Shipping up to Boston II

Stop me if you've heard this one.

A guy walks into a doctor's office. He's been sick and is seeing this doctor for the final discussion on a treatment that will dramatically affect his health.

The doctor, as always, is pleasant, professional and encouraging. “We're going to go ahead with the stem cell transplant. Things look really good!”

The guy, of course, is very happy.

The doctor continues: “I know your treatment so far has caused you a few problems, but what comes next is going to be much harder. I don't want you to be shocked when it isn't as comfortable for you as it has been. In fact it will be quite uncomfortable.”

The doctor is so positive in his manner; is so focused on the outcome rather than the bumps along the way, the guy says, with no trace of sarcasm, “Uncomfortable? That's great doc. Let's get started!”

Okay. The guy is me and the doctor is my Boston oncologist. You got me. The rest of it's true, though.

Sheri and I had a 14-hour day when we went to Boston, including travel time. As if that wasn't challenge enough, Wednesdays are the days after I take my steroids, which means they are the days I CANNOT stop talking... at all. I try, but fail. So, Sheri had that going for her all the way there. Also, I drove. I guess I don't drive too well on steroids. Who knew?

Prior to going to the hospital, I had a bunch of tests done at the clinic here in Augusta that were sent down ahead of time. While I was in Boston, they drew 15 (!) vials of blood. I also had a pulmonary test. I got 100 on that one, but it was hard. It involved deep breathing, which is not my strong point right now.

We met with one of the charge nurses for my transplant who covered a lot of the details about the procedure. They had us talk to a social worker to make sure we had everything we needed to be in Boston for a month, and to make sure I was dealing okay with the mental aspect of all this, which we agreed I am. And finally we met with the oncologist who drew all of it together and told us everything looked really good!

I'm not kidding about the oncologist, by the way. He cares about me getting well. That's what he thinks about and, though he doesn't minimize the bumps, he knows they're worth it because of how much better I will feel and makes me and Sheri believe it too.

Now. Let's face it, the “bumps” include: doses of chemotherapy strong enough to kill me without having healthy cells to put back;severe nausea; possible mouth and esophagus sores; hair loss; exhaustion; and living in semi-isolation for about four months. Well, that's why we focus on the end result. Focus too much on the bumps, and I'd have to go back to the social worker and tell her I'd changed my mind.

Throughout this process, I've often felt that other people were more worried about what I was going through than I was. Yes, it had its challenges, but they were manageable. Well, guess what.... Yeah. Beginning in about a week, that won't be quite the case.

We start with a massive dose of chemo aimed at killing the myeloma, which also will destroy much of my immune system. During my education on this part of it, the nurse was perfectly frank- “Some people become nauseous during this. With the dosage you're taking, you will absolutely be nauseous.” I love that openness. Look, I can handle most things when I know they're coming- becoming nauseous is bad enough. Becoming nauseous when you'd been hoping you wouldn't? Priceless. No, not priceless. I mean terrible. Sorry. Damn you Master Card.

Again, I won't bore you with the endless details. Suffice to say, I guess, that we'll be doing a lot of knocking down and building back up, followed by months of caring and feeding my new baby stem cells.

Since the stem cell transplant will finish killing off what might be left of my immune system, we have to be meticulous in avoiding infections. There are many, many rules and directions around this. Usually, I'm not too good at rules, following of, but even I get how important it is.

So, here we are on the brink of another big adventure. Am I ready? Kinda. Is Sheri ready? Kinda. In this situation, though, I think two “kindas” equals one “you bet.” So, in the immortal words of David Bowie: “Let's dance.”

Jim's note: Our daughters, Jennifer, Alison and Kristie, have established a site through Go Fund Me to allow people to make donations to help Sheri and I with the costs of fighting my cancer. If you would like to see photos of us and our family- and maybe even make a donation :)- visit www.gofundme.com, and enter my name or Finding the Pony in the search box.

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.”

Happiness is a warm puppy? Maybe

'Happiness is a warm puppy'

Peanuts

'Happiness is a warm gun'

John Lennon

Well I'm a runnin' down the road , tryin' to loosen my load, I've got seven women on my mind...

Wait a minute. That's the Eagles...That's not right. I'm runnin down the road... Oh right. I saw a sign, which happened to be in front of a church, that said “The chase for happiness is endless,” or words to that effect.

