Day three after chemo, if the IV hospital day is counted as day one, is a low one. The nurses say the steroids begin wearing off, so the incongruous "high" or simply more normal feeling I tend to get on day two, rapidly vanishes and I find myself in a place something like the lowlands of flu. Not unbearable, just not the kind of thing to make one feel highly motivated. (But I have a potential motivator in the third paragraph...)
In line with that, Franky Scale: 6. And the Franky guest blog anticipation scale continues to rise, we even spoke about this today and I reminded him of his responsibilities, his reading constituency, his fans. So we wait.
One more item--perhaps more will come tonight, but for now, one item--I had an email exchange with a friend about issues we have and what we hide in our closets, what we can deal with directly, what we need to sweep out of sight. You know the conversation. This is the suggestion/solution that came up: the more issues that are let out of your closet (dealt with, shared, eliminated,...), the more room there is for new shoes! It's genius. Just serious enough, but also just enough whimsy. The blend of metaphor and reality perfect. This is my meditation topic for today, I'm going to figure out if certain issues deserve certain kinds of shoes, or vice versa: what do wingtips deserve? desert boots? oxfords? Hm.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
5.10.06, A Day in the Cancer Life
A Day in the Cancer Life, first part.
You wake up and feel the fog, a kind of Ambien glaze or hangover--I feel this everyday though they say “You shouldn’t feel any ‘hangover’”--how did they know? Psychological suggestion and psychosomatic reaction? And this is not so pleasant, yet the fact that the drug can push me into sleep, hold me down there, for close to eight hours, eight hours I really try for every night, outweighs the hangover side-effects. The first change in my relation to life now is that almost every choice I make seems to be a balance analysis--are the benefits of this act worth more than the potential side-effects? Surgery. Chemo. Water and food intake--when you have no appetite and your stomach feels tiny. Running. Another pill--any round of pill-taking might be 2 to 8 pills, not every one is necessary you see, I have to go through the cost-benefit analysis every time. Phone calls. Paying down certain bills. This list has no end.
Why is Protonix Man called protonix man? Because it’s the first drug of the day, to protect the stomach--my dosed doubled as of today--and it lends my superhero name. I love the people here (“here” in my world of family-friends that spills into the blogosp-here) too--I just got the silliest and most hilarious custom-made teddy-bear, or teddy-cat, doll which was made to be Protonix Man, or rather my sidekick--very cool in and of itself, but more than a sidekick I finally got my goddam cape!! No shit--I will wear it sometime and post a photo. Another genius earlier sent homemade cookies, which were great, but better still, they were in a box that now holds my dozen or so prescription bottles--all the ones Rush Limbaugh has wet dreams for--that has a custom-made “P” on its top. Now I have box, cape, a double-prescription of Protonix, and a stuffed sidekick who can’t really be called P-Man, since that’s me, so I’ll call him Screwman instead. (Provenance is too hard to explain, but it is pronounced as it would be in Utah, the final “a” in “man” should be said like a schwa or shwa, represented by the upsie down "e," that “everyvowel” or between-everyvowel; other words same sound, “Newman” in _Seinfeld_ or “Carman” in _South Park_.) Protonix Man and Screwman. You can imagine the kind of trouble they’d get into.
After this, coffee. One of the lowest days of my whole cancer experience came the day after Frank left, not a result of the leaving since we’ll meet up again, it was that I went in groggy to fill the coffee maker, put in the filter after the secret fold that forces the water through just that much slower so the coffee gets that much stronger, pull out the grinder, & fill it with beans. Then, the silence of death! Coffee death, I mean. Fucking grinder dead, after somehow squeaking by long enough to make coffee for Frank’s last day, but in my Moment of Need, in the valley of the shadow--nada nada nada. Oh me, oh cruel life! Anemia, so what; impacted bowels, well, kind of serious; fevers, I’ll live through. No fresh coffee in the morning--that is Shakespearean! Next day I bought a new one--strange how purchases now have warrantees that will likely outlast my own. Shopping that makes you go “hmm,” new meaning The Clash song “All Lost in the Supermarket.” On every ordinary morning, coffee, black, then feed the cats, flip on NPR, move coffee to laptop next to my downtown-Puget Sound view, and I kind of settle in.
Settle in? Emailing and coffee drinking and writing--all now structured, however, in a pain-in-my-ass manner around protonix time, food time, watch the clock and then chemo drug time--it’s too structured and confining. What you go into academia to avoid. The Clock. Now, though, it’s my life. The “normal” activities of email and/or writing are mixed between work and personal, tenure-track and non-tenure-track; and I will not lie and say that I think a great deal about the former so much anymore. What I do think about ? “Don’t lose your job so that you don't lose your insurance.” That is all there is. My job or my Appointment was renewed (the yrs before tenure at here are split into two three-year “appointments”) recently, and if all were to go smoothly… and I do have an academic book manuscript, nearly done, however it sits under an increasing pile of dust near my desk. As other books, papers, medical bills, thermometers, drug literature, and articles on GTX and the like, etc. pile up, the academic MS gets slowly pushed farther and farther from desk, further and further from the mind. One of these days I won’t be able to find it any more, that’s my guess. _Politicizing the What…_ Part of the daily calculus is how much do you value such a book, how much do you value another book in progress--on a different topic, essays, non-fiction, poems, fiction--what is it you want to do when you’re feeling fit enough to do it? The life-coaching question gone horrifically wrong: “Imagine you have six months to live, what then do you want to accomplish?” “Uh…..” Polish poems, push publishers to get out a book of translations that has also been gathering dust for months and months, a chapbook that also waits. The daily calculus--and I suck at math, but not at mixing metaphors.
The average time spent on this blog each day by each reader/viewer/voyeur has gone up to something like 6 and half minutes, in light of which, maybe I should cut this entry here. That’s most of my morning/s, the rest can wait. Frank’s guest blog is still on it’s way--right Frank?--and there’s more extrajesus on Thomas for later, still gestating, growing.
Franky Scale: 8.
You wake up and feel the fog, a kind of Ambien glaze or hangover--I feel this everyday though they say “You shouldn’t feel any ‘hangover’”--how did they know? Psychological suggestion and psychosomatic reaction? And this is not so pleasant, yet the fact that the drug can push me into sleep, hold me down there, for close to eight hours, eight hours I really try for every night, outweighs the hangover side-effects. The first change in my relation to life now is that almost every choice I make seems to be a balance analysis--are the benefits of this act worth more than the potential side-effects? Surgery. Chemo. Water and food intake--when you have no appetite and your stomach feels tiny. Running. Another pill--any round of pill-taking might be 2 to 8 pills, not every one is necessary you see, I have to go through the cost-benefit analysis every time. Phone calls. Paying down certain bills. This list has no end.
Why is Protonix Man called protonix man? Because it’s the first drug of the day, to protect the stomach--my dosed doubled as of today--and it lends my superhero name. I love the people here (“here” in my world of family-friends that spills into the blogosp-here) too--I just got the silliest and most hilarious custom-made teddy-bear, or teddy-cat, doll which was made to be Protonix Man, or rather my sidekick--very cool in and of itself, but more than a sidekick I finally got my goddam cape!! No shit--I will wear it sometime and post a photo. Another genius earlier sent homemade cookies, which were great, but better still, they were in a box that now holds my dozen or so prescription bottles--all the ones Rush Limbaugh has wet dreams for--that has a custom-made “P” on its top. Now I have box, cape, a double-prescription of Protonix, and a stuffed sidekick who can’t really be called P-Man, since that’s me, so I’ll call him Screwman instead. (Provenance is too hard to explain, but it is pronounced as it would be in Utah, the final “a” in “man” should be said like a schwa or shwa, represented by the upsie down "e," that “everyvowel” or between-everyvowel; other words same sound, “Newman” in _Seinfeld_ or “Carman” in _South Park_.) Protonix Man and Screwman. You can imagine the kind of trouble they’d get into.
