Arnold girls dish: “The worst thing my dad ever did to me.”

With another Father's Day approaching, or come and gone depending on when you read this, I can't help but reflect, especially this year, on being a father, for better or worse. That sort of thing can be a slippery slope, of course, but what are you going to do? The brain goes where the brain goes. For example...

When my daughters visited earlier this year, we had a terrific time. We remembered old stories, created new memories- this time including Sheri who hadn't come into our lives when the girls were younger- and laughed a lot. I think it was the perfect tonic for all of us. Yes, we addressed my illnesses, but, since that is only a part of what our lives are today, it was given due attention, but kept right-sized.

Interestingly enough, what didn't come up was “The worst thing my dad ever did to me,” probably because it lodges firmer in my mind than it does in theirs.

The whole “worst thing” began when Jennifer was a junior (I think) in college, majoring in theater and psychology. Interesting combination, right” But my best friend in high school set the bar very high for interesting combinations. He was brilliant. He got one question wrong on his SATs and got through the University of North Carolina with flying colors in just three years. His majors? Spanish and religion. He once observed to me: “If the Spanish Inquisition ever returns, I'll be in high demand. Otherwise...”

But, back to Jennifer. At the time, I was the artistic director of a new plays program for a Syracuse theater company. My co-director chose the scripts and arranged for the playwrights to be at staged readings where I would have provided the actors. On one occasion. I arranged for Jennifer and a number of her theater friends to provide the talent.

Since the school was about 30 miles from Syracuse, I drove up to get them and bring them to the reading. On the way down, the other students started talking about their parents and each had a “worst thing my parents ever did to me” segment. Now, I wasn't loving this because, really,;what could I do but ask Jennifer for her contribution.

I confess... the speed with which she came up with her answer was disconcerting. Allow me to offer it here, some paraphrasing is inevitable; it was close to 25 yeas ago, after all. “Oh I know exactly what it was. (I imagined some of the things I thought were terrible and braced myself.) I was about ten and Alison (her sister, who was around eight)) hit me in the eye with a rubber band and I came to you to complain about it. Knowing how you were, I had all the evidence I needed. I had a red mark over my eye, I had the rubber band in my hands. And do you know what you said? (I assumed it was a rhetorical question and just waited.) 'Tell her not to do it again.' Tell her not to do it again? I will never forgive you for that! Never.”

Really? That's the worst thing you remember me doing to you, I thought. Wow, I also thought. Of course, I had no recollection of the “incident.” My guess it was a Sunday night and, if it had been a typical weekend, the two of them had been at each others throats for much of it. I was tired. More to the point, I was tired of them and so my answer would have made perfect sense... to me.

Now Alison had never actually formalized “The worst thing dad ever did to me,” but she didn't have to. We both know what it is.

First, though, you have to realize that Alison is one of the most kind-hearted people I know. Yes, she's my daughter, but I truly believe that. Yet, she also has a mouth on her... She just says things that remind me so much of me that I can't help but feel at least a little responsible. I remember a Saturday morning, 7 am.-ish, when all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. But no, I hear Alison, about five, say to her older and taller sister, “How'd you like a nice Hawaiian Punch? Would that be good? Right in your face.” Since she very well might have meant it, I needed to get up and begin the weekend's refereeing.

But the “worst thing.?” The two of them were old enough that their mother Janice and I could go out for the night and leave them without a babysitter. We told them they could watch TV, but specifically told them they could not watch “Friday the 13^th” and they had to turn it off by 10 pm. Good enough.

We got home earlier than anticipated, but still after 10 p.m., and entered the house without them hearing us. They were watching the small black and white TV in one of their rooms and we heard them debating whether or not they should finish watching “Friday the 13^th.” Yeah. The movie that should not be watched. Jennifer, always the one (at least at that age) who believed in following the rules and staying out of trouble, said they should stop, otherwise mom and dad would feel the TV was still warm and they'd get in trouble.

Alison- remember I told you about her mouth? Her response was “They're too stupid to feel the back of the TV. Quit worrying.” Yeah again. She said it; we heard it. They still didn't know we were in the house.

