It's that time of year again... already

We are now just a couple of days short of the official second anniversary of the day I found out I have cancer, multiple myeloma to be precise.

What a couple of years those have been, if I may say so myself, which I guess I just did.

But you can say the same thing too. Right? Haven't the past two years been full of ups and downs, fear and fun, happy and sad for you? That's what life is like, brothers and sisters. We all get our own personal roller coaster and can ride it as often as we want. Unlike their amusement park counterpart though, whether you take or ride on this particular coaster or not isn't up to you. There's no line showing minimum height requirement. Breathing are you? Step right up and take the ride of your life!

Now, I will say that there is very little that has happened during the last two years that I would have anticipated on the day I got my diagnosis. When my doctor said I had multiple myeloma, my first thought was, “What the hell is that?”, followed by, “Did he just say it's incurable?”

All the other initial thoughts and emotions tumbled in on top of those like an unsuccessful game of Jenga.

Obviously, I wanted to know what the prognosis was, but not really; only if it was going to be good. I waited for him to say, and the longer he took, the shorter I figured my time left was going to be. Turns out, he had other things to talk about and in the end not he, nor I, nor Sheri really wanted a guesstimate on this cancer's effect on my lifeline.

I was sick and we were going to do everything in our power to counter whatever moves cancer might have, though I became unfond of any comparisons to chess. This was my life we were talking about, so keep your little horsey thingies to yourself, thank you very much. “Pawn” cliches were also frowned upon.

So, it was September 2013, I was 65 years old and had a rare form of cancer. Now what? I suppose Sheri and I could have looked ahead and seen an endless parade of doctor's appointments, medical procedures and other crappy stuff, especially since Sheri had already gone through it with our son Jason when he was a baby. But the truth was, we just didn't feel like it. Really, one challenge at a time was more than enough. Besides, this really put us into areas where we couldn't possibly have anticipated what was going to happen next.

Initially, a stem cell transplant was in the background, not really talked about, while a combination of chemotherapy and steroids was the treatment of choice. Then, my oncologist retired, my new oncologist and my doctor from Boston joined the team and a stem cell transplant moved front and center, “especially for someone who was otherwise healthy as you,” meaning me.

It was at this same time that I found out I had a damaged chromosome that could affect how my cancer responded to treatment. Oh well, nothing we could do about that; over the side that goes.

We had no idea how much had to be done before the transplant. Drugs had to be administered to bolster the healthy stem cells I did have; that actually hurt. We had to make all these arrangements with the hospital and Sheri needed to prepare to spend the better part of a month in Boston.

I had to have all the blood in my system passed through a machine that removed enough healthy stem cells to go ahead with the transplant. Then I was given killing doses of chemotherapy, my stem cells (sea monkeys as we were calling them by this time) were put back in and we waited to see if they would thrive, which they did.

My hair fell out and my friends and family gave me tremendous support; those were predictable. I spent almost three weeks in isolation in the hospital and had to avoid being around people for another four months after I got home. Those were both harder than I thought they would be.

Given how well the transplant went, I had no idea how much trouble an unknown stomach issue would bring, and continues to bring now. That was definitely an instance of plan the plans, not the outcome. We have struggled and fought with that for months and it still continues to wear me down... bad.

After all, two years ago I was looking at dealing with cancer, fully sure that whatever that might mean, we would deal with it and move on. Well, as it turns out, we are dealing with it. It's the moving on part that's at issue. My medical staff continues to to delighted and amazed at how well my body has reacted to my cancer treatment. My monthly checkups show that the myeloma is truly inactive.

I've even come to realize (about two hours ago, seriously) that my cancer being incurable is a bit of a positive thing. So many people chase exotic cures, often fronted by charlatans who have nothing to sell but false hope ... I've never felt the need to do that. Incurable, but treatable; I focus on the treatable bit.

This other thing though... But, here's the way I am trying to look at it. Two years ago we were on the brink of this scary unknown called multiple myeloma and we have weathered that in stellar fashion. As far as the stomach problem... I guess I'll just keep moving my horsey thingie, sacrifice a few pawns and remove that from our list of worries as well.