After this, coffee. One of the lowest days of my whole cancer experience came the day after Frank left, not a result of the leaving since we’ll meet up again, it was that I went in groggy to fill the coffee maker, put in the filter after the secret fold that forces the water through just that much slower so the coffee gets that much stronger, pull out the grinder, & fill it with beans. Then, the silence of death! Coffee death, I mean. Fucking grinder dead, after somehow squeaking by long enough to make coffee for Frank’s last day, but in my Moment of Need, in the valley of the shadow--nada nada nada. Oh me, oh cruel life! Anemia, so what; impacted bowels, well, kind of serious; fevers, I’ll live through. No fresh coffee in the morning--that is Shakespearean! Next day I bought a new one--strange how purchases now have warrantees that will likely outlast my own. Shopping that makes you go “hmm,” new meaning The Clash song “All Lost in the Supermarket.” On every ordinary morning, coffee, black, then feed the cats, flip on NPR, move coffee to laptop next to my downtown-Puget Sound view, and I kind of settle in.
Settle in? Emailing and coffee drinking and writing--all now structured, however, in a pain-in-my-ass manner around protonix time, food time, watch the clock and then chemo drug time--it’s too structured and confining. What you go into academia to avoid. The Clock. Now, though, it’s my life. The “normal” activities of email and/or writing are mixed between work and personal, tenure-track and non-tenure-track; and I will not lie and say that I think a great deal about the former so much anymore. What I do think about ? “Don’t lose your job so that you don't lose your insurance.” That is all there is. My job or my Appointment was renewed (the yrs before tenure at here are split into two three-year “appointments”) recently, and if all were to go smoothly… and I do have an academic book manuscript, nearly done, however it sits under an increasing pile of dust near my desk. As other books, papers, medical bills, thermometers, drug literature, and articles on GTX and the like, etc. pile up, the academic MS gets slowly pushed farther and farther from desk, further and further from the mind. One of these days I won’t be able to find it any more, that’s my guess. _Politicizing the What…_ Part of the daily calculus is how much do you value such a book, how much do you value another book in progress--on a different topic, essays, non-fiction, poems, fiction--what is it you want to do when you’re feeling fit enough to do it? The life-coaching question gone horrifically wrong: “Imagine you have six months to live, what then do you want to accomplish?” “Uh…..” Polish poems, push publishers to get out a book of translations that has also been gathering dust for months and months, a chapbook that also waits. The daily calculus--and I suck at math, but not at mixing metaphors.
The average time spent on this blog each day by each reader/viewer/voyeur has gone up to something like 6 and half minutes, in light of which, maybe I should cut this entry here. That’s most of my morning/s, the rest can wait. Frank’s guest blog is still on it’s way--right Frank?--and there’s more extrajesus on Thomas for later, still gestating, growing.
Franky Scale: 8.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
5.08.06, Cautious Good News...
The bad news first, so we don't get too imbalanced. My IV-chemo time changed today, and one of the side-effects I have which was verified today, called "chemo brain," helped me forget or never notice the change, so that at 9:30 on the dot I was looking through some SCCA paperwork, then realized, "Oops, today's chemo starts right now, and I'm not there." Missing class or a dinner appointment, different story. So I called, panicked, told them I'd be there late, and 20 minutes later I was on the bed half naked and fully unshowered. I had to leave a msg for G. and let here fend for herself.
Tuesday's are draining, what with all the sexual innuendo... or really, what with all the drugs they pump into me. Which means I'll be keeping this short.
The good news: seems, to me anyway, that this phrase has been too seldomly used of late. Every two weeks or so they check my CA 19-9 numbers from blood work. It's an antigen that works as a marker telling how much cancer (specifically pancreatic cancer) is in the body (roughly). The normal person should have a number of 54 (five-four) or less; the cancer person will have a "grossly elevated" number up in the thousands. Four weeks ago my number was about 12,800, twelve thousand eight hundred. More than 54. We want the number down, of course, because it functions very accurately as a mark of cancer levels. Right after chemo started my number was 11,700ish. Down, but too soon to be remarkable.
Today the number I got back (from week-old blood tests) was 9,400--what the good doctor says is a "significant drop" and yes, a number that can be taken for a trend, cautiously. Some fucking good news, finally! What appears to be happening is that my cancer is responding well to the GTX treatment I'm taking. I'm really wiped out right now, otherwise, I'd piss for joy, or at least jump up and down. Seems good, seems to be helping. [short round of applause]
Instead of Franky Scale today, I'm submitting that number: 9,400. You always have to look at the context, right?
Tuesday's are draining, what with all the sexual innuendo... or really, what with all the drugs they pump into me. Which means I'll be keeping this short.
The good news: seems, to me anyway, that this phrase has been too seldomly used of late. Every two weeks or so they check my CA 19-9 numbers from blood work. It's an antigen that works as a marker telling how much cancer (specifically pancreatic cancer) is in the body (roughly). The normal person should have a number of 54 (five-four) or less; the cancer person will have a "grossly elevated" number up in the thousands. Four weeks ago my number was about 12,800, twelve thousand eight hundred. More than 54. We want the number down, of course, because it functions very accurately as a mark of cancer levels. Right after chemo started my number was 11,700ish. Down, but too soon to be remarkable.
Today the number I got back (from week-old blood tests) was 9,400--what the good doctor says is a "significant drop" and yes, a number that can be taken for a trend, cautiously. Some fucking good news, finally! What appears to be happening is that my cancer is responding well to the GTX treatment I'm taking. I'm really wiped out right now, otherwise, I'd piss for joy, or at least jump up and down. Seems good, seems to be helping. [short round of applause]
Instead of Franky Scale today, I'm submitting that number: 9,400. You always have to look at the context, right?
Monday, May 08, 2006
5.08.06, Sex and Chemo
(It's all about a good hook.) Tomorrow is IV chemo, #4 I believe, where I fight to stay awake for four hours and Gillian gets a lot of work done. She pointed out to me how much I've left out (of the blog) of our Little Sessions at the SCCA, the sexy, juicy bits...
What you're missing: how half of us are half naked most of the time, how I get in and rip off my shirt, which is no longer completely bare but about half grown back in, how I'm helpless and restrained and Gillian has her way with me for four hours of delirium and sometimes I wake up and my clothes are on backwards, and there's that whole thing we do with the panopticon and the parergon and the speculum of the other woman and Herculine Barbin joins us and then scopophilia and Lacan's little object ... oh wait, that's work ... , well, OK, so it's not that exciting. But I do get half naked, and I do have three nipples now, if you're into that kind of thing. Tuesday's are very progressive in my chemo room. And G. does get a lot done.
In my mind, this is not a real post, merely a filler--since I'm in my office today doing the most satisfying part of my job, why I spent so many years in grad school, and the one part that remains meaningful in the face Of It All--administrative bullshit. So bizarre--or so logical in our totalized capitalist society?--that you can be faced with a bad dose of cancer even and the one thing you can't let slide is paperwork and admin-related duties. Hmm. An article that would reshape the field for the next year or two? Nope. The aesthetic handbook that would change art and criticism forever? Nope. Meeting with highly motivated to students to change their lives for the better? Nope. Approving x-fer credits, restating via email what is already in about 4 different web FAQ's to students who are either too thick, lazy, or distracted to read the rules on their own, and squaring away all matters that might possibly affect overall enrollment in the department? Yes. The important things. (On a serious note, props to my dept because they have been very understanding about giving me space during this.)
Just a teaser above. The Franky Scale--the same Frank who's gone now but owes us one more guest blog and whose wit and charm or some goddam thing are apparently so very appealing to everyone that I'm sure we all just can wait, blah blah blah, just great, aren't we all excited! I could spit. ;-) anyway, 7/8, although sitting in my office I don't always get the best F.S. reception. Still, 7/8.
What you're missing: how half of us are half naked most of the time, how I get in and rip off my shirt, which is no longer completely bare but about half grown back in, how I'm helpless and restrained and Gillian has her way with me for four hours of delirium and sometimes I wake up and my clothes are on backwards, and there's that whole thing we do with the panopticon and the parergon and the speculum of the other woman and Herculine Barbin joins us and then scopophilia and Lacan's little object ... oh wait, that's work ... , well, OK, so it's not that exciting. But I do get half naked, and I do have three nipples now, if you're into that kind of thing. Tuesday's are very progressive in my chemo room. And G. does get a lot done.
In my mind, this is not a real post, merely a filler--since I'm in my office today doing the most satisfying part of my job, why I spent so many years in grad school, and the one part that remains meaningful in the face Of It All--administrative bullshit. So bizarre--or so logical in our totalized capitalist society?--that you can be faced with a bad dose of cancer even and the one thing you can't let slide is paperwork and admin-related duties. Hmm. An article that would reshape the field for the next year or two? Nope. The aesthetic handbook that would change art and criticism forever? Nope. Meeting with highly motivated to students to change their lives for the better? Nope. Approving x-fer credits, restating via email what is already in about 4 different web FAQ's to students who are either too thick, lazy, or distracted to read the rules on their own, and squaring away all matters that might possibly affect overall enrollment in the department? Yes. The important things. (On a serious note, props to my dept because they have been very understanding about giving me space during this.)
Just a teaser above. The Franky Scale--the same Frank who's gone now but owes us one more guest blog and whose wit and charm or some goddam thing are apparently so very appealing to everyone that I'm sure we all just can wait, blah blah blah, just great, aren't we all excited! I could spit. ;-) anyway, 7/8, although sitting in my office I don't always get the best F.S. reception. Still, 7/8.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
5.07.06b, About the Poem, Pt. 2
"Do Not Go Gentle,” Exegesis, Pt 2:
Let me start by pointing out the error of mhermeneuticic ways. An error in the aesthetic analysis, Kant (the rule- and time-bound philosopher) would chide me: the basis of Kant's chiding however in fact reveals one of Kant's major flaws, especially in relation to aesthetic theory, i.e., his overly rigorous structure of rules and exclusions that is absolutely necessary to make his system work--that's another essay (e.g. I go after him a bit in an essay called "Negative Aeshetics," which I think is coming out in some minor UW publication, a coference volume, this year, FYI). The positive point to learn from him, which I concede here, regards my evaluation “sucks ass,” which is not an aesthetic judgment. Coming around backside to my point, the chiding would stem not only from my assessment dealing with a secondary judgment based on how the artwork signifies but more fundamentally on the fact that the very assessment is not disinterested, not objective, rational, detached if you will. But that's Kant. For me, I conflated the What of the poem, or even more-and/or-less, the signified of the poem, with the How of the poem, the various signifiers and their interrelations--something I always stress that my students have to distinguish. Death does suck, granted; but that is not an aesthetic judgment. It might be personal, familial, social, metaphysical, something--but not aesthetic, unless it be through the actual aestheticization of death as Bataille was wont to perform. It is one possible route, however it’s not my idiom, and in terms of how this poems works (aesthetic) it’s not the point. Rather, the poetic key here (in part) is the contradiction, tension, the negativity at work and the subtlety in the form of the piece. Subtlety, despite the rhymy-stymy aspect of the villanelle.
There is the gentle entry & a “good” night (l. 1 and throughout). The fact that “Old age” cannot really rage, nor can terminal pain/disability, at least not easily (l. 2). The wise have knowledge, but not enough to fork lightning with their words (ll.4-6). The good whose deeds are frail, trapped in the subjunctive--forever (ll. 7-9); the wild, too rash and unobservant (ll. 10-12); the grave, Teresian but too late (ll. 13-15); and the twist with the father, the Father, deserves its own entry but is also summed up in "curse, bless” in one too realistic fell swoop. Throughout, the speaker implies that none should go gentle into death (title, l. 1), but then contradictorily, says in a declarative mode that "you should rage b/c you were mediocre,” etc. How deflating the "good men,” anyone’s version of good will do, is declarative in that they simply do not go. . ., yet they go through and after a strong "might have” that did not bring change to the world (ll. 6-8). And so it goes, limping along. Think of Faulkner's "man's puny voice" from his Nobel acceptance speech.
(Interlude: What “Princess,” with her science degree, noted [see Comments on 5.05.06b, "About the Poem, Pt. 1," I think] is actually another core piece of the poem, part of its foundation--i.e., that Thomas is not talking about death, he’s talking about life. She beats me to the punch, and with a science degree no less! I think I know why, or how; because the real-life experience someone at life’s end, actually watching that person go, clearly trumps the experience (merely) on the page. Real insight. More on this that "he’s actually writing about life” in a later installment. For now it’s enough to say that’s also why the blog's subtitle ends with “Life and Death”--I’ve been realizing progressively how death is circumscribed, supplemented (yes, Derrida), given its very meaning or any meaning at all through life--life up to that moment, the lives that go on, the experiences and minds of the people who can go check the Wall of Death and see whether anybody got a chance to spit on it.)
Every example given in the poem is: a perhaps, a subjunctive, a might’ve been -- there are no clear-cut great deeds, no successes, no accomplishments, no unquestionable legacies. NB: from the _OED_, "b. Designating a mood (L. _modus subjunctivus_, . . .) the forms of which are employed to denote an action or a state as conceived (and not as a fact) and therefore used to express a wish, command, exhortation, or a contingent, hypothetical, or prospective event.” If you’re struck down by stroke at 65, you may have had some time, been given "your" time, but how comforting is that when most likely you didn’t see it coming and you are left with the living. How is it to be left alive with no clarity, no vision? (The best of friends is tied to this "hypothetical," and I grieve for him, no more to say.) A very pertinent corollary: the contrastive harshness of our lives, between the might-have-been's and what-we-actually-do’s, or get-a-chance-to-do's, is better explained nowhere I think than in the life and work of John Ashbery: _Three Poems_ if nowhere else. A work I could spend a life rereading and being quietly and consistently amazed by. He keeps trying to not go gentle, slow and steady. Still, you read him and know he realizes the underlying falling short of it all. And he gives everything to you in a modal or tonal form, skillfully improvised from the chart we all have but few can read, filled always with the just the right number of blue notes. Every note around the melody played, but the thing itself left unspoken, a negative presence that haunts through its outline.
[Franky Scale: 8; and we've got hits from four continents today.]
To be continued, w/ Icarus in my lap. . .…
Let me start by pointing out the error of mhermeneuticic ways. An error in the aesthetic analysis, Kant (the rule- and time-bound philosopher) would chide me: the basis of Kant's chiding however in fact reveals one of Kant's major flaws, especially in relation to aesthetic theory, i.e., his overly rigorous structure of rules and exclusions that is absolutely necessary to make his system work--that's another essay (e.g. I go after him a bit in an essay called "Negative Aeshetics," which I think is coming out in some minor UW publication, a coference volume, this year, FYI). The positive point to learn from him, which I concede here, regards my evaluation “sucks ass,” which is not an aesthetic judgment. Coming around backside to my point, the chiding would stem not only from my assessment dealing with a secondary judgment based on how the artwork signifies but more fundamentally on the fact that the very assessment is not disinterested, not objective, rational, detached if you will. But that's Kant. For me, I conflated the What of the poem, or even more-and/or-less, the signified of the poem, with the How of the poem, the various signifiers and their interrelations--something I always stress that my students have to distinguish. Death does suck, granted; but that is not an aesthetic judgment. It might be personal, familial, social, metaphysical, something--but not aesthetic, unless it be through the actual aestheticization of death as Bataille was wont to perform. It is one possible route, however it’s not my idiom, and in terms of how this poems works (aesthetic) it’s not the point. Rather, the poetic key here (in part) is the contradiction, tension, the negativity at work and the subtlety in the form of the piece. Subtlety, despite the rhymy-stymy aspect of the villanelle.
There is the gentle entry & a “good” night (l. 1 and throughout). The fact that “Old age” cannot really rage, nor can terminal pain/disability, at least not easily (l. 2). The wise have knowledge, but not enough to fork lightning with their words (ll.4-6). The good whose deeds are frail, trapped in the subjunctive--forever (ll. 7-9); the wild, too rash and unobservant (ll. 10-12); the grave, Teresian but too late (ll. 13-15); and the twist with the father, the Father, deserves its own entry but is also summed up in "curse, bless” in one too realistic fell swoop. Throughout, the speaker implies that none should go gentle into death (title, l. 1), but then contradictorily, says in a declarative mode that "you should rage b/c you were mediocre,” etc. How deflating the "good men,” anyone’s version of good will do, is declarative in that they simply do not go. . ., yet they go through and after a strong "might have” that did not bring change to the world (ll. 6-8). And so it goes, limping along. Think of Faulkner's "man's puny voice" from his Nobel acceptance speech.
(Interlude: What “Princess,” with her science degree, noted [see Comments on 5.05.06b, "About the Poem, Pt. 1," I think] is actually another core piece of the poem, part of its foundation--i.e., that Thomas is not talking about death, he’s talking about life. She beats me to the punch, and with a science degree no less! I think I know why, or how; because the real-life experience someone at life’s end, actually watching that person go, clearly trumps the experience (merely) on the page. Real insight. More on this that "he’s actually writing about life” in a later installment. For now it’s enough to say that’s also why the blog's subtitle ends with “Life and Death”--I’ve been realizing progressively how death is circumscribed, supplemented (yes, Derrida), given its very meaning or any meaning at all through life--life up to that moment, the lives that go on, the experiences and minds of the people who can go check the Wall of Death and see whether anybody got a chance to spit on it.)
Every example given in the poem is: a perhaps, a subjunctive, a might’ve been -- there are no clear-cut great deeds, no successes, no accomplishments, no unquestionable legacies. NB: from the _OED_, "b. Designating a mood (L. _modus subjunctivus_, . . .) the forms of which are employed to denote an action or a state as conceived (and not as a fact) and therefore used to express a wish, command, exhortation, or a contingent, hypothetical, or prospective event.” If you’re struck down by stroke at 65, you may have had some time, been given "your" time, but how comforting is that when most likely you didn’t see it coming and you are left with the living. How is it to be left alive with no clarity, no vision? (The best of friends is tied to this "hypothetical," and I grieve for him, no more to say.) A very pertinent corollary: the contrastive harshness of our lives, between the might-have-been's and what-we-actually-do’s, or get-a-chance-to-do's, is better explained nowhere I think than in the life and work of John Ashbery: _Three Poems_ if nowhere else. A work I could spend a life rereading and being quietly and consistently amazed by. He keeps trying to not go gentle, slow and steady. Still, you read him and know he realizes the underlying falling short of it all. And he gives everything to you in a modal or tonal form, skillfully improvised from the chart we all have but few can read, filled always with the just the right number of blue notes. Every note around the melody played, but the thing itself left unspoken, a negative presence that haunts through its outline.
[Franky Scale: 8; and we've got hits from four continents today.]
To be continued, w/ Icarus in my lap. . .…
5.07.06, Casino Royale, Franky Scale Update
Local casino visit went very well: I spent half of my "limit" but it kept me busy at craps for over two hours; Frank, on the other hand, was not only kept busy but was secretly squirreling away 5-dollar chips into his pocket and made enough to feel like he accomplished something, I assume, but not enough for Uncle W to take a cut. Turns out the casino atmosphere was much less trying for me a lot of other social situations these days. Not too draining, a nice distraction, and a good cap on the week before the original "Mr. Jones" and I sit down over coffee and discuss the Serious prior to his midday departure. Time for the heavy & time for the light. So it's late but I have Ambien (and so far I haven't found on any morning that my ice cream supply or liquor cabinet have been diminished), and I'd bump up the Franky Scale to a 9. Maybe the Oxy-cola helped. (I keep my apt door locked tight so Rush Limbaugh, or P. Kennedy for that matter, doesn't sneak in and ravage through my pharmacy at the foot of the bed. He'd have a field day. And still not lose any listeners! God bless America, huh.) Now it's time to slip back into the land of exegesis for a bit till sleep arrives.
The little things have taken on much different, greater meaning now (sounds cheesy, yes, but), like good friends, of course, but also the chance to sit over a slow cup of strong black coffee, no fever, no milk-of-magnesia calculus, no falling behind in pain management, no overly-loud crowds.
The little things have taken on much different, greater meaning now (sounds cheesy, yes, but), like good friends, of course, but also the chance to sit over a slow cup of strong black coffee, no fever, no milk-of-magnesia calculus, no falling behind in pain management, no overly-loud crowds.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
5.06.06, The Blogshirker
Alas, today's gotten away from me. Franky scale: 7, not too bad. But ask me again after we return from the craps tables tonight. I figure with the luck I've been having lately I should get lucky at some point soon.
Frank: (from his dais of sleep) "Man, I was really getting something accomplished in my dream. It's like sleeping a submarine: the elevators, all these noises in here, it's really amazing. I was really getting something done though..." (cell phone rings, very hip song I can't identify; we lose the prophetic voice...)
In any event, we're going to eat some Ezelle's Famous Chicken, hit the tables, and no doubt mayhem will ensue. Last night turned out to be a simple Italian dinner, wouldn't knock your socks off, but all right for just here in the neighborhood. The place began to close in on me though--could've been just me, but--the noise in there was incredible and the loud-talking, competing just to be part of the conversation at your own table. Too much. We switched to Bauhaus, a cup of tea, off to bed. Sleep was elusive and I did work for a while on Pt 2 of the Do Not Go Gentle Exegesis, but it's still in rough form. Tomorrow, I predict, will be a literary day. (Frank's conversation has now turned into GC-ing, details, and "moments"--even on Saturday, even immediately post-nap, he slips in the Howard Roark mode.)
Blow on the dice for us.
Frank: (from his dais of sleep) "Man, I was really getting something accomplished in my dream. It's like sleeping a submarine: the elevators, all these noises in here, it's really amazing. I was really getting something done though..." (cell phone rings, very hip song I can't identify; we lose the prophetic voice...)
In any event, we're going to eat some Ezelle's Famous Chicken, hit the tables, and no doubt mayhem will ensue. Last night turned out to be a simple Italian dinner, wouldn't knock your socks off, but all right for just here in the neighborhood. The place began to close in on me though--could've been just me, but--the noise in there was incredible and the loud-talking, competing just to be part of the conversation at your own table. Too much. We switched to Bauhaus, a cup of tea, off to bed. Sleep was elusive and I did work for a while on Pt 2 of the Do Not Go Gentle Exegesis, but it's still in rough form. Tomorrow, I predict, will be a literary day. (Frank's conversation has now turned into GC-ing, details, and "moments"--even on Saturday, even immediately post-nap, he slips in the Howard Roark mode.)
Blow on the dice for us.
Friday, May 05, 2006
5.05.06b. About the Poem, Pt. 1
Early on I had promised more on the title poem, a little exegesis--or “extra-jesus” as we used to remember the term by in high school--so extra-jesus today on Thomas’s poem. Having Frank here and the in’s and out’s of every day might yield some ideas for later, but this afternoon my mind’s back on this.
