn't taken this medicine in quite a while, I had to be re-educated on how dangerous it was and the conditions under which I had take it.

And on, and on, and on. We'd forgotten how much went into fighting cancer, and how much of it had to be done on the phone. Oy.

So, after 135 posts about looking for the pony, there is a sense of being back at the beginning. But, we aren't, of course. We're stronger and much more aware of what it is we are up against. We are also very aware of the tools we have to use in the fight, including the hundreds of prayers we get from you. Thanks for sticking with us. We knew you were going to be back to the fore. And here you are!

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere