It's not how you start, it's how you finish

As Sheri and I considered how to celebrate our 18^th wedding anniversary, history was hardly on our side. We rarely celebrate our anniversary or Valentines' Day for that matter. I'd tell you why, but you'd think it was corny and/or I was making it up, so...

We thought about restating our vows, but we wanted it to be private, without even a minister around, so that wasn't going to work. Besides, when it comes to writing those types of things, she's much better than I am and I didn't want to start off our 19^th year with a resentment.

Given my recent concern over losing my sense of humor, I probably ought to address the old joke that many of you old joke fans probably have running through your heads right now: A guy is sitting at the bar of his favorite drinking spot and says to his cronies, “Yeah. I probably should be getting home. It's my wedding anniversary.” One of the guys asks, “How many years?” Our guy answers, “It's been nine happy years... Nine out of 23 ain't bad.” Bam!

Anyway, we kicked around some ideas before finally agreeing we should go to the Glimmerglass Opera House in Cooperstown, NY, the scene of our first date.

Now, some things you should know about that first “date.” First of all, we didn't call it a date. We were both 44 years old, which seemed like way too old to each of us to be going on a first date. Also, she and her husband were getting divorced after 26 years while a nine-year relationship I had been in ended about three months earlier. Dating hadn't been on the radar until I happened to get these damned tickets to the damned opera. So, we called it an outing. Yeah, I know, but since the whole thing felt like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, let's just give us a pass on the fact that outing and date, in this case, are the same thing.

The morning of the outing, I tried on almost every shirt/pants combination I owned, some of them twice, looking for the right outfit. I gave up and just settled for what looked the least wrinkled. I subsequently found out that Sheri had done pretty much the same thing.

I wanted to be on time, but not too early because that would make me seem overeager. So, I made the 25-minute drive to her house with 15 minutes to spare. So I went to a nearby drugstore, bought some Tic Tacs and ate the entire box while I killed so much time I was almost late anyway.

I got to her house, knocked on the door which was answered by her daughter Kristie who was headed out on a bike ride. “You be nice to my mother. She's a nervous wreck.” Well so was I, but I didn't know if nervous plus nervous equaled calm or if nervous plus nervous equaled complete disaster. Oh well, too late to worry about that.

Here's another thing you aren't going to believe but it is the God's honest truth. I had only seen Sheri dressed for casual occasions, but she always looked lovely. She came to the door that day dressed to go an... “outing,” and virtually all of my nervousness left me immediately. She was stunning. I mean... whatever comes after incredibly beautiful in the lexicon of beautifulness. One look and I knew there wouldn't be a second date. I mean, it wasn't necessarily the Beauty and the Beast, but it certainly was the Beauty and the What's That Gorgeous Chick Doing with a Guy Who looks Like That? So the pressure was off. There couldn't possibly be a second outing.

Anyway, we got in the car and she noted that my windshield wipers were tied on with two different colors of yarn; one was orange and one was black. Did I mention that Sheri has immaculate taste? Yeah, she does, so it was only normal that she would notice this and ask me about the yarn. “My windshield wipers keep flying off and I don't know how else to keep them on.” “But why is one tied on with orange yarn and the other black.”

I wanted to come up with some cool design concept to explain it, but I figured lying was no way to start a relationship. So, knowing I would lose an inestimable number of style points, I said “When the one flew off I had a piece of orange yarn in the car and when the other one flew off I had a black piece in the car.” Oy.

She was a bit guarded about men touching her, so I had admonished myself all the way over, “Don't touch her. Don't touch.” As I eased the car into reverse to back out of her driveway, I released the clutch too quickly, the car jerked, and I reached out and put my hand on her knee, as we used to do with our kids, pre-seat belts. It seemed like this would actually be a good point at which to stop the outing, especially after she yelled, “Are you out of your mind, touching me like that?!?!?!?”

But God obviously had a plan that even we couldn't screw up, because we made the two-hour drive, loved the opera (“Cosi Fan Tutte”), and spent about three hours sitting on a hill overlooking the opera house, talking about all kinds of things which somehow led to us living happily ever after, or at least happily ever to this point.

The opera house was closed, but we were able to walk all around the grounds and remembering that first outing. How could we possibly know what the next 21 years would bring? I would say we were just as unprepared for the extent of the happiness we would share as we were unprepared for her to develop type one diabetes and need an insulin pump and me to contract multiple myeloma and need a stem cell transplant.

But, I guess, that's the real truth behind happily ever after. You don't ride off into the sunset leaving any possible problems behind to live a silly fairy tale life. No. You join hands, trust and respect each other, face things, good and bad, head on and move through life daring anyone or anything to even think about trying to spoil your happiness.

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.”

About “The Box”... Is outside the new inside?

Got a wang-dang-doodle wrapped in bog snake hide

This goat head gumbo is keeping me alive

I don't want your pity or your fifty-dollar words

I don't share your need to discuss the absurd

Rub Me Raw

Warren Zevon

I guess we don't need any of our new digital devices to tell us that there are bad people in the world, Right? Just for fun I Googled “bad people” and got 26,600,000 results in 0.31 seconds. Impressive, wouldn't you say?

I guess for my purposes, I'm interested in the bad people sub-category- “Taking advantage of people who have serious illnesses.” No need to use Google this time. I know there are people who prey on the sick: on the young and the old; the poor and the not-so-poor; the hopeless and the hopeful. Without doing even so much as my usual shoddy research, I'm quite sure that the common denominator in all of this would be that the sufferers are all desperate.

I don't think any of us would put these bad people in the dumb category. Au contraire, mon ami. The best of them know exactly when to make that phone call; write that letter; send that email. I'm sure you've experienced it yourself. When you're first ill, you have all sorts of options, most of them readily dispensed by your family doctor, or any of the specialists to whom he may refer you.

But as the illness gets worse, and the number of solutions dwindle, possible cures we considered ridiculous initially, now move over into the “Let's give it a try, what could it hurt, folder.” Take something as innocuous as the hiccups. “Sure, you can try to give me a sudden scare. But, I'll be darned if I'm going to drink my beverage from the opposite side of the glass.” Continue to hiccup, though, and pretty soon the front of your shirt is liable to be soaking wet.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I quickly drew the proverbial line in the proverbial sand. I'll do this, but I won't do that. For example, I'll consider alternative medicine solutions, but I won't try, say...voodoo, Because, as I understand it, you now have to bring your own chicken.

Anyway, these low lifes go around bilking people out of their hard-earned savings, while simultaneously giving them hope, the one thing they need so desperately. The fact that the hope is as fraudulent as their so- called solutions, raises category of their crimes from despicable to heinous. The best mentor I've ever had once told me, in answer to a question: “Sure. I believe in God. If I don't, none of this makes any sense.” So, the one thing we can all be sure of is that, if there is a heaven and/or hell, these people will be given trials that make Sisyphus's task of rolling a boulder uphill as ordered, only to have it roll back down... Well, let's just say that before the first day is over, they'll be begging for their own boulder and hill.

One of the bothersome side issues these people and their false treatments, their false hope, bring is that it can make us leery of some possibly beneficial alternative treatments that are considered by some to be a little outside the box.

In my case, I've been looking at non-traditional treatments for this constant stomach pain I have. My oncologists, as well as a variety of specialists, close to numbering double digits, have been unable to come up with a solution. Ironically, they have, if I may call upon the vernacular at this point, creamed my multiple myeloma. My blood work continues to look great, and the myeloma is hiding in my system somewhere, licking its wounds. But this stomach pain... I didn't hesitate to go to an acupuncturist because my wife and a number of friends have benefited from acupuncture. But when she conceded that she wasn't going to be able to help me, and recommended a medical intuitive, it gave me pause.