Again:
“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(1952)
I don’t know how long I’ve known this poem; in fact, I can’t remember when I didn’t--but there must have been a time, just as there’s a time know when I feel like I “know” this poem far better than I would like, like I want to turn my eyes from it for a minute then return my gaze to see it gone. To not see the injunction in the title, “do not go gentle.” A place to start, at the beginning. What I see in the poem now--there’s that word that signifies so differently for me “now”--is that it relies on contradiction. In a sense we the reader simply passes over “that good night” as yet another euphemism for death. It’s so obvious, isn’t it? Why think about it? A minute’s thought, however, tells us (many of us? most of us? me, anyway) that there is nothing good about that night at all. It’s the one night nobody wants to go into. Granted there are cases, cases with real individuals which I gradually come to understand better each day, in which “that . . . night” might seem “good,” or better at least than what the now holds for them. Some relief, for some. The title’s injunction, which switches back and forth (from imperative to simple declarative) through the poem based on line breaks, “do not go gentle” creates the tension that builds through the repetitive form, this being the classic example of the villanelle. Tension: if it really were a “good night” why resist, why not go gentle, why not welcome it? The point: which I already made, it’s not a good night, to use the technical language of aesthetic theory I learned in grad school, it sucks ass.
To be continued. (Since the whole poem will take too long, I’ll put it up in installments.)
Again:
“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(1952)
I don’t know how long I’ve known this poem; in fact, I can’t remember when I didn’t--but there must have been a time, just as there’s a time know when I feel like I “know” this poem far better than I would like, like I want to turn my eyes from it for a minute then return my gaze to see it gone. To not see the injunction in the title, “do not go gentle.” A place to start, at the beginning. What I see in the poem now--there’s that word that signifies so differently for me “now”--is that it relies on contradiction. In a sense we the reader simply passes over “that good night” as yet another euphemism for death. It’s so obvious, isn’t it? Why think about it? A minute’s thought, however, tells us (many of us? most of us? me, anyway) that there is nothing good about that night at all. It’s the one night nobody wants to go into. Granted there are cases, cases with real individuals which I gradually come to understand better each day, in which “that . . . night” might seem “good,” or better at least than what the now holds for them. Some relief, for some. The title’s injunction, which switches back and forth (from imperative to simple declarative) through the poem based on line breaks, “do not go gentle” creates the tension that builds through the repetitive form, this being the classic example of the villanelle. Tension: if it really were a “good night” why resist, why not go gentle, why not welcome it? The point: which I already made, it’s not a good night, to use the technical language of aesthetic theory I learned in grad school, it sucks ass.
To be continued. (Since the whole poem will take too long, I’ll put it up in installments.)
5.05.06, I'm Not Bitter, Don't Worry...
OK, here's the deal. I put my heart and if not soul then a fair amount of time into this damn thing for the past, what? two weeks. And you all don't post jack. Frank shows up, sits down, types off one quickie--and I'm not bitter, don't worry--and nine people reply to his post immediately! What the hell is that?
Well then I suppose I can concede that I am grateful for the replies--even they all were to Frank (he even got offers of drinks!)--and perhaps this is simply a function of having "another" person here to do it, it's an opening up, an invitation it seems. It's all good, post for and to whom you will. Besides, Frank's here for a few more days and I can always have him guest post again.
More anon.
Well then I suppose I can concede that I am grateful for the replies--even they all were to Frank (he even got offers of drinks!)--and perhaps this is simply a function of having "another" person here to do it, it's an opening up, an invitation it seems. It's all good, post for and to whom you will. Besides, Frank's here for a few more days and I can always have him guest post again.
More anon.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
5.04.06 [Guest Blog], The Pharmacy at the Foot of the Bed
Guest Blogger for the day
Today, Mr. Jones asked me if I would post on his blog. I was reluctant at first but then I was flattered and thought it might be interesting to provide another perspective to this unfolding story.
To begin, I arrived late last night at the Airport and Mr. J was waiting for me outside . It has been three years since I have seen him. Surrounded by Seattle police, who patrol the drop off and pick up areas like Nazis, we embraced each other and I probably held on longer than I should of but the police could wait. I was back with my dear friend.
My first impression was how good he looked. From his earlier blog I have to agree I actually think he has more hair!
Upon returning to his apartment, I was immediately reminded of all the previous apartments he has lived in. Books, Music and Communist icons. What’s new this time are the gallons of Gatorade, protein drinks and the small pharmacy that sits at the foot of his bed.
We talked for hours and he brought me up to speed on his new regimens, schedules, pain management and of course the famous “third nipple.” Exhausted, we called it a night and I then I fell asleep with Icarus leaning against my head.
This morning we got up and Mr. Jones made some awesome coffee, evidently this town is notorious for it’s coffee? I had two of Nadine’s bran muffins that were delicious.
This is Mr. Jones’ second day of chemo (since IV) and he was in good spirits. He had a lunch meeting at the University so we headed over to school were I met some of his fellow professors and I saw his office which was full of books and a beautiful view of the blooming trees on campus. While Mr. Jones had his power lunch, I had the pleasure of
having lunch with his fellow professor and good friend The Mac Daddy. We shared our thoughts, fears and admiration for the brave fight our fellow friend was battling.
After lunch I drove Mr. Jones home and it was evident that the chemo has effects. He was tired. He lay down and took a nap, drank more Gatorade and monitored his temperature. The boy is on it!! He takes care of himself and he has friends in this town that are wonderful.
The editor of this blog gave me free license to write what I wanted. So I will be frank! I am in awe of his strength, his genuine love for his family and his friends and of course his beautiful mind which is enduring the greatest challenge ever ! We all love Mr. Jones…..but today I respect him more than I ever thought was possible.
P.S. He says he’s a 5 on the Franky scale. I give him a 12
Today, Mr. Jones asked me if I would post on his blog. I was reluctant at first but then I was flattered and thought it might be interesting to provide another perspective to this unfolding story.
To begin, I arrived late last night at the Airport and Mr. J was waiting for me outside . It has been three years since I have seen him. Surrounded by Seattle police, who patrol the drop off and pick up areas like Nazis, we embraced each other and I probably held on longer than I should of but the police could wait. I was back with my dear friend.
My first impression was how good he looked. From his earlier blog I have to agree I actually think he has more hair!
Upon returning to his apartment, I was immediately reminded of all the previous apartments he has lived in. Books, Music and Communist icons. What’s new this time are the gallons of Gatorade, protein drinks and the small pharmacy that sits at the foot of his bed.
We talked for hours and he brought me up to speed on his new regimens, schedules, pain management and of course the famous “third nipple.” Exhausted, we called it a night and I then I fell asleep with Icarus leaning against my head.
This morning we got up and Mr. Jones made some awesome coffee, evidently this town is notorious for it’s coffee? I had two of Nadine’s bran muffins that were delicious.
This is Mr. Jones’ second day of chemo (since IV) and he was in good spirits. He had a lunch meeting at the University so we headed over to school were I met some of his fellow professors and I saw his office which was full of books and a beautiful view of the blooming trees on campus. While Mr. Jones had his power lunch, I had the pleasure of
having lunch with his fellow professor and good friend The Mac Daddy. We shared our thoughts, fears and admiration for the brave fight our fellow friend was battling.
After lunch I drove Mr. Jones home and it was evident that the chemo has effects. He was tired. He lay down and took a nap, drank more Gatorade and monitored his temperature. The boy is on it!! He takes care of himself and he has friends in this town that are wonderful.
The editor of this blog gave me free license to write what I wanted. So I will be frank! I am in awe of his strength, his genuine love for his family and his friends and of course his beautiful mind which is enduring the greatest challenge ever ! We all love Mr. Jones…..but today I respect him more than I ever thought was possible.
P.S. He says he’s a 5 on the Franky scale. I give him a 12
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
5.03.06, When Ms. Post Hales You
[afternoon edition: Franky Scale: I feel 6/7, but it is sunny in Seattle and since Himself Frank arrives tonight, I'll bump up to a solid 8.]