My initial reaction: well, that seems a little defeatist. What about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? What about all the beer commercials that promise we'll be happy if we just drink the right beer? And they don't call them Happy Meals for nothing, now do they?

I didn't think about it much at first, mainly because driving around here in the spring involves constant vigilance to avoid potholes that vary in size from “Now there's a real tire-shredder” to “Is that a motorcycle down there?”

Once I reached home safe and relatively sound, the thought came back to me. Could that be true? Maybe. But I'm happier now than I've been in a long, long time... possibly ever. So what's up with that?

Let's review. Looking back, there is no doubt that I was terrible at relationships. At the time, of course, I thought I was all that and more. The problem was this: in order for the relationship to work, and for me to be, therefore, happy, the other person had to change to fit what I wanted. Seriously. Also, to make any of the changes I wanted, they had to be able to read my mind because I wouldn't talk about it.

I guess it would be fair to say I was emotionally broken; which might actually be an understatement. I read that until you love yourself, you couldn't love someone else. I figured they meant other people. I just needed people to change.

Now, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I was a kid in Scotland, I didn't really know. My dad had worked for a short time driving a double-decker bus and that seemed like as good a thing to do as any. When we came to this country, the only job I wanted was as a rock and roll disc jockey. AM radio was king and I loved it. Cousin Brucie, Murray the K, Wolfman Jack... yeah baby. My Scottish accent was a drawback at the time, so I ditched it and got a job at a 1,000 watt radio station in the Fingerlakes region of New York.

I was fired from the radio station for a remark I made at the company Christmas party that, looking back on it, probably could have gone unsaid for all time. It was funny though. Even the people who subsequently fired me laughed.

After that, I really just worked at jobs that made me happy and went on to something else when they didn't. I guess I had a career in newspapers, because I kept going back to them after trying something different. I really loved newspaper work and I was good at it. But, it always seemed that there had to be something more. Being emotionally broken isn't for weenies, my friends.

As for money... I can honestly say that it just didn't matter that much. Right now it matterss because of my illness. I have to take some really expensive medications and, though we have pretty good insurance, it, too, is costly. We know we'll be alright, we just don't know how yet. Not much point in worrying about it.

“The chase for happiness is endless?” My own chase for it has hurt people because I thought my happiness was worth hurting people for. At one time I was a human do-ing, rather than a human be-ing. Any success was dismissed quickly because it didn't bring me what I was looking for. I had to keep do-ing because... well, there had to be something better. Right?

In the end, the solution was simple. Once I quit the chase, happiness found me. Corny, I know, but I think that's what the sign was referring to. It was by no means instantaneous, nor was it always easy. Simple and easy aren't synonyms after all. The biggest thing was becoming less self-centered and more honest with myself, especially about myself. It also meant discovering that I am responsible for my own happiness; no one else.

So, I choose to be happy. I have an incurable, but treatable, rare type of cancer. I have an incurable and even rarer, genetic disorder. I'm facing a stem cell transplant even my doctors tell me will be arduous. But all that will be true whether I'm happy or miserable. And in my experience, you meet much nicer people when you're happy.

Jim's note: Our daughters, Jennifer, Alison and Kristie, have established a site through Go Fund Me to allow people to make donations to help Sheri and I with the costs of fighting my cancer. If you would like to see photos of us and our family- and maybe even make a donation :)- visit www.gofundme.com, and enter my name or Finding the Pony in the search box.

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.”

.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I was walking from the kitchen to the living room the other night when I was struck with the thought:

“I will never go back to being the person I was before I was diagnosed with cancer.”

I'm not saying it's a great revelation. It's certainly no “Eureka!,” as Archimedes is supposed to have

yelled upon discovering the principal of displacement. It probably isn't even as grand as finding out that Doublemint gum is “Two... (clack) Two... (clack) two mints in one.”

Still, it gave me cause to pause. Too many things have happened in the past seven months for me to

have any chance at being the person formerly known as Jim Arnold. Well the name's the same, but you know what I mean.

First off- being struck with multiple myeloma. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason why it  happened. Maybe if I had smoked like my father and my sister Moira, developing lung cancer, while

still a shock, would have been not completely unexpected. Or if I had been a sun worshiper who
worked on my tan until my skin became a color you normally didn't find in nature, and I developed
skin cancer...

But, no, my cancer I have is rare, incurable, and only about 100,000 people in the country have it.

Then, on traveling to Boston to meet with my oncologist there, I find out I also have an even rarer

condition: a genetic disorder called chromosome deletion 17p. Normally a person's chromosome 17 has two bits sticking out of it, while mine has only one bit sticking out. I hope that I doesn't sound like a kid trying to answer a question from his biology teacher when he hasn't read the appropriate chapter. It's just how I've come to think of it. Suffice to say that the damage to the chromosome is serious and will reduce the effectiveness of my stem cell transplant.

I'm sure you understand when I say being struck with two rare condition changes a person. I'm certainly not as confident about my health after my system has delivered two huge surprises and that has made me jumpy around doctors. As I was completing my radiation treatment today, I learned my

radiology oncologist wanted to see me. Ro ro; that was something new. I immediately figured he
wanted to tell me my radiation treatments had gone horribly wrong and ask if, you know, I'd ever seen that movie about the 50-foot tall man. In actual fact, he just wanted to assure me everything looked good and I should be okay to have my transplant on schedule.

There have also been plenty of somewhat superficial changes. I can't carry as many grocery bags into the house at one time because I just don't have the strength There are days when I cannot drive myself

places because fatigue takes away the focus I need to safely drive. Since I broke my right collarbone, I'm not supposed to lift anything over two pounds with my right hand and arm. Normally, I'd blow that one off, but I have my own, personal Nurse Ratched watching and making sure I don't do something stupid... something else stupid. When it comes to my health, Sheri lets nothing slide.

I answer my phone now, when I can. That's big change for me. After working in customer service at a

credit card company for years, the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was take phone calls. So I didn't.

Now most of the calls are from the clinic, or the hospital, or the hospital in Boston, or one of our

medical insurance carriers, and on and on and on. For example, the phone rang at 8:01 am this
morning. It was my hospital here changing the time of my bone marrow biopsy the next day. I also got dietary instructions and directions to where the biopsy would be performed and what to do when I got there.

As the date of the transplant gets closer (May 2), things are really picking up speed. In addition to the

bone marrow biopsy, this week I had two radiation treatments, my regular chemotherapy, a bone survey (involving 21 x-rays) and another, solo, x-ray and an echocardiogram. All the results will be shipped to Boston to be reviewed with us when we go there April 9 for a number of review sessions. I get the feeling, since we meet with the oncologist last, that the idea is to be sure I'm in good shape, physically and mentally, to proceed with the transplant.

So, with Sheri's help, I take care of these things. That's good, right? But I used to love being

irresponsible. Not all the time, but once in a while. Seriously. Knowing the right thing to do but
refusing to do it? What's not to love about that?

When people ask me how many grandchildren I have, I usually get a hundred on that one- five. Names too- Jacob, Matthew, Emma, Sam, Josh. That's five, right? But ask me their ages and you get a lot of -ish. And the dates of their birthdays? Mnemonics help with Jacob, Matthew and Sam. Emma and Josh? -Ish. But we love them a lot and I always knew we would be proud to see them graduate from high school and move on to whatever was next. Now, frankly, I wonder if I will see any of their

graduations, except Jacob's which will be next year.

Please don't consider that a morbid thought, or even sad. It's part of what has changed me. Hundreds

and hundreds of cancer-related thoughts whirl around in my brain, edging out many other things that
used to share the ride. I don't spend any great amount of time thinking about any of them, positive or not. That just happens to be the one that popped out this time. It could just as easily have been: Sheri has never seen me without a beard and it seems the pre-transplant chemo will take care of that. If she looks at my face, she'll notice. What will she think? Ditto anyone in Maine who knows me. Is it sick to think that I'll look so crappy otherwise that she might not notice? Hey, a fella can hope, right?

I think the changes in me generally come down to the difference between being Jim Arnold, person,

and the person formerly known as Jim Arnold now James Arnold, cancer patient. Being the cancer
patient has let me change some to the things I didn't much care for in being Jim Arnold. And yet having been Jim Arnold, person, has added strength to my journey that wouldn't have been possible if I didn't have him to draw from.