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

Let's think about what's next

I've been giving a lot of thought to my funeral lately.

Let me guess what you think of that. “Man. How come I don't get to be in this guy's posse so we can do cool stuff like think about our funerals? All we ever do is discuss TV shows, movies, stuff like that. Why can't we be one of the cool ones?”

Well, maybe that's not exactly what you're thinking. But the truth is, we should all think about our funerals at some point, and not just right before we die, which I'm not close to doing (any closer than the average person, at least), by the way, in case you think that's what brought this on. First off, who says you would be able to have that kind of perfect timing. Besides, if you do it that way, there are no do-overs. If something doesn't feel quite right, chances are you aren't going to be in good enough health to make the change. Besides, not to work on it ahead of time just leaves the people you care about with the ridiculous burden to deal with all by themselves. That's no way to run a funeral or to show someone how much you love them!

Nah, the best time to work on your funeral is before you even get sick. I used to think about it before I got cancer, but if you're not sick, you can usually have a discussion with someone because... well, because the other person isn't going to feel the awkwardness that could come with discussing any aspect of dying with someone who is sick. Like me, for example.

But when all is said and done, we're probably just as unlikely to discuss the funeral as we are writing out our wills. Typically, even if we are willing to make out a will, we wait until we think the Grim Reaper is using Google Earth to find our house so that he's ready when the time comes.

In many ways, making out a will is a lot like talking about dying. We know we should have a will, and we know we could die at any minute, but talking about them, let alone doing something about at least getting a will, seems to be way too difficult.

But, since I haven't been giving a lot of thought to my will, probably because I already have one, let's get back to thinking about our funerals.

If you would rather not, and want to skip this week's column, of course you should. That's a standing offer as many of you know. Yes, you will miss some pithy observations about life in general, and, in this case, about funeral planning, but you shouldn't make yourself uncomfortable.

Now, if you're still with me, let me guess one of the things you'll be thinking next: This is all about control issues and my ego. Well, that's not true... Well, actually that is exactly true but it seems cruel to be having such thoughts about someone who is, after all, planning their funeral.

It is about control and ego. I want my funeral to be like my life- well orchestrated, with moments of drama, romance and plenty of laughs, all keyed by the music that is played. Now that I reread that sentence, this may be even more about ego than I initially thought.

Cut me some slack, why don't you. Who is going to be able to detail my life better than me? Or in your case, you?
 

Attendance concerns me. I did actually make Sheri promise to come and bring a date. I think she agreed. She did mutter something about how stupid it was and what was wrong with me and what on earth made me think of idiotic things like that. So, that sounded like a yes to me.

In recent years, especially since I found out about having cancer, I've made a conscious effort to become beloved by the little people who have been such an important part of my life. You're welcome, and I hoped it worked. Bring a date.

As far as mood, I admit to being somewhat torn. Of course, there should be tears, but not too many. Likewise, laughs would be essential, but let's not forget why we're there people.

For me, music is the key. It is an important part of the relationship Sheri and I have, but playing “Camel Walk,” by Southern Culture on the Skids might be a bit much for casual attendees. I know for sure we'll have “Turn, Turn, Turn,” by the Byrds, because that has been on my list since I first heard it 50 years ago. I have been putting tunes I'm considering together in a playlist. Hey, do you think a commemorative CD would be too much?

Oy. Sometimes I really astonish myself with some of the things I'm willing to put in writing to be read and dissected by thousands of people. This whole topic should probably be off-putting, but I don't find it so. Maybe it's because I know what I have floating around in my head that I don't write about. Some of that stuff would be off-putting, believe me.

Anyway, don't worry that I'm turning morbid or anything. Au contraire. In three or four weeks we will mark the end of our second year with cancer. I'm still here and Sheri is still doing really well in handling all of the stuff that goes with having someone you love suffer from cancer. Still, questions remain. Like for now, I'm obsessing over whether we should us the long or short version of “In a Gadda Da Vida.”

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

Regrets? I've had a few. Seriously???

“Regrets, I've had a few

But then again, too few to mention

I did what I had to do

And saw it through without exemption”

Paul Anka

Let's begin with a spoiler alert: I may well end up being at least a “little” critical of one of your “all-time favorite” songs. But, remember, it's only my skewed way of looking at it and I don't really know Jack (not his real name) about your taste in music, so, the heck with me.

Anyway, whether sung by Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley, or, I suppose, anyone else, there is no doubt that the song strikes a chord (he he) with many people. Sinatra and Presley are two of the biggest stars... EVER, why they would become so identified with a song about living your life as best you can, is, at least, on one level, a bit beyond me. Yes, rich, famous people have problems too. I get it. Still, Elvis's rousing ending to his version seems like so much overdo...

But, if you get past you-know-who and you-know-who-too, I think the real “passion” for the song would have to be found in bars; places where people congregate to drink alcoholic beverages.

And by bars, I mean bars, like the days when movies were in black and white. The “Set 'em up Joe” kind of places, where smoke was mandatory. There was no “drinks” menu; the drinks were either beer or liquor and... gin AND tonic, scotch AND soda, and so on. They were not cocktail lounges and the guys (almost exclusively) who served the drinks were bartenders, or occasionally barkeeps, but certainly not mixologists.

The lights were always dim, and not in a great, atmospheric way. They seemed dim because something was missing- light bulbs, joy, any sense of enjoyment. Much of the time, neon signs presented the bulk of the light.

In the scenario in which I see “My Way,” being so at home, there are almost exclusively men, who may or may not have started out looking for women at some point, but are now just sitting around a bar looking for an explanation of what it is about sitting around a bar that makes them spend so much of their time doing exactly that.

There may be an occasional woman, but, generally speaking, women have more sense. They also tend to drink in places with better atmosphere. The bars I'm thinking about are “joints.”

So, the customers may be alcoholics, or not. They're probably people who can stop anytime they want to, but don't want to. I don't think they stopped by just for the one drink.

As the night goes on (this is quite a scenario I'm presenting, is it not? There is a point coming, though, if you can hang in a little longer), the jukebox gets quite a workout, and it's the three tunes for a quarter juke, by the way. Depending on the neighborhood, there could be some popular ethnic choices- “Irish Eyes are Smiling,” for example, or anything by Frankie Yankovic and the Yanks, or even Mario Lanza.

As the night starts to wind down, though, a quarter will be dropped, C6 or D8 or whatever will be punched and Frank or The King will start pouring comfort on everyone's hurts. Eyes will begin to tear, hearts will begin to soften, and someone may actually join in, off key, probably, but with complete conviction.

After being played once, it quite likely will be played again, at least two more times. But then, the night is over. The melancholy hangs in the place almost as thick as the smoke, and it's time to go. Regrets, hah! What regrets. I did it my way, buddy!!!

Whew. I may have gotten a bit carried aware with my metaphors and my passion for film noir may have leaked out, but still...

I tell you all that, to say this: for me to claim “Regrets I have a few, but then again too few to mention” is silly. For me, the world is too big, too wonderful, too amazing, too full of choices not to have a fair number of regrets, assuredly not a few. Seriously, we are presented with so many great choices virtually every day that getting half of them right would be a wonderful thing to sing about.

I was always one of those people who would try to live my life so that I could look back and not have to say, I wish I had done... whatever, when I had the choice. And even with that philosophy, I have all the regrets, and more, that one man can carry.

None of this is a bad thing, by the way. Regrets, no regrets, it doesn't really matter all that much, at least not to me. The point is to have done the best you can, make as many good choices as possible, and let the Sinatra or The King sing about the rest.

Just one final thought about the song- the English lyrics were written by Paul Anka who also wrote “(You're) Having my Baby.” 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

Feeling “positively moist” and other constants

Can I just take a few minutes of your time to tell you I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired?

Actually, it may take more than a few minutes, but then again, maybe not. It depends on how fast you read?? Heh heh.