Has anyone ever stopped to notice that some of us wake up at different times than others? For that matter, do any of us realize we often live in different time zones? One more, do we ever stop to think that a text message sent before 7 a.m. in the Mountain Time Zone would arrive at a cell phone in the Pacific Time Zone before 6 a.m.? If one of the receiver's major goals for over a month now has been to try and sleep continuously through one single night, an early morning call or text message might be, well, a real pain in the ass! So much for sleep.
NO CALLS OR TEXTS BEFORE 9! Please. Also, by now all of my sisters agree they want their real names used, so Stacey, Sheri, and Sue. You've all been great, loving, held nothing back, but sometimes one out there likes to call/text quite early in the morning. Can I please ask that no one call or text me before, say 9 a.m., unless it's an emergency? Thanks. During my normal work schedule, yes, I'd usually be up, around, and out close to 6--right now, I'm trying to sleep as much as my body will let me. I already get up some nights at 1:30 am, or 3 am, or 4:45 am, or 2 then 3 and 5. It's the problem itself. This therefore is the new directive from Emily Post; may she haunt you for breaking the rule.
SUPPORT GROUPS: I also wanted to reemphasize the difficulty of this situation--having a family member die of cancer, and then to have it happen to one so young, having it come suddenly, etc.--the difficulty of course on myself but on family too. What I'm writing here then is actually for my own family, though if there are any readers with family members/loved ones who are sick, it might help you as well. Since I'm not the sibling of a cancer victim I can say exactly what it's like--but in addition to my parents' grief, Stacey, Sheri, and Sue have all been hit hard. Communication seems strained sometimes; other family issues expand and displace themselves; fights might break out or irrational silences ensue. To help with this I'm giving you a phone number I've already given and told people to call before--deaf ears--I'm afraid. But will you all please get in tough with these people--even though based at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, they can help you find similar groups either online or in Salt Lake City:
at SCCA, Patient and Family Resource Center (206) 288-2081 / fax (206) 288-2105
(for the curious) SCCA, Nutritional Services (206) 288-1148
SCCA, Patient Financial Services (206) 288-1113
Please call and see how they can help. They have social workers, financial advisors, shrinks, and many others who can help with the long distance, travel issues, treatment plans and alternatives, why my so-and-so won't talk to me about such-and-such. It's important, and something all of you need to take the initiative on; I have several initiatives I'm already trying to take care of, so please take some steps to take care of yourselves with groups that have experience with this. Thanks.
Has anyone ever stopped to notice that some of us wake up at different times than others? For that matter, do any of us realize we often live in different time zones? One more, do we ever stop to think that a text message sent before 7 a.m. in the Mountain Time Zone would arrive at a cell phone in the Pacific Time Zone before 6 a.m.? If one of the receiver's major goals for over a month now has been to try and sleep continuously through one single night, an early morning call or text message might be, well, a real pain in the ass! So much for sleep.
NO CALLS OR TEXTS BEFORE 9! Please. Also, by now all of my sisters agree they want their real names used, so Stacey, Sheri, and Sue. You've all been great, loving, held nothing back, but sometimes one out there likes to call/text quite early in the morning. Can I please ask that no one call or text me before, say 9 a.m., unless it's an emergency? Thanks. During my normal work schedule, yes, I'd usually be up, around, and out close to 6--right now, I'm trying to sleep as much as my body will let me. I already get up some nights at 1:30 am, or 3 am, or 4:45 am, or 2 then 3 and 5. It's the problem itself. This therefore is the new directive from Emily Post; may she haunt you for breaking the rule.
SUPPORT GROUPS: I also wanted to reemphasize the difficulty of this situation--having a family member die of cancer, and then to have it happen to one so young, having it come suddenly, etc.--the difficulty of course on myself but on family too. What I'm writing here then is actually for my own family, though if there are any readers with family members/loved ones who are sick, it might help you as well. Since I'm not the sibling of a cancer victim I can say exactly what it's like--but in addition to my parents' grief, Stacey, Sheri, and Sue have all been hit hard. Communication seems strained sometimes; other family issues expand and displace themselves; fights might break out or irrational silences ensue. To help with this I'm giving you a phone number I've already given and told people to call before--deaf ears--I'm afraid. But will you all please get in tough with these people--even though based at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, they can help you find similar groups either online or in Salt Lake City:
at SCCA, Patient and Family Resource Center (206) 288-2081 / fax (206) 288-2105
(for the curious) SCCA, Nutritional Services (206) 288-1148
SCCA, Patient Financial Services (206) 288-1113
Please call and see how they can help. They have social workers, financial advisors, shrinks, and many others who can help with the long distance, travel issues, treatment plans and alternatives, why my so-and-so won't talk to me about such-and-such. It's important, and something all of you need to take the initiative on; I have several initiatives I'm already trying to take care of, so please take some steps to take care of yourselves with groups that have experience with this. Thanks.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
5.02.06, For One Good Image
[a stanza from John Ashbery; and I leave out numbers for one day, all hell breaks loose: today's about a 5.]
...
No, scars. You forgot to pack
some. The world will live
without them and we must scurry to dream up
some other identical crisis. First it's men and
then it's me, that stayed nights
in a box, sometimes. Sometimes we were up and
sometimes we were down. It takes one of us to
reposition us and by that time danger has worn the day
down to its nub. It's best not to be
here. But if we linger after waters and cents
nothing is then too obtuse for the clime, the time
and all we travelled backward for: one good image,
the rest fenced off.
...
("The Great Bridge Game of Life," _Hotel Lautreamont_, 1992)
...
No, scars. You forgot to pack
some. The world will live
without them and we must scurry to dream up
some other identical crisis. First it's men and
then it's me, that stayed nights
in a box, sometimes. Sometimes we were up and
sometimes we were down. It takes one of us to
reposition us and by that time danger has worn the day
down to its nub. It's best not to be
here. But if we linger after waters and cents
nothing is then too obtuse for the clime, the time
and all we travelled backward for: one good image,
the rest fenced off.
...
("The Great Bridge Game of Life," _Hotel Lautreamont_, 1992)
Monday, May 01, 2006
5.01.06, Mechanics of Chemotherapy (...skipping labor)
In fact, I was double-sidetracked and might post on immigration later. For now I'm posting a more timely explanation in response to several friends' questions about "What's it actually like to have chemotherapy?" / And the Franky Scale, I'm going to say 7 or 8 today, kind of sunny in Seattle, back with my cats, running at sealevel. Also have to raise my number a little before I get zapped tomorrow.
[so as promised] I’ve had several friends ask what chemo is like, the trivial details and mechanics of it, so let me give a few. Before the first IV session, which they call “infusion,” I was mildly wigged out; however, I was also loopy with post-surgical anesthesia so who knows what my mental state really was. After a couple of sessions it goes like this: You check in with your freaky-looking credit-card type thing they use as ID at the SCCA--it contains only name, sex, age, and an 8-digit number. Forest, not Amex, green. No logo, no pictures, no mountain scenes, no kitties, nor holographic images suggesting unimaginable wealth, in someone else's account. The Green Card truly is odd. Hand them your green card and they tell you a number: “Number 20.” This is your infusion room. You walk through a door and down a hospital hallway, where I always feel like I’m trespassing, and you find your private room. You get an IV pole--which actually looks kind of Philip-K.-Dick-ish and high tech--a hospital bed, a lazy-boy for your caretaker person, a TV and a VCR (I think it is, not DVD). A waterless handwasher item hangs on the wall to promote OCD behavior in the hospital. Every time you come in or go out, you must wash. A small window behind you lets light into your room, but you're facing the wrong way so, unless you watch Lake Union in reverse image on the off TV screen, you can only look at the curtain separating you from the nurses’ station--yes, it’s set up like a panopticon. Not perfectly round, but close enough. (So the curtain must symbolize ideology, it’s all you see, makes you feel alone, private, voluntarist, but the Nurses of your Destiny all sit at the central desk of biopower just on the other side! Althusser vs. Foucault in a steel-cage death match!......sorry, thought I was back at work for a minute.)