So, I went to the kitchen and got this horrific carving knife... just like the kind they used in the movie. Our stairs made a 90 degree, left-hand turn about halfway up, so I took the knife and stood on the lower level and waited... because they were going to have to come down to get ready for bed at some point.

Sure enough, Alison starts to come downstairs and just as she was about to make the turn, I put the knife around the corner where she couldn't help but see it, but where it couldn't actually stab her. OMG. Such screaming and, I think, tears. Did I feel bad? Nah. It was great. Hey, she started it. Too stupid? How do you like me now? And let's not clutter this with the she was a child and I was an adult argument. It was one small victory for the adults in an endless sea of defeats. Cut me some slack.

The thing about those two girls that continues to baffle me every day is how much they love me. Not just that they love me... the Bible tells them they have to do that, and Jennifer is a pastor's wife after all. But how much they love me.

If you had told me, heading into that visit, that the days would have been filled with love and laughter, and that multiple myeloma would have been present and accounted for, but right sized? Hey, I'm one of the ones who was “too stupid to feel the back of the TV.” Remember?

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.

Look who got an A+

We had another positive clinic visit this week.

I actually got an A-plus from the doctor for the way my blood work has progressed. That's right A-plus, and I didn't even study.

The subject of remission finally came up. I had been reluctant to ask, just in case. I mean, not knowing was better than being told I wasn't in remission. It reminded me of the last time I was out of work. Whenever I had an interview, I dragged my feet on following up to see if I got the job. As long as I didn't know, I had hope, and in the second year of being unemployed, hope was hard to come by. The more the rejections piled up, the longer it took me to do the follow-up calls.

The doctor here felt the blood work showed amazingly quick progress. He did, though, point out that there are other aspects of the multiple myeloma that he wasn't prepared to address. Those would have to wait until we go back to Dana Farber in Boston next week. Fair enough. We'll take the successes we have and drag them along with us to face the next bits.

We had a revelation while we were at the Alfond this week: We don't really have any idea how to deal with processes involved in my getting healthier. I had been sick and getting sicker long enough that we knew so many of the medicines I took, the procedures to be done, and so on, that we were able to address it all pretty easily.

But now, so much has changed. It sort of ties into what I was saying recently about not having specific tasks ahead of us to get through. Now the treatment plan is in something of a state of flux. There are nutrition restrictions; when can they be lifted? There are medicines to take until a certain point in my recovery; when is that point? I have to avoid crowded places and anyone who visits me in our home has to wear a mask and gloves; how much longer before each of those restrictions can be lifted?

Another thing that has popped up takes me back to when I was first sick. I didn't know what my cancer was going to do; what is was going to feel like. So each little pain, each physical anomaly caused me to wonder if that was because of the cancer. The trouble with the speculation at that point was that I'd never paid much attention to my body, so in most cases I couldn't tell if something was always like that, or was it something new that could be cancer-related.

Now, I find that speculation has been turned on its ear. I know to a great extent what the cancer feels like, though virtually nothing is certain.

For example, after mentioning recently that I was pain free for the first time since I got sick, the pain in my ribs, which had previously been my constant companion since day one, returned. Currently the pain is dull, except for when I probe with my fingers to try to determine the extent of the problem. Then it hurts a lot, reminding me of course of the old vaudeville joke. A man goes to his doctor, who asks the man what's wrong. He raises his arm above his head and says, “Doctor. It hurts when I do this.” The doctor wastes no time telling him, “Don't do that.”

Rib pain hasn't always meant something bad. At first, it usually meant the myeloma has caused some damage which brought on pain. But as I gave myself injections designed to build up my stem cells prior to the transplant, I had the worst pain of all as my bones, literally, became crowded as healthy cells fought for room with the cancer cells.

Good pain, if you will, was also the result of an intravenous bone densifier that I was taking, as well as my white blood cell count improving and fighting for space.

When I brought it up at my appointment, my doctor, who has always told me what was really going on, admitted that he wasn't sure. He allowed that it could have been ay number of things, all to do with the effects of the transplant or some other aspect of treatment. He wasn't too worried about it because almost any issues would have shown up in the blood tests. So, I don't worry about it either. So, there.

Continuing to heal will obviously have its own challenges, its own moments. And that's okay. The journey continues but I like the scenery better on this new road I'm own.