My wife Sheri and I are approaching two years of dealing with cancer. Two years. Is that a long time? Don't know. If you're serving a lifetime jail sentence, I guess not. If you're in an unhappy relationship and aren't able, or worse, don't have the courage, to get out of it, two years probably seems like a loooong time, I would guess.

For the two of us, in this particular instance, two years has seemed like long enough. We have had enough highs and lows to fill eleventy-seven trips to Disney World. Or Disneyland. Or Disney Tokyo. Or Disney Paris, for that matter. The point is...There have been a tremendous number of ups and downs.

Initially, everything was huge. I had cancer. I had multiple myeloma. I had chromosome deletion 17p. One thing after another bonking us on the head and in the heart. We did okay, though. Better than okay, I would say. We kept going, returning to the front of the line for the next trip, be it up or down. Even if it meant saying, “Excuse us. We were here first.” We got on the ride and went where we would.

In some ways, and bear with me on this one, those were sort of the good old days. Trust me. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but, I think, only because you aren't us. Maybe I should say, maybe because you aren't me, in this case. I haven't discussed it with Sheri. I can hear her in the kitchen now, making something healthy to eat, which in itself leaves me a bit torn. I know it will be delicious, as well as healthy, but I haven't enjoyed food for months. That is one the downs we've dealt with.

Anyway, the good old days... The news was terrible and consistently so. Each punch left us reeling and clinging to each other like... like, say, those tag team wrestlers who are all jacked up from being bounced about by the other two wrasslin' guys; but neither one is all that anxious to resume being tossed about like so much flotsam and/or jetsam.

We were tough, though, we could take it. And we did.

But now... I feel sick and/or tired almost all the time. Anything big? Not really. Not like finding out about the cancer, for sure. But, rather, an omnipresent nausea. I feel like I could easily throw up (or should I say vomit? Is vomit classier? Is there, in fact, any classy way to talk about... you know?) at various times through each day. I have these waves of hot and cold flashes that leave me, as good girls would say in the antebellum South, “positively moist” and wanting to wave a fan to cool myself.

The stomach pains that began so long ago remain. Still unnamed, but still responsible for considerable pain and discomfort.

The ribs I hurt when I was attacked by bees almost two years ago still hurt. As do the ones I damaged falling on ice in the winter and on our lawn this summer.

The collarbone I broke just prior to my stem cell transplant has still not truly healed. At least, not as far as I can tell. There is a numb, constant pain there that sometimes is replaced by a horrific jolt when I turn on my side just so and it feels like the two parts have tried to join together and just missed, causing a jagged bone into skin feeling. Sorry if that seems graphic. But, maybe it gives some credence to why I might be sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Let's see. What else? Well, there's an emotional aspect to this roller coast existence. Sometimes I feel good just because I stop feeling bad. Sometimes I just feel good. Other times I swoop down to a new low. And this affects Sheri too. She can see all of this and is very sensitive to it. She does what she needs to do to take care of herself, but as I've said before, it isn't easy watching someone you care about in pain, physical or mental.

Um... Um... Did I mention my bones hurt? All the time? Well, if I didn't, they do. They hurt to touch and I really suffer anxiety around someone bumping into me or punching me- anywhere- in some sort of attaboy gesture bound to go horribly awry.

So, maybe you can see what I mean. I should be feeling better, except my doctors say I feel exactly as I must. They don't really have a lot to say about any of these things, other than, “I'm sorry your ribs hurt. I'm sorry your bones hurt...” You get the drift, right?

But you know what? I think of my friend Cindy who died from complications resulting from her stem cell transplant, and of Dolly who succumbed to multiple myeloma after fighting it for some five years, and understand how much they loved their families to keep going. I don't think they struggled on so they could feel the way they felt for yet another day. God bless them and God bless all of you who have prayed for me, Sheri and my family. I can't imagine how sick and tired I would feel without your efforts.

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.”