As a result of these Sisyphus gonna-be's, I needed to really look at that concern over fraud versus the recommendation of a woman who had done her best to help me, and admitted defeat quickly, only so that I could move on to give someone else a chance to help. It should have been a no brainer- someone I trusted versus the scum of the earth, with apologies to the actual scum.

And it ultimately was an easy decision. Sheri and I drove 50 gorgeous New England fall miles to be treated by this woman. The methods she used were certainly out-of-the-box. I won't describe them here because “You really had to be there.” Was it touchy-feely and New Age? You betcha. Was the woman wonderful? Yes. And kind, and caring, and loving. Did it work? Don't know yet.

The whole process gave me another chance to thank God and my friends and family for helping to make me the type of person who would be willing to try something unusual, rather than just sit, wring my hands, and feel sorry for myself. Other options remain, mostly back towards the more conventional side of things. However, there's nothing stopping me from checking out the best place to buy a live chicken, just in case.. you know. It rhymes with who do.

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.”

George Bailey should have just paid more attention

You ever feel like George Bailey had it right the first time? (Before the stupid angel wanna-be butted his nose in.) The world would have been a better place without you. Or worse yet, you'd have been better off if you were never in the world.

I certainly have. We live in a tough old world, brothers and sisters, and if you get your butt kicked enough days in a row, you wouldn't be human, I don't think, if you didn't want to pull a George Bailey at least once in your life. Look, I think there are plenty of days when the bravest thing we do is to get up in the morning. For me, those are the days when I run through my morning checklist and realize there isn't a single thing on it that makes me think it could possibly be a good day. And I get up anyway.

I mean, that's what I've always done. I got up, when I was seven and knew the school bully was going to beat the crap out of me, just because he could. I did it a lot in high school, maybe because I hadn't read the book and handed in a report based on the movie, hoping to God that the two were close to the same. Or it could have been that I hadn't studied for a test on something I didn't understand anyway. Or when I extended my own school record for consecutive days without having a girl acknowledge my existence. And in a related example, I also got out of bed when I realized my only chance of getting a date was if I ran into a girl who was conducting some sort of social experiment to see if it truly was possible to make someone die of embarrassment.

And I don't think you have to have to have a terrible illness, or a broken heart, or any other “big” reason to feel George Bailey-bad; you just have to be a living, breathing human being, just trying to get by.

But brothers and sisters, life can also be wonderful. Maybe just for a few minutes, but maybe for hours, days, weeks... who knows. But I've become curious about how that's going to happen. I have no idea what terrific thing might happen today to make the past period of misery not even worth considering.

I'm not gonna lie. In mid-September I was about as done as a twice-baked potato. I kept going, as always, but in my mind somewhere was the thought that this would be the time something terrific wouldn't happen, and then what?

Well, then I experienced the following extraordinary sequence of events.

First, I got a phone call from arguably the best male friend I've ever had. We had not been in touch for 23 years. Yeah. Nada. No in touch. Turns out we'd both made attempts to find each other over the years, but this time he couldn't get over the feeling that he really needed to find me.

He now lives in Idaho, and the last he knew I lived in New York. He remembered, after all this time, that our daughter Alison's name was spelled with one “l” and that led him to her which led him to me.

We had always had a different kind of connection, more than close really. How did we drift apart? Don't know; we just did. But as we talked, it seemed like my getting cancer was somehow the driving force behind his not giving up this time.

Then, rather incredibly, a couple of days after we talked, he had a biopsy done on a mole and found out he has basal cell carcinoma. He seems okay with it and it does seem very treatable, quite curable. Still...

While continuing to reel from that shock, I checked my voice mail one day to find a message from my sister. Now, I won't bore you with the details of why I would have been less surprised to receive a message from my other sister, who passed away six years ago... Suffice to say I was stunned.