And despite all the changes, I love the fact that the amalgamated me still loves with all his heart, finds a way to laugh through the darkest times, cries at adorable videos on YouTube, uses optimism as a stick to beat on cancer's crap, and knows enough to value the people around him who refuse to let him reject their love and support.

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.

The colander's place in the history of radiation treatment

Certificate X.

If you don't know what it is, it sounds slightly ominous, right? It isn't really, but I lay my lack of understanding about radiation right at the feet of said certificate.

When I was growing up in Scotland, the cinema ratings carried certificates. If you watch some of the older British movies on TV, you can sometimes see the certificate at the beginning of the film. It is an actual certificate complete with verifying testifying, mystifying... all your important -ings, plus a letter. and X meant the movie could not be viewed by anyone under the age of 16.

By the way, if you have the feeling, way back in your brain, that you've heard of certificate X, and you are of a certain age, it may be because you heard the song “Lady Godiva,” by Peter and Gordon, waaaay too many times in the mid-60s. The lady in question, after her famous ride, ends up in the movies with her director: “He directs certificate X, people now are craning their necks to see her.”

Anyway, seeing a film bearing a certificate X, most of which were science fiction or horror, at my age was out of the question. Imagine my surprise, then, when we came to America and virtually all the films I remembered as certificate X were now being shown on Monster Movie Matinee. Seriously. The originals of “Frankenstein”, “Dracula” were X. But mostly X was saved in Britain for any film that featured a giant anything, usually exposed to... right, radiation.

What I can't figure out is why British censors would try to protect Britain's youth from these decidedly unscary films. For example, have you seen “The Killer Shrews”? They're dogs with crazy-looking hair stuck on them!!!! “The Amazing Colossal Man”? Hard to be scared by a grown man in a diaper, no matter how big he is. “The Attack of the Puppet People”? They are not puppets and they do not attack. They mostly just climb over everyday items built really, really big to foster the illusion.

And then there's on of my personal favorites: “Bride of the Monster,” directed by Edward D. Wood Jr., once voted the worst director in movie history.

In “Bride” we get to see Bela Lugosi, by this time addicted to morphine and methadone, just about year before he died, match acting chops with the one-of-a-kind Tor Johnson, a former professional wrestler with a huge gut, bald head, and dialogue limited, usually, to variatons of the expression, “Ugh.” As the movie climax nears (the heroes observing an atom bomb blast from about 500 feet away; a blast that doesn't even muss their hair), Lugosi straps Tor to a table and exposes him to massive doses of radiation delivered by a colander hung upside down from the ceiling. I don't mean something that look liked a colander. It was a colander! To Tor's credit though, his “ugh” variations certainly made it seem as though the colander was delivering serious pain.

Which, more or less, brings me back to what I wanted to write about- radiation treatments. They were something I knew about, of course. I even knew people who had them. Other than those former certificate X films, my knowledge was lacking. I didn't know what a treatment looked like for example. I was fairly sure it didn't involve a colander hung upside down from the ceiling, but that was about all I knew. Did you actually see rays coming out of the radiation machine? Didn't think so, but I was less sure of that than the colander thing.

Of course, the equipment turned out to be the very latest in radiation technology managed by three accomplished women; there were no kitchen utensils anywhere.

The radiation was to be of my fractured clavicle and what I have come to call my “bee ribs,” which were what got me to the doctor's in the first place. Radiation as I was exposed (har har) to it, can now be pinpointed to an exact area, of any given shape or size. Only the areas to be treated receive radiation. That certainly seemed to lessen the chance of becoming the Amazing Colossal Man. Whew.

Once the areas to be treated are properly defined, the technicians then put tattoos at key points. Now, I assumed “tattoos” was a casual term for one of those lick and stick kind of tattoos, or a “tattoo” written with a Magic Market, or something like that.

Surprising as it may be, I was wrong again! Tattoo meant tattoo, which meant being stuck by a very, very sharp, really, really pointy needle which had me using “Ugh” in ways even the great Tor Johnson had never considered. And, oh yeah, they're permanent. I considered being outraged at this defilement of the temple that is my body, but... Since my body is more like a 7-11 than a temple, and the tattoos were so small I had trouble seeing them even when they were pointed out to me, I decided to leave my tongue in its sheath for once.