The next challenge is Sheri reacquainting herself with driving in Boston. She's been practicing being unthoughtful to other drivers and, of course, she has been pounding the horn, regardless of what the circumstance might be; some days before we even get out of our own driveway.

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.”

No party necessary; thanks anyway

So, my stem cell transplant just turned a month old.

I thought about having a party, but I'm not supposed to be around large numbers of people. I also can't eat products from a bakery, so we probably wouldn't have had a cake. Soft serve and hand packed ice cream are also on my don't list; in the case of both of those, they're not allowed for a year.

We wouldn't have had a clown because I hate clowns and it might have brought about a downturn in my health. Besides, you invite one and they show up in one of their little cars... the next thing you know you're up to your broken clavicle in the damn things. I don't think so.

We could have had a pony, I suppose, to go along with the name of my column, but I won't be allowed to be around animals for a few more months.

But, hey, who cares. No, seriously- who cares. So much has happened in the last nine months, so many highs and lows, that to be doing so well so soon after the transplant is all I need to be happy. I do like soft serve ice cream, though.

Anyway, I suppose it's only natural to look back. After all, the transplant was the source of so much worry, mystery and hope, to be a month past it after all the time spent anticipating it... it just seems like a big deal.

Well, if we throw the last nine months against the wall, what sticks?

I'm writing again, something I really didn't think I would ever get back to. Even when I was working as a copy editor at the Kennebec Journal/Morning Sentinel, it never occurred to me to ask if I could write for the papers.

As I've noted before, the decision to start blogging about being ill wasn't an easy one to make, and yet it was probably inevitable. I did not anticipate it appearing in the newspapers on a weekly basis, or in the newspapers back in New York. And I had no idea the impact it would have on others. When people tell me it helps them cope with whatever they might be going through... I have no idea what to say. So I say “Thank you.” but I mean so much more.

I have more friends on Facebook than I ever thought would be possible. Odd as it may seem, there are quite a few of them I don't actually know. I get friend requests on a pretty regular basis. Most of them are friends of my wife, my kids, or of other friends. But a bunch of them are people I don't know, or don't remember, whom I assume are interested in following my blog and know that having access to my Facebook page is the best way to do it.

I've learned so much about medical procedures and medicines, that my doctors and nurses no longer have to talk really, really slowly and use small words, while pointing at pictures. One of the tricks was realizing that medicines can have more than one name. Instead of looking lost when asked if I'm taking such and such a medicine that doesn't sound remotely familiar, I can ask what else it might be called. If I still don't get it, I chalk it up to chemo brain and ask them to talk slower, use smaller words, and ask if they have any pictures that might help.

For the first time since I injured me “bee” rib on the Saturday of last year's Labor Day weekend, I am free of pain. The pain went out with a bang just before my stem cell harvest. The drug that was designed to encourage my sea monkeys worked really well, and my bone marrow became packed with healthy and cancerous cells. It really hurt. But once the millions of healthy cells were harvested, the pain went away and it's stayed away.

I have plenty of side effects that I don't love- nausea, fatigue, on again/off again appetite- but nothing horrible, though there are days.

I have consistently been exposed to the goodness in people. Back in the early seventies, I was president of a volunteer group that helped run a teen center in the town where we lived. I was talking to one of the young counselors, who was actually about the same age as I was at the time, and he told me- “Wow you really are a cynic. So many people pretend to be, but you really are.” True enough at the time, I guess. But people's kindness towards me has been so consistent and come from so many different areas of my life, that I can't help but accept it as real and genuine. I tried to scoff, but I am now scoff-less. I thank God for that kindness every day.

I do struggle with “What's next?” From the day my doctor told me I had cancer, a line of challenges lay before me like the hurdles in a race at a track meet. There was always another hurdle to get over, with all the anticipation and anxiety involved in it. But there are no longer visible hurdles. Certainly the work isn't done, but it's of a more general nature: “Keep doing what you're doing”; “Make sure you're following you're aftercare regimen”; “Let us know if anything seems wrong, especially if your temperature goes above 100.5.”

Those aren't things you can jump over; you just live with them. Obviously, the goal is to get back to something resembling good health But since multiple myeloma is incurable at this point, it's hard to be sure what good health even looks lie.