Sheri and Jim, sitting in a tree... 23 years later

The moon has a face

And it smiles on the lake

And causes the ripples in Time

I'm lucky to be here

With someone I like

Who maketh my spirit to shine

Warren Zevon

On Aug. 8, Sheri and I will have been together for 23 years. Maybe it brings to mind the old vaudeville joke (I know how you love 'em): Guy- My wife and I have been together for 15 happy years. 2^nd guy- That's wonderful. 1^st guy- Yeah. Fifteen out of 27 ain't bad. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

We had known each other for a couple of years before we started “going together,” but Aug. 8 was our first official outing. We couldn't call it a date. We were both 44 and hadn't dated since we were in our teens; to call it a date was not possible. She was going through a divorce and I had seen the end of a long-term relationship. Myself and Judy (not her real name, of course) mutually agreed the relationship was no longer working, and that it was probably more because of my behavior than hers. Fair enough.

So, Sheri and I started and here we are 23 years down the road, still together and still extremely happy. After all this time, I do sometimes ask myself: “Why do you still like her?” Not love, you'll notice, but why do I still “like” her? Two entirely different, yet valid, I think, questions.

I think there is some mandatoryness to loving someone, especially after a longish period of time. Sort of “In for a penny, in for a pound,” although that might be a little cold. But, liking someone. That's entirely up to you. If someone casually asks about your relationship- “Gosh. The two of you are still in love after all these years, huh?” You say yes, brothers and sisters, and “like” isn't even gonna come into the picture.

So, why do I still like this amazing woman? Well, she's beautiful. I still look across a room sometimes and think, “Wow! Who's the chick with the brilliant smile?” and semi-blush when I realize it's my wife. She is really smart. Incredibly loyal. Wait a minute... I'm making her sound like “Lassie.”

“Go get Jim, Sheri. Go get him. He fell down the well. Go on, Sheri. Get him.”

And maybe there is a bit of that in it. But, she's also good company, fun to be around, and generous with her heart. She is a great friend to her friends. Ask any of them and I'll bet they say that about her.

Me? I know a lot of people. They are my friends, but I make that a more difficult proposition than it should be. Somebody says to me: “Jim, go get Toby. He fell in the well. Go get him.” I'm just gonna say, “Hey. He got himself in there, he can get himself out.” Or, more likely, “Sheri. Some jackass named Toby just fell down a well. Go get 'im. That's a good girl. Go get Toby (the jackass).”

We've been through an incredible amount of stuff in 23 years, but so have you. Right? If you're going to take your marriage vows seriously, you are going to be faced with huge amounts of stuff that will, on occasion, seem insurmountable. And when you are, you have a choice. Go on and get over it together, or stop, thank each other for a nice time, and go your separate ways, leaving the huge amount of stuff where you found it.

For 23 years, Sheri and I have chosen to deal with the stuff, one pile at a time. Of course the toughest challenge right now is our roles as Man With Cancer and Wife of Man With Cancer. That, boys and girls, is a tremendous amount of stuff to have to get over. And it's really two different piles. I think I have the easier job. I'm ill, and I deal with it. I have to. I can't say, “Well, maybe I'll skip this one.” Not gonna happen. This is my life and I need to do what it takes to keep living it.

Sheri, on the other hand, has to look at someone she loves suffer day after day, wishing she could do more to help, but knowing she can't. There's no well to pull me out of. I'm sick and her love for me requires her to stay here day in and day out, when many days we know she couldn't possibly feel like it.

She does take good care of herself and that's where her wonderful group of friends comes in. They go to the beach together, they get together and talk about stuff, they have coffee and donuts. They help each other. But at the end of they day, it's Sheri's best friend who is sick and only she can do much about it, after all.

She can't even really get mad at me, poor guy with cancer. Weep, weep. Well, actually now she can become upset with me and does! I think it costs her emotionally to be angry with me, but she is willing to pay that particular price and I'm very happy that she does.

So, 23 years after our first outing, here we are- Man With Cancer and Wife of Man With Cancer. It's become a real study in the power of like. Audiences are hailing it on two continents. Or, maybe they aren't. It doesn't seem to phase Sheri and Jim, either way. They get to spend every day together, and at that, 23 years doesn't seem like anywhere near enough.

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

We have nothing to fear, but... everything?

We were talking about phobias, the other day, me and not-his-real-name Walter.