I guess I had always thought you would feel the radiation somehow' just as I thought I'd feel cancer cells eating through my body like Ms. Pacman, But that isn't the case. The procedure was quiet and painless. I couldn't help but think of poor Tor Johnson being blasted by the Cancer Care Colander.

One thing I did learn, though, that I would like to pass on to you: watching science fiction movies from the 1950s is no way to prepare yourself for radiation treatments in 2014. Seriously. Even a great one, like “Attack of the Giant Leeches,” brings more confusion than clarity. I just thought you should know that.

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.”

The well-tempered clavicle (with apologies to J. S. Bach)

So, we visited the radiology oncologist the other day, mostly to determine if myeloma had already damaged my right clavicle, which I subsequently fractured during one of my recent weather-related falls.

Mind you, the fracture was causing me no pain whatsoever. My ribs and sternum hurt a lot, but the x-rays showed no breaks and the oncologist chalked it up to severe bruising that would eventually heal. Good enough.

However... He's fairly sure that the myeloma had already caused damage to the clavicle and so we are returning for another cat scan to help him define the area that he will apply radiation to so that the myeloma cells will be killed dead, dead, dead for a ducat (with apologies to William Shakespeare). If possible, he will also look at the initial rib damage suffered during the wasp attack to see what's up with that.

He assures us the radiation treatments will be zeroed in on a very small, very specific area, and will not go especially deep. I will actually have one treatment a day for five consecutive days and that should be that. Again, good enough.

All this work will be done in Augusta, which is about 25 minutes from home; an obvious plus in having such a renowned cancer treatment facility nearby, especially one that works so closely with my support staff at Dana-Farber/Brigham and Women's in Boston.

Once again I find myself wondering if these falls, as much pain and misery as they cost, weren't actually a blessing in disguise. If multiple myeloma was, in fact, chewing (oeow) on my clavicle, without the fall, how much damage could it have done before it was discovered? Instead of an incomplete fracture, couldn't any subsequent fall have been far worse? Just askin'.

Earlier in this journey, I wrote about bucket lists and New Year's resolutions; the thought being that instead of putting things off to a list, you ought to live each and every day to the fullest. I still believe that, maybe more than ever.

But here's the thing, at least for me. Tim Nichols and Craig Wiseman wrote Tim McGraw's country hit song “Live Like you Were Dying.” It's a great song sung by a great singer and I loved it long before I got sick. But, right now, when my reality runs up against the song's inspirational lyrics, my reality gets its ass kicked.

I think there are probably hundreds of you reading this right now who know exactly what I mean. Right? My living life to the fullest doesn't involve sky diving, Rocky Mountain climbing, or two point seven seconds on a bull named fumanchu. It doesn't mean going to Nepal to stare at the Himalayas, or finding people from my past that I know I hurt so that they can see how much I've changed; how I wouldn't hurt them now.

My living life to the fullest means staying as strong as I can and filling out the next form, making the next phone call, applying for grants to offset the cost of my principal chemo treatment. It means staying as positive as I can, while realizing that some days that's not going to be very positive.

Sheri and I both need to let people help us with tasks, mundane and major. Be it positive or negative in the grand scheme of things, if we'd called someone to drag the 60-pound sandbag down to the cellar door, I wouldn't have fallen and so on.

I guess now would be a good to remind myself, and you, that dying does not appear anywhere in my treatment plan or prognosis. Yet again, good enough! However... let's face it, my life has been unequivocally altered by all of this. How could it not be? When The Beatles pondered “When I'm 64,” they didn't mention cancer, chromosome damage, radiation treatments or stem cell transplants, did they? Right, and I don't think it was because they couldn't come up with rhymes that worked.

Live like you were dying? Live like your life has been unequivocally altered? Who knows. As time goes by and the amount of paperwork diminishes... when we don't plan our days around clinic visits, treatments, and phone calls... maybe we can do some of the cool things. The drawback to that, I guess, is that Sheri and I consider few things cooler than enjoying each others company and making each other laugh. I'm able to share how I feel with my daughters Jennifer and Alison, and my stepdaughter Kristie, rather than do the crazy cover-up dance my parents always did when there was bad news in the air. And from what you tell me, I'm able to speak for a lot of you when I write. So, I guess my life is pretty full at that.