Here is how surprising it was. Sheri, one of the best people I know, heard me listen to a message but didn't know what it was about. I told her it was from someone pretending to be my sister, and she didn't tell me that I wasn't being very nice, which would be her usual reaction. She merely laughed, thinking it had been a wrong number and I was just trying to be amusing. When she heard me call my sister back, and it became obvious who I was talking to, she joined the ranks of the stunned.

I had called my sister when I went into the hospital at the end of April, and hadn't heard from her since. That was fine. That was normal. We used to go years without talking to each other. Truly. Years. But, this calling to find out how I'm doing... I don't know about that.

Still a bit wobbly after all that, I talked to my daughter Jennifer. Among other things, she told me she had heard from her college roommate who worked for a drug company that was working on a cure for multiple myeloma. So now we not only know that “they” are working on a cure, but someone we know is working for “They.”

That would have been a lot to miss and that is why I get out of bed every day, sometimes twice, if I take a nap: to endure the bad long enough for the good to arrive, because the good is usually terrific and the bad fades quickly.

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 didn't say I took my own advice, did I?

I have a couple of things to tell you before I go too far on this one.

First, I must make a confession. I am 65 years old- 65 YEARS OLD!- and here I am unable to go to bed when I want to because I have to do my homework. Seriously. In this case my homework is this column and if it is going to be in the Kennebec Journal and Morning Sentinel on Saturday, I have to get it to the editor now.

So many of you have come up to me in so many different, sometimes unusual, places, to confirm that it's me (and Sheri) and to tell me how much the column in the papers means to you; how much it has helped you; how much you enjoy it.

So blowing it off is not an option; well, not a serious option. I have known since last Thursday that I would need to get my column done by this Thursday. What is the matter with me? That's a rhetorical question by the way; no need to send me your answers. I do have feelings after all.

I can always claim the thrill of writing on deadline, but that ship sailed years ago. There was a time that knowing I was on deadline added an edge to working. Now, it just makes me wonder why I'm still doing it after more than three decades in the newspaper business.

Second, I guess I have an apology to make, but I don't think I do. I make it because I'm 65 years old, and while I may not have learned much about getting my homework in on time, I have learned a remarkable amount about treating my wife properly, while keeping her happy.. And, more importantly in this particular situation, keeping people who know us both happy.

Last week part of the focus on my writing centered on the Jimmy Soul song, “If You Want to be Happy for the Rest of Your Life, Never Make a Pretty Woman Your Wife.” I suppose you can see already how that might not have turned out as I'd planned.

In my defense, I thought that it went without saying that I hadn't taken the advice myself. It was strictly do as I say, not as I did. Honestly. However, it apparently didn't actually go without saying; not according to a number of you. “What the heck were you thinking?,” or variations on that theme were popular. “Why would you suggest something like that after all Sheri has done for you?” No. Wait. You missed the point... No one wanted to hear it.

Sheri seemed to get it. She may have suggested confusion in her comment on the column when it appeared in blog form, but I definitely didn't get the stink eye over it. Well, I thought I might have caught her preparing to give me one, but it doesn't count unless her stink eye slams you in one, or both, of yours.

So, I'm sorry I suggested any of my current happiness comes from getting an ugly girl to marry me. Look, Jimmy Soul died of a drug-related heart attack at age 45. If I was serious about getting marriage advice from pop/rock music I surely would have gone with John Lennon when he opined: “Semolina pilchard climbing up the Eiffel Tower, Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna, Man you should have seen them kicking Edgar Alan Poe. I am the egg man, they are the egg men, I am the walrus.” That, my friends, is how you have a happy marriage.

It comes as no surprise that my “sense of humor” should cause me problems. After all, it did bring an already mediocre career in rock and roll radio to a halt when I got fired, at least in part, for a “humorous” comment I made at a company Christmas party. People laughed a lot, though not, it seems, the two new station owners at whose expense the comment was made.

But, I remain convinced that I'm a funny guy. I'd say ask anyone, but it might actually be better if you submitted names to me before you asked them about me and my sense of humor.