I know that sounds negative, but I don't mean it to be. There are so many realities to be faced as part of this journey, that is just one more. It doesn't have a value of good or bad; it's just something to face and find the funny in.

On the one-month anniversary of my stem cell transplant, I find myself more grateful than ever; more determined to wring as much out of every day as I can, even though sometimes that isn't much. The periodic fear that I felt is absent; there's nothing left to fear. I have work to do. But I know what it is and I know what the result will be.

It feels like I might even be getting closer to finding the pony.

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.”

Good thing we're all adults here

Here's an interesting thing... interesting in so many ways. I pour my heart into my writing about fighting cancer- the ups the downs, the challenges, all of it. So what has generated more fascination than anything else? Pigeons having sex outside my hospital room window.

Seriously. Emails, Facebook comments, personal comments... So what happened with the pigeons? I hate to tell you this, but I have no first-hand knowledge of what happened to the pigeons. They sure looked like they were about to have sex. But then the treatment for my cancer interfered with my observations somehow and when I was able to pay attention again, they were gone.

Oh- before you go getting all depressed and everything, one of my nurses told me that the man in the room next door had also been observing sex in the city and was able to confirm a successful coupling. You're welcome.

Now, let me tell you something else that happened that will surely divert you from your pigeon obsession, while at the same time putting pictures in your head you will regret. You may even have trouble sleeping at night. If you do- call me. I'm awake all the time anyway.

Part of the check-in procedure at the hospital is for a nurse to explain all the medical geegaws and doodads that are in your room and what they would be used for. You then get a tour of the pod where the nurses work. My intake nurse was very thorough and professional. Fine. I hear “blah blah blah masks, blah blah blah gloves, blah blah blah isolated.” Good. We seem to be on the same page. She also has a great sense of humor.

We return to the room where I will spend the next 17 days in air-purified isolation. She explains that the air filtration system in my room is much noisier than most. That's okay with me. It runs 24/7 and provided genuine white noise to keep out most of the sounds on the other side of the barbed wire, where freedom waited, thumbing its nose at me.

Anyway, the nurse continued to explain what's going, or will be going on. Again, absolutely no disrespect, but she might as well have been explaining about using my cushion as a flotation device. I was distracted and nervous. Suddenly, though, there was an almost indiscernible change in her tone. It wasn't much, but it got me to pay attention.

“One of the things we need to do quickly is takes swabs of your nose and your rectum.” At that point rectum seemed like such a big-boy word, but I continued to listen. “That way we know, if you get sick, whether or not it was something you brought in with you.”

Right. Cuts down on the finger-pointing later. Makes sense, let's swab away. Now, by this time in my treatment, I've become pretty okay with showing any of my body parts to any of the medical team, or even a casual observer if it brings them joy. The fact that most of the people I am showing my parts to are young women perhaps late-20s to mid-30s is neither here nor there. What the heck am I going to show them they haven't already seen? They're terrific nurses, for heaven's sake.

So. The nurse swabs my nose and before you could say, “My name is Jim and I'll be your patient this evening,” I've dropped my pants and underwear, and a long thin stick with a cotton swab on the end is up my butt and out and in its little carrying case.

“We'll being doing this again midweek,” my Saturday nurse said. Excellent. I got the routine set in my mind: nose swab, expose butt, stick stuck, pull up pants. Easy peasy.

A couple of days later a new nurse comes in, one who fits the same demographic. Time for my nose and rectum swabs. “Yes. I'm ready. Let's get it done.”

The nurse swabs my nose, I lay stomach down on the bed, butt exposed, feeling somewhat proud of myself for being such an adult about the whole thing. And before you could say. “My name is Jim and...”

But wait a minute. Something wasn't right. A cold breeze was blowing over my butt which seemed to have been hanging out, if you will, for a couple of seconds too long.

I was just about to say something when I heard a sweet, bemused, non-judgmental voice behind me say, “Oh. I was just going to give you the kit so you could do itself yourself the next time you went to the bathroom.”