I actually did want to ride a bull- not necessarily one named fumanchu- at some point, but a bull nonetheless. Now, when I even think of it, I hear entire staffs of medical professionals screaming, “Nooooooooooo.” OK, myeloma, you win this one, but you better enjoy while you can.

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.”

Born under a bad sign?

We've all known people who have had periods where they have had more bad luck than the average bear. Right? Sure, it happens with good luck too, but when has too much good luck ever been an issue?

So, our friend goes along being hit with one misfortune after another and we express the correct amount of sympathy. And it's genuine. We feel bad. During these times, it does feel like our person has suffered more than would seem necessary.

But after a while, doesn't something change in your approach? Come on, you think, no is ever THAT unlucky. Then, unbidden, the word “jinxed” enters the arena. Once that happens, it's only human to want to switch from concerned, sympathetic friend to jinx avoider. I mean, people weren't exactly lined up on the dock waiting for the Ancient Mariner to arrive, were they now?

There's also a subtle shift from our hapless example being a victim of a cruel world to questions about what he did to bring this latest thing on himself. People will support a victim; they want to avoid a jinx.

All this came to mind when I was trying to frame the latest incident that has been added to my list of whoas. One of the things about myeloma that has been made abundantly clear from day one: falling down is bad. Because the disease can cause lesions in my bones, thereby weakening them, it is much better to not fall down and put added strain on them.

Well, after having made it through almost the entire flippin' winter without incident, I fell down not once, not twice but three times last week, within a 12-hour period. Our cellar was flooding with snow runoff, for the second time in a couple of weeks, and Sheri was doing her best to stop it. I just couldn't sit by and watch any more and so I tried to move a 60-pound bag of sand into place to help her. Besides, what could possibly go wrong? Well, as it turned out...

... An incomplete fracture of my right clavicle, terribly painful bruising to my ribs and sternum, and a bump on the back of my head, along with various and sundry other bruises and scratches. The clavicle fracture limits my ability to use my right hand and arm, while the pain in my ribs makes it very hard to take a deep breath, or even a shallow breath at times.

There are longer term consequences as well. I'm supposed to walk with a cane to help me with my balance. I can't use my right hand to pick up anything heavier than a soup can. I'm not supposed to walk and... do anything at the same time. Really. My physician's assistant was almost as serious giving that piece of news as she was in her admonition, repeated at least six times, that I could not fall down again... EVER. I thought about protesting that one since I hadn't planned to fall down even once in the first place. She was giving me very serious eyes, however, and I thought it might be better just to say okay, which I did.

The walking thing, by the way, means no talking on the phone, no texting, no reading the newspaper, no conversations with other people etc., etc. It seems that if I'm going to walk, darn it, I better give it my full attention. Chewing gum and walking at the same time was not specifically excluded, but why take the chance? And I have to practice going up and down stairs. It seems the two chemos I'm taking can interfere with my ability to use stairs.

On top of that, I now have to see a radiology oncologist. In addition to attacking my blood cells, myeloma also causes the aforementioned lesions/holes in my bones. That's how the initial diagnosis was made, through x-rays after I had hurt one of my ribs. The radiology oncologist needs to see if my clavicle had already been weakened by the effects of the myeloma prior to snapping when I fell.

And... in the midst of all this, I had to notify human resources at Maine Today Media, that I would not be returning to work. I guess we all knew that was going to be the case, but now it's official, and it sucks. I really liked working for the Kennebec Journal and Morning Sentinel and I liked the people I worked with. Realistically, though, returning to work hasn't been in the cards for a few months, especially since the stem cell transplant entered the picture.

I've already been away for six months. The lead-up to the transplant would keep me out for weeks, and recovery from the transplant would mean even more months when I couldn't work. The decision itself was easy enough, I guess, but I hated to make it; hated to leave.

But here's something that has occurred to me since I let the company know. Before going to work at MTM, I had been out of work for almost two years. In that time, I interviewed for numerous jobs that I was supremely qualified for but did not get, for a variety of reasons, mostly my age, I believe.

When I interviewed at MTM, I had not worked for a newspaper in 13 years. I had never used the design software they employed and I had always worked on PCs, while they used Macs. I got the job anyway, and I came to believe that there was a reason for that. I have no idea what it was, but I'm just as sure now that there is a reason for leaving the company and moving on to whatever's next; sort of like Mary Poppins or Clint Eastwood's Man With No Name.