My confidence in that area can be shaken though. Just the other day, my local oncologist was reviewing my blood work and trying to figure out why he couldn't come up with a solution to the stomach problems I've been having. He seemed tense, trying to save my life and all, so I said to him: “I was thinking about going to a voodoo expert, but I understand you now have to bring your own chicken.” Nothing. Well he did say something that sounded like “Mumble, mumble, what.”

Not being one to give up easily, since the doctor's concern for my current and future health was more important that being amused by me, I decided to tell one of my nurses the joke, which I still thought was funny. Nothing, and she's normally funny. Nothing, until I explained it to her, but then, of course, it didn't seem funny even to me.

I went through a mini-crisis because funny is one of my best things. If I wasn't funny, who was even going to talk to me??!! Well, it didn't take long to get my confidence back. I just needed to fall back on some vintage material: “Two drunks walk into a bar. You'd think the second one would have ducked.” Bam! Who's funny now? Yeah. That's right. This guy!

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've made me so very happy

I've always felt unsolicited free advice was worth what you paid for it. I mean, it's one thing for you to ask someone for their thoughts or ideas, but something else entirely when they stick their nose in your business, usually by saying, “I know it's not any of my business,” or “I know you didn't ask what I thought, but...,” or something similar. Right?

Granted, sometimes the advice is sound: “Don't touch that, it's really hot,” for example. Sometimes, though off-putting, it could have some worth: “Don't eat the yellow snow.”

I stopped asking my dad for advice when I was VERY young, because he always told me to ask my mother and she always made it sound like any problem I was having was my fault: “If ye didne listen to that music of yours when ye werrrre supposed to be doing yer homework, ye might no have trouble with yer algebra.” Or: “That lassie's that nice so she is. And she's that smart tae. If yer havin' a harrrd time talkin' to her, maybe ye should be talkin' te some o' the lassies that aren't as clever.” Hard to believe she never put together a self-help book.

Anyway, I know it's none of my business, and I know you didn't ask what I thought, but I think you should do everything possible in your life not to settle for less that what is best for you. You're welcome.

This came up the other day when someone asked me if I'd learned anything special from having cancer. I'm not sure if I've learned anything “special.” but I do know I'm more determined than ever not to settle for less.

Notice I didn't say settle for less than what you want, right? I do that for a number of reasons, but mainly because what I want isn't always what I should have, let alone something that's good for me.

Once I realized that getting what I needed was far better for me than getting what I wanted, things started taking a turn for the better. I met and married Sheri, we moved to Maine, met people who would have tremendous influence on our lives. Those and plenty more, all without asking.

But... BUT...Finding what you need demands paying attention and, quite often, sacrifice; sacrifice of something you have or something you thought you had to have.

I hate paying attention; seriously. I end up hearing, seeing, experiencing all sorts of things I could have lived without, just to get what I needed.

And it's hard not to settle for something less, don't you think? Hard enough that we come up with all sorts of rationalizations when we do.

A relationship is okay because the two of you are comfortable together, and who wants to go through all that dating hassle anyway?

A job is okay because you make good money, and you feel about as secure as you think is possible in this day and age. Yeah, you hate coming to work each day, but being out of work sucks.

You'd love to try living in a different part of the state, or even a different part of the country, or the world, for that matter, but... It's scary. You'd be leaving people you know and love. You're secure where you are, comfortable. Still, it would be nice to see what it's like living in a completely different place.

Believe me, I get it. Being secure is important; comfort is nice. But, just think: You're favorite baked good is wonderful, until it goes down the wrong hole and you start coughing, snorting and spewing because you can't breathe.

As I said, I'm hardly the person to be telling you what to do. I'm the last one I usually listen to when trying to make a decision.

Since I got sick, though, I've really come to see the amount of crap we have no control over. There is so much this and that we have to do, or get arrested, fired or told “this relationship isn't working and I think it's because of you.” The amount of life stuff we even have the option of settling on is very small. So, we don't get much practice, one way or the other.