Here's what went through my head in the next two seconds: 1) Give an explanation that is vaguely correct- “Darn these pajamas. They just won't stay up since I lost weight.” Lame; 2) Start singing the National Anthem as both a distraction and way to stand up and pull my pajamas up in one fell swoop. Probably not; 3) Tell the truth. “Actually the first nurse wanted to do it in the room so I thought I might save us some time.”

It was all very adult and stuff, but I did feel a little creepy. It became the source of some humor over my stay, sort of like Sheri saying that I looked like Uncle Fester from “The Addams Family,” once my hair fell out. Oh how we laughed!

So, I had my first post-transplant doctor visit and it went very well. All the numbers are where they should be and the side effects I'm having are exactly what was expected. The biggest thing is feeling nauseous and tired most of the time. Also, everything I eat tastes like wood shavings. Considering what I'm fighting and what I've already been through, that doesn't seem so bad.

I will admit, though, that not seeing the pigeon romance through to the end was something of a major disappointment. Wait. You don't suppose dropping my pants with the blinds open chased them away, do you?

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.”

Invoke the Slaughter Rule? Hmmm. Not just yet

I've been going through this whole cancer treating process focusing, as much as possible, on simply getting through each day, one at a time, facing the challenges as they come up, and trying to find the funny in decidedly unfunny situations.

I think, by and large, that I've been successful. There have been plenty of days, plenty of specific parts of my treatment that were difficult to face and difficult to get through. But I have gotten through and moved on, getting ready for whatever comes next.

We came home the other day after almost a month in Boston. in which we took the final steps preparing for, going through, and beginning recovery from my bone marrow transplant. All of which happened and all of which we got through day by day.

But this was different in a way that took me completely by surprise. Yes, we got through each day and moved on to the next. The whole thing sucked, don't get me wrong. I was nauseous every day, and still am. I was so tired, but couldn't sleep and still can't. I went days without eating hardly anything. But, I knew I could endure anything for a day, which all I was really being asked to do. And I did.

It wasn't until we got home that I was able to look at the almost-30 days as a whole. It was.... a very difficult process to go through. Physically? Yeah, it was hard physically. Constant fatigue and nausea were difficult for me to endure. Mentally? Aye, there's the rub. I can't think of anything I've gone through that was a tougher mental battle than this.

When my Boston oncologist was first talking to me about a stem cell transplant, one of the things he said was that it was going to be hard to endure, on every level. He said there were going to be good days and bad days and days where I would want to give up. But, he added, as long as I was able to see each day as just one day, I would be very successful.

Both my daughters and my grandkids have played, and in some cases still play, youth-level sports. Regardless of what the particular sport may have been, in each they had the equivalent of a Slaughter Rule. I doubt that it was ever called that; more likely, good sportsmanship rule, or if we don't have a rule like this we're going to be here all night rule. The point was, of course, after you're being beaten badly enough, there's little left to learn. Your ass can only be kicked so bad, before it becomes abusive. So when one team got far enough ahead, they were usually ruled the winner and the game was called.

I confess there were times after my transplant that I wanted to invoke the Slaughter Rule. It's not that I wanted to give up, but my ass had been kicked enough. I was in the same room for 17 days, isolated from just about everyone. The masks the staff, Sheri, and later my daughter Alison and friend Donna, had to wear added to the feeling of being cut off.

Every day seemed endless, just like the one before it. It would begin around 6 am with a check of my vital signs. (The first of about half-a-dozen such checks throughout the day.) Then there'd be my early morning medication, followed by a sporadic stream of nurses, staff and members of my transplant team doing the same things and asking the same questions.

I had plenty of toys with me. I had my laptop, my Nook, my iPod and the hospital provided some sort of ersatz cable television. I had a terrific book Alison had given me for my birthdayabout Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley and the song “Hallelujah.” But none of it was much use. I simply couldn't focus long enough to become engaged with any of it.

I was given a variety of drugs to help me sleep and with the nausea, including low doses of morphine. I still couldn't sleep. After the two doses of chemo that killed off the remainder of my immune system, I had a difficult time maintaining a level of potassium in my system that would meet the doctors' standards. So there were many nights where the nurses had to administer bags of potassium by IV just about every hour.

God bless those nurses. They would creep into my room like ninjas in an effort to let me sleep, but I was invariably awake. There were times when they were able to stay and chat with me for a while, and those times were great. I was going to be awake anyway.