The discussion was occasioned by NHRN Walter talking about someone he knew having uncommon fears around the weather. It's always interesting to find out what people may be afraid of, and, let's face it, we can sometimes find someone else's fears silly, though ours are always going to be very, very real.

Look. Even if you don't suffer from popular (?) phobias such as arachnophobia (spiders), ophidiophobia (snakes), acrophobia (heights), or even cynophobia (fear of dogs) or ailurophobia/gatophobia (fear of cats), you can at least understand why they may be something from which one could suffer. But some, like globophobia (fear of balloons), trypophobia (fear of holes) or koumpounophobia (fear of buttons), just leave me shaking my head.

So why am I even bothering with all this blah, blah, blah about phobias anyway. Well, as Walter and I were talking about his acquaintance's weather worries, a column idea oozed its way into my head. I came up with the great notion that … we have names for fears of things we didn't even know it was possible to be afraid, but we didn't have a name for something huge, like the fear of cancer. I was working on a whole column around that idea. I was really rolling... Yeah, brothers and sister, there's labels for fear of zombies, being attacked by and turned into one (kinemortophobia) or fear of belly buttons (omphalophobia). But we have no name for the fear of cancer. My indignation meter was pinned, people.

But, then, I found out what most of you already knew- there is such a phobia. Carcinophobia Yeah. Well, in my defense- if it wasn't for my general, but well-rounded ignorance, I might never be able to write about anything.

As it turns out, carcinophobia is a very real fear, which, can, in fact, lead to agoraphobia where the person refuses to leave home for fear of getting cancer.

Wow. Who knew? I certainly didn't have carcinophobia prior to getting cancer, and I don't have it now. I mean, I just got cancer. I didn't have the chance to be afraid of it.

I do think about “just getting it,” though, when friends get word from their doctors that there's “ a shadow on your x-rays,” or they find a lump they can't really identify. That strikes me as being truly scary. Release the three Ws- waiting, wondering and worrying! Look at all the time you would need to spend talking yourself into knowing there's nothing to worry about, that it's all going to be okay, but...

As you can surely see, the talk of phobias caused me to actually do some research before writing this week. I know you didn't think I knew what koumpounophobia was off the top of my head. But looking up a phobia can't help but lead to looking up a bunch of them. It's like when I was in school and needed to look up a word in the dictionary. It invariably took much longer than it should have because I kept noticing other words, like so much bright and shiny stuff, which distracted me from my original word search. Or in modern terms, it's like going to the Internet and only looking at one site. How is that supposed to happen? Like the proverbial peanuts, or Lay's potato chips, one is only going to lead to another and then another and so on and so on and scooby dooby do. (Editor's note: this would be scooby dooby do as in Sly and the Family Stone's “Everyday People,” rather than in Frank Sinatra's “Strangers in the Night.” Just sayin'.)

Anyway, I got all bogged down in this and, is so often the case, ended up knowing way more than I ever wanted to about phobias. After all, it bothered me a few weeks ago when I was writing a piece that included references to coulrophobia, and that didn't require any research. I just knew what it was. (As I'm sure you'll remember, coulrophobia is the fear of clowns.)

I guess the end result of all this is- if you can be afraid of something, you can be sure there is a “proper” name for it. Yes, I did not, nor do I now, have a fear of cancer. It would not have surprised me, though, if I did, or do, develop trypanophobia (a fear of needles), nosocomephobia (fear of hospitals) or latrophobia (fear of doctors).

I think being afraid of something to the point where it develops into a phobia is a terrible thing. Probably just as well I couldn't find the “proper” name for the fear of having multiple spleens. I'm just going to have to live with it. Oh the horror.

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

I have cancer

I have cancer.

I know. You're thinking: no poop, Sherlock. You've been telling us about it for almost two years. And, oh yeah, your column IS subtitled “My journey through cancer...” So, why are you bringing this up now?

Friends, there are just times when I need to say, in a completely unadorned, non-writer type fashion: “I have cancer.” It's not that I would forget, otherwise. Believe me. Even if you know nothing at all about having cancer, I know you'll believe me when I say it's not something you forget about.