I feel a spunky bit coming on and we all now how much I hate spunk. But, what all this blah, blah, blah comes down to, it seems to me, is understanding that our happiness is our responsibility. I chose where I live, who I have a relationship with, and I used to choose the job I had. If I'm not happy with any of those things, or countless others, I'm the only one that can do something about it. Sure, I can wring my hands together. I can point fingers at others. I can say, “If it wasn't for (fill in the blank), I would be happy.”

In the end, though, be happy or not. Your choice. Of course we have all been given a terrific piece of advice, possibly life-altering advice, back in the spring of 1963 when the soon-to-be-drug-addled Jimmy Soul advised: “If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So for my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you.” Amen, Brother Jimmy. Amen.

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.”

Help arrives with dialing back the “Me” meter

I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm tired.

And it's not the type of tired taking a nap is going to help. Believe me, I'm good on naps.

But when I wake up, the things that are making me tired are all still there.

I still have cancer, obviously. But I actually think I can manage that. It is such a big thing that, maybe, my expectations of what I can do about it are pretty low. I can't really do anything about it... Expectations met!

When I was a lot younger, the Chinese Water Torture was all the rage. It was in movies, television, books, real life: water dripping onto a person's forehead, one drop at a time, until they can't take it any more and start screaming out what the torturers want to know. And the torturers didn't even have to be Chinese. In fact, they rarely were.

That's what the things that are sapping me feel like: one little thing after another until I just want to scream, but I don't really have the energy for that either. Besides, where I live... no one can hear you scream. Well, Sheri could. But when she's with me, the drip, drip, dripping seems more manageable, less scream inducing.

Can I give you examples? Sure. But if you have any idea what I'm talking about, you have your own examples: the car needs an oil change; the library books have to be returned; you need another prescription filled; your computer has a virus you can't get rid of; you've got emails or letters to answer; there are a couple of bills you have to sit down and pay; the lawn needs to be mowed; that basement light bulb that burned out in April still needs replaced; and on and on. Not a single one of them is worth much worry; put them all together... it's scream time.

And if you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, there aren't enough examples in the world to explain it to you.

So into this environment comes a truth so obvious, you would think it would have been one of the first things I would have thought of when I started to feel this way.

See, all of this comes from being self-absorbed. Me, me, me, all day, all night Marianne (calypso anyone?). My computer, my car, my light bulb, my cancer, my stomach problems and on and on. Each issue starts with “My” and ends in some semblance of despair.

I got an email from a man I don't know. He had just found out that his multiple myeloma had gone from a “pre-” state, to full blown. He had been reading my columns and wondered if I could give him a call so he could talk to me. The truth that I once thought I couldn't forget, but did, hit me like the laughter of my tenth grade health classmates when the teacher told the whole class that my answer to the question about the name of a poisonous snake common in swamps in the South was “Cottontail.”

When you're self-absorption meter is so out of whack it looks like an outtake from a Bugs Bunny cartoon complete with “BOINGGGGGGGG!!!!”, step back and see if you can help someone else. Duh. Would I ever have remembered that if I hadn't received the email? Like the answer to whether or not I would behave properly in a situation which called for bravery, I'd like to think yes, but more realistically it would be maybe.

Of course I called him and probably didn't offer much real help, which is one of my best things. He asked me some questions and I told him what I did, or would do, in similar situations. Mostly, he told me what he felt and how he was dealing with things and I told him he sounded great, which he did. One of the first things I said to him was that I wouldn't lie to him just to help him feel better, and it turned it he didn't need me to. He had a terrific grasp of what his situation was and what he needed to do. Good for him.

I asked about his wife and how she was managing with it, because it is surely a “we” disease, and again, it sounded like they were solid on things.

As irony would have it, though we talked for quite a while, I did have to cut it short because I had to go for my monthly visit/treatment at the cancer center. I said he could call me anytime and he said he would, and maybe he will.