As the days ground on, surprisingly, invoking the Slaughter Rule become less of an option. Why? My wife and kids were there with me every day, in the room or by phone, encouraging and supporting. There were my friends and all of you: people I either don't know or barely know, who have been encouraging since day one.

Then there was my friend Cindy. I've never met her, but I don't need to. She is in a situation similar to mine, only about six months further down the road. Neither of us are crazy about using the phone, so we email a lot. When I was hardest on myself for not being strong enough, admiring her strength, she reminded me that she had been exactly where I was. The strength and courage I was seeing in her was because she had gotten through the things I was struggling with and come out the other side. She was also able to convince me that I would too.

As I looked back over the months I've had cancer, I realized that faith has allowed me to face my fears and that courage was the reward for having done so; faith always came first.

So, Sheri and I are home and loving it. If you see her, ask her about the Boston drivers and Boston traffic she had to fight, twice a day, every day. Just make sure there are no children nearby. I feel crappy a lot of the time. I still can't really sleep very well. Mentally, I feel like I could put my brain in a scratch and dent sale, but I continue to work on that as well.

I have my first doctor's appointment since leaving the hospital in a couple of days. It will be in Augusta, rather than Boston, back with my team there that has been with me since the beginning. Obviously, I'm hoping that everything is fine, but here's the truth: the thought of getting outside, taking a ride in the car and actually being around people who, except me, aren't wearing masks and gloves... pretty exciting, boy.

Thank You note: We wanted to thank all of you who have shared and/or donated to the Go Fund Me site our daughters, Alison, Jennifer and Kristie, have established. 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.”

Huh. That didn't suck so bad II

“The sun isn't yellow,
It's chicken.”

Bob Dylan

So, it's been just about a week since I entered the hospital, and what a week it's been.

Sunday and Monday I had the doses of chemotherapy that would completely destroy my immune system. Again, that is something you would think would register psychically, where you'd think, “Wow. So this is what it feels to be completely vulnerable to any sort of infection.?” Again, you'd be wrong. Other than a slight increase of nausea... bupkus.

Tuesday was what they call around here my new birthday. My stem cells were reintroduced to my system, through an IV drip. For such a major event in my life, it didn't seem like much. But, of course, it was. It really meant turning the corner and getting back to being healthier. I felt bad for my day nurse who had to stand- no sitting allowed- and study the IV... just in case, for over an hour. But all went well, and he finally got to sit down, I assume. No one here seems to sit down much, at least not that I get to see.

I am isolated, other than staff, and Sheri, who come in. They are always masked, so you see their eyes, forehead and hair. At times it looks like bank robbers left their convention early to avoid traffic. The last couple of days, I've been able to walk around the pod outside the door, as long as I wear gloves and a mask. Believe me, it's a lot more exciting than it sounds.

Let's see, what else has been going on.. Sheri finally buzzed off the rest of my hair and beard yesterday. It seems okay to me. I have to be careful, though, cause when I take my hand across my head to fix my hair, my hand goes flying off the back of my head. Even that's okay as long as Sheri isn't right behind me and gets a poke in the eye. I'll try to change the photo with my blog, and/or post it on Facebook, for those of you who watch “Hoarders” just so you can look around your house and say, “Hey. This isn't so bad.”

The two pigeons who have been hanging around outside my window for the past couple of days appear to be getting ready to fulfill their part of the “Birds do it, bees do it” equation. They are the only other living creatures I see on any sort of regular basis, so I'm quite happy for them. Hey, don't even think about judging me. If you were watching it on PBS you would be falling all over yourself to get to a phone to renew your subscription or make a pledge.

Right now the biggest enemy is boredom, which you probably could tell. There is a TV; I have my computer, Nook and iPod, but sometimes it's just hard to focus, let alone sit up and do something. Sheri comes every day, for a few hours, and its nice to have her here, but it leaves a lot of other hours The staff stays and talks if they have the time, but... I am getting a bit used to, and try to do little spurts of stuff and then rest.

I talk to my daughters Jennifer and Alison each day. I know it helps them to hear my voice and know that I really am doing quite well. I can write and text anything, but when they hear it in my voice, they know it's real, whatever “it” might be.