I don't know what that next thing might be, but I remain willing and open to whatever it is. Since I'll still be writing my blog, we can take this latest part of the journey together and see how it unfolds.

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.”

Brother can you spare a dime? Just kiddin'

Treating my cancer is not just about good doctors, good nurses and support staff, excellent facilities and the right mix of medicines and procedures. It's also about money, about cost.

Let me make this perfectly clear: I have no complaints about what things cost. I look around me when I'm at either of the facilities that are providing my treatments and I see how much has been invested in order for me to receive the terrific care that I do.

Not that we don't bitch about it, which I suppose is the same as complaining, actually. We do. But it isn't about the cost, really, it's about what we have to do to meet the cost. Sheri and I have both been on the phone for hours in the past few days talking about prescription costs, trying to find lodging for the four to six weeks Sheri will have to stay in Boston, and so many other seemingly minor details that each afternoon has ended with us emotionally overwhelmed and in serious need of naps.

I must confess that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a details kind of guy. I've been more the “I'm gonna blow this off because it makes my brain hurt” sort of person. Since I have generally surrounded myself with excellent people who have accepted this about me, and taken care of the details for me, I've had a fair amount of success throughout the years, despite myself.

This cancer fight, though, is different. Yes, there are plenty of resources to reach out to for help; more than I would ever have imagined. But details are where they live. Forms, paperwork, telephone interviews, questionnaires, surveys... aaarrrgh. Sheri took care of much of the initial grunt work, but there's just too much.

I am currently taking 15 medicines, not counting the chemo for my chromosome deletion and the bone densifier to repair the damage done by the myeloma. Only the acetaminophen and St. Joseph's baby aspirin (yeah, I take baby aspirin. Wanna make something of it?) are non-prescription. We have had to call numerous sources to try to determine how much each of those medicines will cost once we switch to Medicare; me in April, Sheri in May. You would think the answers would be easy to find, we did in what we refer to as our naïve period.

And none of this is blow off able, or blow-offable, or blowoffable. (I have editors, known and unknown, who read this and I have to at least act like style is a passing concern.) It all matters because this is my life, we're talking about. Is it overwhelming? You bet. Is it emotionally difficult? Uh huh. Do we wish it was different? Every day.

Sheri and I are in this together. You who are regular readers know this. We have been since the night my GP told me he thought I had multiple myeloma when I thought I had suffered minor rib damage. But let's face it, when people ask us about my cancer, the chromosome deletion, how we are dealing with it, they don't always know what to say, but the genuine concern and support they show, spoken or not, is an important part of this journey.

But the financial matters have been something we've just been dealing with on our own. Honestly, who ever wants to hear anyone bitch about money? Not me.

Now, I realize that I have pretty much blown that approach by blabbing about it here. But I have always tried to write about what is happening right now; what twists and turns our journey has taken. The past few days have been about the financial aspects and they have truly sucked, but that doesn't diminish its place in this journey.

I watch my wife make phone call after phone call trying to arrange lodging for herself, trying to nail down costs for drugs, filling out applications for grants to help defray expenses, and there are times I just feel bad for being the cause of all this. I know I know, that makes no sense. I didn't ask for this. I didn't cause this. But there you are. Think it I do. Well, doesn't that sound just a little Yoda-ish?

Like most things that enter my brain, that thought doesn't stick. Not only does Sheri never complain (about this), she continually reminds me that we are working at saving my life, so why wouldn't we work so hard at it? Well, sure, when you put it that way.

Most of the work has paid off, by the way. There are details to be completed, but we'll manage. Sacrifices to be made? Yes. But they are sacrifices we can make, and willingly. When all is said and done we still end up with a tremendous amount of gratitude. There are so many people in our situation who are just lost in this financial swamp. They've already sacrificed so much, and it isn't enough.

As for Sheri and I? This situation makes us uncomfortable, with a side order of worry. But discomfort doesn't kill you and worry doesn't last because it's exhausting. We don't have to have our friends organize fundraisers for us. We just need them to continue doing what they've been doing. Show their love and concern for us every day. Me and Lou Gehrig baby- the luckiest men on the face of the earth.

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.”