I do hope I helped him because he did so much good for me. He got me to turn down the volume on the “me/my” meter, at least for a while. I was able to remind myself that so many of you who are reading this are also engaged in a battle of some sort involving your health, your family, your financial difficulties, your ability to simply keep going in a world that often seems preoccupied with giving you reasons not to.

But here's the thing: as broken, sad , fearful, lost, sick as we may be... as long as it's “We/Ours” and not “Me/Mine,” we're going to be okay. “We” gives us a pot to capture all those drips, one at a time. And , yeah, if WE have to, we can also set up a communal scream. That might actually be kinda cool!

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.”

Well, that was a heck of a year

Don't let us get sick

Don't let us get old

Don't let us get stupid, alright

Just make us be brave

And make us play nice

And let us be together tonight

Warren Zevon

September 5 will mark the first anniversary of my being diagnosed with cancer.

I know what you're thinking. Is it paper that you give after one year? I know it isn't tin... What? Tacky? Maybe. But if you've been following this for the past year, or even part of the year, you take offense at your own risk. You've certainly had plenty of opportunities to be offended and stop reading. Thank you for not, though.

How do I feel one year down the road? Good question. For one thing, I thought the road would be much more direct. I thought, “I have cancer and we'll come up with a treatment plan and follow it and there you are.”

Now, I look at that thought and wonder, “What in your life experience to that point could have made you think that could possibly happen?” Wishful thinking? Hopeless naivety? Blind faith?

Right at the very beginning, a friend of mine named Pinky... His name is John, actually, but everyone who knows him calls him Pinky, not sure why... A friend of mine named Pinky told me to be prepared for what I knew was going to happen because what I had no clue about would knock me on my butt. He would know. He and his wife both survived terrible illnesses and supported each other while they did so. It's certainly proved to be true in my journey..

Surprises have been more of a constant than... well... the constant. When all is said and done, though, none of that really matters. Damaged chromosome? Doesn't matter. Negative reaction to medications? Doesn't matter. Having influenza A and food poisoning in the same week, followed closely by a broken collarbone? Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

What matters is refusing to be defeated by any of it. So far, so good.

As part of “The Year in Review,” I've been re-reading the blogs I've written. There were some constants in the writing: my attitude remained positive; I was thankful for the medical staff who have been helping me; I have been buoyed by the letters, emails, Facebook posts and so on from so many of you; wishing me well, offering prayers and so many of you I didn't know when the journey began; the love and support of my wife and children.

In regards to my wife Sheri- in the beginning I said I felt that it was We who had cancer, not just I. That has certainly proven to be the case. We have gone through a lot together and continue to do so.

In my early writing, optimism and positive thoughts seemed to be easier to come by. There was a clean feel to the writing, uncluttered by random feelings and emotions. The path was clear and we were on it.

With time, though, the writing seemed to become less so. Fear, anxiety, extreme fatigue, persistent pain and discomfort, nausea, all took their toll. Neither my writing nor my mood became particularly dark, but there was more of a sense of what the stakes were. I was literally betting my life on all this stuff and I had moved all in.

Multiple myeloma is incurable. It doesn't really go into remission, my doctors tell me. It sneaks off and hides, but there is always some of it in my system- though we don't know where- waiting to come back and ruin an otherwise lovely day.

Looking over the past year gives me a headache, and we still haven't discovered anything about my constant stomach pain. There's another thing- If you'd told me in October that I would do all the right things, take all the right treatments, have a tremendously successful stem cell transplant... and still feel this lousy because of a stomach ailment most likely unrelated to my cancer? Well, I don't know what I would have said, but it wouldn't have been fit for your kids to read, I can tell you that.

My scheduled colonoscopy was canceled when I threw up all 64 ounces of pre-procedure liquid the night before the event. I would have to reschedule. All the fasting, liquid diet and bland food were for naught. We are still trying to reschedule. Pinky's admonition came to me again. I've faced what I was prepared for, but tossing up 64 ounces of anything wasn't in the plans and my butt is starting to hurt.

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.”