Nah, when I tell myself, “I have cancer,” it helps me bring a lot of other things into focus. Most importantly, it reminds me of the wonderful life I'm living. The appreciation I have for my family and friends is so much deeper because of the needs created by having cancer. If you're the type of person who thinks in color- it turns my life from, let's say, a restrained pink to a deep, warm, enveloping maroon.

But here's something that invariably accompanies my “I have cancer” statement. Early in my cancer days, I wrote about not having a bucket list. I still don't. I believe if there are things I really want to do before I die, I'd better get to them. So should you.

That being said, I am baffled, sometimes, when there are things I would do “If only...” If only what? If only I had cancer? But I don't do them anyway.

Look, if I want to sit down and eat a half-gallon of ice cream, why shouldn't I? Okay, it's mostly no longer sold in actual half-gallons, but in containers designed to trick you into thinking you're still getting a half-gallon of ice cream. But, you know what I'm sayin'.

Why wouldn't I just tell myself, “I have cancer. Isn't it a little stupid to be worrying about my weight at this point?” Right? But, good health is an important aspect of fighting cancer, that's a proven fact, and eating a whole container of ice cream is not healthy. There's also my wife, Nurse Ratched. Slipping all that ice cream by her... not gonna happen.

At one time or another, I'm sure you've all made a list of things you want to do or say when it is your last day on a job. Headed for greener pastures, you want to tell off the ingrate who constantly took the last cup of coffee without making more. Or maybe the person who kept presenting your ideas as theirs when the entire staff was working on a project. Then again, maybe you just didn't like the person and wanted to tell them so, and list the reasons why.

My friend Peters (real name unclear) left more than one job with a flash, but my favorite has to be when he was fired on a Friday and ownership, who certainly should have known better, didn't take his key to the building. He came in and moved all the downstairs furniture upstairs and vice versa, just so he could imagine how stunned the people responsible for his dismissal would be come Monday morning.

I know. That was an awful lot of work just to get a little revenge; revenge he wasn't even around to see. But, still, don't you wish you could something like that?

I've made those lists, but have never done anything about it. Partly because I just didn't feel it was worth it, and partly because I didn't want to hurt the other people's feelings. I know, I know. They didn't care about my feelings, But, that's why, ultimately, I can feel morally superior to so many people!

Approached from a certain angle, having an incurable form of cancer can be regarded as the ultimate last day at a job. And I don't have to limit myself to a narrow band of annoyers- people I am finishing up working with. I can do it with EVERYONE.

Let's say someone constantly dominates conversations when you and friends get together by talking non-stop, regardless of the subject. I can just scream at them “Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!!” Oh, wait a minute. My wife actually did that to someone once. Well, how about approaching two employees who are more interested in continuing their talk about how fabulous their weekend was, and asking “Excuse me. Is my trying to buy something interfering with your chit-chatting?” Oh, wait a minute. I've done that; quite often actually. Grrrrrrr. Okay. How about this. You're explaining a project to a group and one of them says, “Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” You could say, “Mind if I don't take it?” Oh, wait another minute. I've done that too.

ANYway, I think what I'm talking about is the realization that having cancer doesn't change the basic you. I've said before, I'm a lot more than a person with cancer. So, why would I expect to be able to handle so many situations in a different manner than before I got sick? I'm no more a furniture mover for vengeance now than I was two years ago. Besides, I bet maybe-his-real-name Peters would do it for me, if I needed him to.

So, brothers and sisters, if you were planning to get cancer as a way to set you free in ugly social situations, I suggest you skip it. (My wife is going to hate that I wrote that; but, hey, she once told someone “Shutupshutupshutupshutup,” so, I'm not sure the moral high ground is her's on this one. Besides, I'm trying to make a point.) No bucket list, no “I'm gonna say exactly what I want to” list. Just the list that lets you do the next right thing in each situation.

And if you just HAVE TO make to make some snappy retort in a given situation? There's always, “Oh yeah? Well, I'm rubber and your glue and everything you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!” It destroys them every time. Seriously, people. It does.

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