First, they draw blood to make sure you’re still healthy enough (in terms of immune system) to do more chemo, wait about 45 minutes for the labs to return, then they hook you up. For 30 of 40 minutes a manic nurse will sequentially “access your port”--which means stick a needle into your skin, into the subcutaneous porta-cath Dr. Hands put in for me [pullling a needle out of your skin is called "de-accessing your port"]--and switch five or six little hanging clear-plastic bags of fluid before the actual chemo drugs are given. Pre-chemo drugs, or secondary drugs, include things like benadryl, some stomach-protecting drug, anti-nausea drug, etc. (anyone want a list just say so), and their cumulative effect is to kick my ass and make it hard to stay awake. Why do I want to stay awake? Don’t know that--it’s some odd compulsion, maybe a fear that I’ll miss something, or that some stranger will come by and steal my totally cool hospital socks made of some synthetic monkey-shit-brown material but sporting very hip white rubberized stripes on the bottom to keep you from slipping. Anyway, I fight sleep.
It’s actually quite anticlimactic: the chemo drugs are heavily diluted, administered drop by drop so it takes about 3.5 hours, and there is no pain. You just lie there. You could sleep, watch a movie or TV, read a book if your mind stays that keen. With me, I just get tired, I think I tried to read Zizek last time, and Gillian--no doubt somewhat sadistically--was engaging me in a conversation about Benjamin’s “Theses on History” and who is the puppet and who is the dwarf, whether historical materialism always wins or whether it’s theology. (Just a joke, Gillian, xoxo). I can’t figure that shit out even when I’m not inside the panopticon, let alone souped up on a benedryl cocktail. Overall the process is uneventful, just time-consuming. Then you get a ride home and vegetate. Though drinking lots of fluids is highly recommended. Gillian tells me it's a good time to get writing done.
[so as promised] I’ve had several friends ask what chemo is like, the trivial details and mechanics of it, so let me give a few. Before the first IV session, which they call “infusion,” I was mildly wigged out; however, I was also loopy with post-surgical anesthesia so who knows what my mental state really was. After a couple of sessions it goes like this: You check in with your freaky-looking credit-card type thing they use as ID at the SCCA--it contains only name, sex, age, and an 8-digit number. Forest, not Amex, green. No logo, no pictures, no mountain scenes, no kitties, nor holographic images suggesting unimaginable wealth, in someone else's account. The Green Card truly is odd. Hand them your green card and they tell you a number: “Number 20.” This is your infusion room. You walk through a door and down a hospital hallway, where I always feel like I’m trespassing, and you find your private room. You get an IV pole--which actually looks kind of Philip-K.-Dick-ish and high tech--a hospital bed, a lazy-boy for your caretaker person, a TV and a VCR (I think it is, not DVD). A waterless handwasher item hangs on the wall to promote OCD behavior in the hospital. Every time you come in or go out, you must wash. A small window behind you lets light into your room, but you're facing the wrong way so, unless you watch Lake Union in reverse image on the off TV screen, you can only look at the curtain separating you from the nurses’ station--yes, it’s set up like a panopticon. Not perfectly round, but close enough. (So the curtain must symbolize ideology, it’s all you see, makes you feel alone, private, voluntarist, but the Nurses of your Destiny all sit at the central desk of biopower just on the other side! Althusser vs. Foucault in a steel-cage death match!......sorry, thought I was back at work for a minute.)
First, they draw blood to make sure you’re still healthy enough (in terms of immune system) to do more chemo, wait about 45 minutes for the labs to return, then they hook you up. For 30 of 40 minutes a manic nurse will sequentially “access your port”--which means stick a needle into your skin, into the subcutaneous porta-cath Dr. Hands put in for me [pullling a needle out of your skin is called "de-accessing your port"]--and switch five or six little hanging clear-plastic bags of fluid before the actual chemo drugs are given. Pre-chemo drugs, or secondary drugs, include things like benadryl, some stomach-protecting drug, anti-nausea drug, etc. (anyone want a list just say so), and their cumulative effect is to kick my ass and make it hard to stay awake. Why do I want to stay awake? Don’t know that--it’s some odd compulsion, maybe a fear that I’ll miss something, or that some stranger will come by and steal my totally cool hospital socks made of some synthetic monkey-shit-brown material but sporting very hip white rubberized stripes on the bottom to keep you from slipping. Anyway, I fight sleep.
It’s actually quite anticlimactic: the chemo drugs are heavily diluted, administered drop by drop so it takes about 3.5 hours, and there is no pain. You just lie there. You could sleep, watch a movie or TV, read a book if your mind stays that keen. With me, I just get tired, I think I tried to read Zizek last time, and Gillian--no doubt somewhat sadistically--was engaging me in a conversation about Benjamin’s “Theses on History” and who is the puppet and who is the dwarf, whether historical materialism always wins or whether it’s theology. (Just a joke, Gillian, xoxo). I can’t figure that shit out even when I’m not inside the panopticon, let alone souped up on a benedryl cocktail. Overall the process is uneventful, just time-consuming. Then you get a ride home and vegetate. Though drinking lots of fluids is highly recommended. Gillian tells me it's a good time to get writing done.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
4.30.06, Max Weber meets Dr. Malfi
End of April entry. Cruelest Month has come and gone, the calendar pages turn whether we go with them or not. I don’t mean to sound too Weberian, too Protestant-work-ethic-y, still I can’t help but think more than ever questions like, “Last month is gone, what did I do?” It’s more than thinking, Sheri, I think this qualifies as full rumination. Not to the obsessional point, still, to a point hard not to notice. Where’s Dr. Malfi?
Quote from Tony Soprano (Season 1 I think): "Cunnilingus and psychiatry brought us to this!" (I swear this was *not* even planned, but a friend emailed this qte out of the blue, so when I realized the insane uncanny connections captured by Tony's line by the brilliant logic of his context and idiom, what choice did I have? One of those fleeting moments when life makes sense.... well sort of...)
Another of my sisters texted me today to check: “Has the eagle landed?” Hmm, I know one of your readers uses the same phrase in a quite a different frame of reference. Enough said. (And not totally unrelated in this windspeak here, my third sister had to email to ask me question about salad/s. I told her that her 17-year old could enlighten her.)
Though one additional connection can be suggested publicly: this same friend who references the migratory & flight patterns of eagles did ask me something. After my thong post thing, said friend, who is not from Seattle, wants to know you Zara Zara Zara ‘O, or at least “who you are” & “what you’re like.” What do you think…? Should I tell? ;-)
Chemotherapy. Remember that? After one week completely off the drugs and trying to cleanse my system, regain some strength, put on a few pounds through the Mormon Neighborhood Casserole Diet (= Atkins + Carbs + Jello), with Boost on the side, I began feeling better. My realization now is that chemo does in fact suck. For all I can tell my hair might actually be getting thicker, but chemo is not nice to my system, the feeling is simply there in the gut, just a gnawing, a breaking down, and less so elsewhere yet still there. Again, it’s not excruciating or debilitating by any means--knock wood--it is simply everpresent, everannoying, and unavoidable. Not unlike conservativism these days.
On the Franky scale I’m going for a 6/7.
Finally, I returned to my cats, but to mail and bills too, and yes the bill from Dr. Hands was here. About 5 G’s. Once I saw this I realized I did the right thing not tipping him. For that price I also should have been given the full wax job rather than the cheap little Lady Bic Electric Trimmer. Thank the labor movement of Washington State historically that I have such good health insurance. Wobblies of the world!
Quote from Tony Soprano (Season 1 I think): "Cunnilingus and psychiatry brought us to this!" (I swear this was *not* even planned, but a friend emailed this qte out of the blue, so when I realized the insane uncanny connections captured by Tony's line by the brilliant logic of his context and idiom, what choice did I have? One of those fleeting moments when life makes sense.... well sort of...)