There are a couple of difficult stretches yet to come. My white blood cell count continues to drop, which is a good thing because it means the chemo is working, but it also means I will be really, really tired and have some other side issues to deal with, including a high temp. But the allergy team has already been in and determined the best antibiotic to knock down any fever and there are plenty of measures the staff can take to help counter other symptoms. I have really come to see what a chicken I can be around feeling sick. I hate it, but the anti-nausea medications really help.

Still, I feel better than I did, for now, and frankly, at this stage, that's more than good enough. We'll see what happens next. Again, I'm not sure when I would be able to write again, but it helps me a lot so I will do my best.

For now, I have some pigeon watching to do.

We wanted to continue to thank all of you who have shared and/or donated to the Go Fund Me site our daughters, Alison, Jennifer and Kristie, have established. Even if you would just like to see photos of us and our family, please 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.”

What a long, strange trip it's been

Well, here I am in 4B-31 of Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, Mass. Sheri's gone to our temporary home in Medford. It is virtually the first time we'll spend apart since I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma back in September of last year. It feels strange. But she doesn't have to be physically near for the strength she brings me to be present.

This is definitely one of those, “Well, how did I get here?” situations. I mean, on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, 2013, I decided to do a little help with the gardening; something I am usually loath to do. Next thing I know I'm being attacked by wasps and eight months later I'm sitting in a hospital in Boston, preparing for a stem cell transplant. Whaaaat??

The twists and turns our path has taken in those eight months is remarkable, as are the people we have met. Fellow sufferers, doctors, nurses, hospital staff... You put it all together and it doesn't really seem like so much could have been packed into such a short amount of time. And yet, here I am.

No more tears; I don't need them. I'm losing my gorgeous hair, but my sparkling blue eyes remain sparkling blue, and the hair will grow back.

It just occurred to me, and I hope the metaphor is not too clunky, but it reminds me of almost every home improvement project I've eve been involved with. Mind you, home improvement projects are right up there with gardening in things I'm loath to do, not least of all because they always involve a lot of breaking down, stripping away and so on, so that after you've spent hours, days or weeks, on something, it looks so much worse that you find yourself wondering what the heck you were thinking in the first pace.

But then you start putting it back together and the dream s revived. The fresh paint looks and smells so great; the new wood is straight and strong; and so on. The project is a success.

Well, ain't that just been what's going on here with my cancer? We have spent all this time killing cancer cells and I've felt a little bit worse each day. There's been enough pain to question what the heck I was thinking.

But now, we start to put things back together again. The next two days will destroy the remaining cancer cells, as well as my immune system, unfortunately. But in three days my healthy stem cells are reintroduced and that's when we remember what the dream of the project was: my becoming so much healthier and stronger and returning to something approximating a normal life.

And as I sit here, getting all philosophical and resorting to the use of clanky metaphors, there's something else I can tell you, and I can tell it to you without reservation. From my experience, when I'm faced with something as big as this cancer is, I cannot deal with it by myself. My wife, kids, friends and medical staff have all been wonderful and incredibly supportive.

But you know what? None of them are here right now. All they bring to me every day, remains with me. But there are times I need just a little extra to contain my latest fear. Just a little dash of faith or hope, maybe, to get me through to morning.

For me, it happens to be God. I don't know where you will get yours, but you might want to give it some thought before you find yourself in the position of really needing it. It can be Buddha, Islam, it just has to be yours. I've known people who referred to their celestial navigator. I think it just has to be something you consider more powerful than any thing else in your life.

Anyway, I'm tired and I need to call it a night. I wanted to thank everyone one more time for your support and prayers This phase is, to me, like going to the dark side of the moon. You'll know that I'm there, and thinking of you all, but I won't be able to communicate for while. Remember, Sheri will be posting updates on Facebook, and probably some photos as well.

In the meantime: “God bless us, everyone!”

Thank You note: We wanted to thank all of you who have shared and/or donated to the Go Fund Me site our daughters, Alison, Jennifer and Kristie, have established. This week has also reminded Sheri and me how important your kind words, prayers and wishes have been . We couldn't have done this without you. 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.”