Another of my sisters texted me today to check: “Has the eagle landed?” Hmm, I know one of your readers uses the same phrase in a quite a different frame of reference. Enough said. (And not totally unrelated in this windspeak here, my third sister had to email to ask me question about salad/s. I told her that her 17-year old could enlighten her.)
Though one additional connection can be suggested publicly: this same friend who references the migratory & flight patterns of eagles did ask me something. After my thong post thing, said friend, who is not from Seattle, wants to know you Zara Zara Zara ‘O, or at least “who you are” & “what you’re like.” What do you think…? Should I tell? ;-)
Chemotherapy. Remember that? After one week completely off the drugs and trying to cleanse my system, regain some strength, put on a few pounds through the Mormon Neighborhood Casserole Diet (= Atkins + Carbs + Jello), with Boost on the side, I began feeling better. My realization now is that chemo does in fact suck. For all I can tell my hair might actually be getting thicker, but chemo is not nice to my system, the feeling is simply there in the gut, just a gnawing, a breaking down, and less so elsewhere yet still there. Again, it’s not excruciating or debilitating by any means--knock wood--it is simply everpresent, everannoying, and unavoidable. Not unlike conservativism these days.
On the Franky scale I’m going for a 6/7.
Finally, I returned to my cats, but to mail and bills too, and yes the bill from Dr. Hands was here. About 5 G’s. Once I saw this I realized I did the right thing not tipping him. For that price I also should have been given the full wax job rather than the cheap little Lady Bic Electric Trimmer. Thank the labor movement of Washington State historically that I have such good health insurance. Wobblies of the world!
Saturday, April 29, 2006
4.29.06, Protonix Man Returns!
So Protonix Man has returned, meaning today chemo begins once more, and I woke up to take my Protonix ultastomachprotector pill. Then onto the more rigid schedule of meals, Xeloda, B-6, and so on. I am still waiting for my goddam cape with a large "P" on it.
Most noteworthy of all: I slept through the entire night last night! The first time I've done that in over a month, first time since the diagnosis. Life never ceases to amaze.
[midday Franky Scale report: 8. it's almost like an eigth day with no chemo drugs, but i did have to start them up again this morning, so back into chemo space for me. my doctor told me at the outset "We'll give you as much chemo as we think you can handle, you'll feel some side effects, hopefully adjust a bit, then we'll give you some time off. You'll just start to be feeling better, then we'll start chemo again." it's such a thoughtful way to move forward. --he is a really good guy though, despite my sarcasm-coping mechanism.]
Most noteworthy of all: I slept through the entire night last night! The first time I've done that in over a month, first time since the diagnosis. Life never ceases to amaze.
[midday Franky Scale report: 8. it's almost like an eigth day with no chemo drugs, but i did have to start them up again this morning, so back into chemo space for me. my doctor told me at the outset "We'll give you as much chemo as we think you can handle, you'll feel some side effects, hopefully adjust a bit, then we'll give you some time off. You'll just start to be feeling better, then we'll start chemo again." it's such a thoughtful way to move forward. --he is a really good guy though, despite my sarcasm-coping mechanism.]
Friday, April 28, 2006
4.28.06, Coming in Three's
[The confused are admonished to reread and pay attn to editions in brackets, this post is not nearly as risque as one might think. -Protonix Man]
Today is the last day of no chemo-drugs, or rather the week-long break from the drugs. I have noticed feeling better, stronger, faster, as the no-drug days progress, which seems about right--start to feel better and then we change your oil again, is roughly what my doctor said (the good doctor, not the master of legerdemain). More on this in a moment.
Three Comments: Anything that smacks of sexuality or even sexual innuendo seems to go over big with the kids. My friends included. After my last post I received at least three emails or comments--"He said 'wood'"-- once they see the word "wood" they just can't resist. One or two comments you can read here, the other best comments was sent privately, which was probably wisest: it related to medical experimentation, tingly-ness, visual distraction, rhythmic skin stimulation of areas of the body not affected by the pain--all suggestions found in the "Pain Control" book, I swear [Said friend lives in NY]. One other person suggested a wood scale be added to the blog [Said friend lives in So Cal.]. My deepest apologies but since we already have the Franky Scale and the Pain Scale & I'm afraid a Wood Scale would just confuse the doctors. (BTW#1, this same nameless friend, who should have a superhero name if I could come up with one--ideas?--, is also a professor type who has been known to teach in front of 150 students with, how shall we say, aesthetically evocative pants on, and though such would usually be accompanied by a thong, she has been known to forget said item. Silly, absent-minded professors. ;-) don't hate me, big kiss. ) (BTW#2/overall/furthermore, I do have fucking fabulous friends--I'm not usually the overly expressive type but, truly, there's been a lot of love and people have done so much for me. A big thank you, you're all huge. It's true, I can't even tell you.[Such said friends, living all over, have just been good.])
Three Sisters: I have three of these too. I promised to say something nice about Sheri, so Sheri something nice! The youngest has a birthday today, so happy birthday! And the final sister is at the salad bar, or maybe it's work, I get these confused, work first then salad bar (if this latter comment seems juvenile to anyone, you don't know this sister. Gillian's met her.). Hi.
Third topic: No third topic per se. But healthwise, this week has been noteworthy for more than just how much wind I suck running every day at 4000 feet above sea level. The anti-cancer drugs, I'm starting to learn, really do take a toll in terms of energy, motivation, perhaps even mental acuity in the sense that I simply seem to think like a tired person more with the drugs. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in the Salt Lake Roasting Co, the cafe where a good chunk of my dissertation was written and I used to get free coffee for reasons I'll explain in some other innuendo filled story [3 or 4 year-old story, btw], and for those two hours I felt clear, on my game, able to work (some writing/editing), good all around. One drawback to such moments is how they are accompanied by a certain nearby fragility, a kind of pre-longing that seeps in when knowledge slips in through the concentration barrier. Somewhere in my head there is an egg timer, quiet but steady. Still worth it however. The rest of the day was spent with a friend from very way back, great time together, but trying to stay "on" for five more hours was too much [Said friends: Kenyon, Randy, and Kenyon Jr.]. All told the day was about a 6, Franky.
In terms of energy and what I'll call physical "normalcy" for lack of a better term, the past few days have seen improvements. Even running at this altitude I feel like my body will do more, like I could push it harder if that were my goal. Then in terms of work ability, concentration, and managing general side-effects, this week has also taught me a lot about how to work, what is too much, when to kick off, etc. At this point, too, the books and alternative advice has started to come in: everything from the power of positive thinking, to natural healing, to herbal supplements (multi-level marketing comes free of charge), to other hospitals, clinical trials, and so on. For "motivational" reading I might just stick with Kafka, Burroughs, and Beckett (the past two weeks anyway), but all suggestions are welcome. Two days till Seattle, two days till two cats, thanks again G.
More anon.
Today is the last day of no chemo-drugs, or rather the week-long break from the drugs. I have noticed feeling better, stronger, faster, as the no-drug days progress, which seems about right--start to feel better and then we change your oil again, is roughly what my doctor said (the good doctor, not the master of legerdemain). More on this in a moment.
Three Comments: Anything that smacks of sexuality or even sexual innuendo seems to go over big with the kids. My friends included. After my last post I received at least three emails or comments--"He said 'wood'"-- once they see the word "wood" they just can't resist. One or two comments you can read here, the other best comments was sent privately, which was probably wisest: it related to medical experimentation, tingly-ness, visual distraction, rhythmic skin stimulation of areas of the body not affected by the pain--all suggestions found in the "Pain Control" book, I swear [Said friend lives in NY]. One other person suggested a wood scale be added to the blog [Said friend lives in So Cal.]. My deepest apologies but since we already have the Franky Scale and the Pain Scale & I'm afraid a Wood Scale would just confuse the doctors. (BTW#1, this same nameless friend, who should have a superhero name if I could come up with one--ideas?--, is also a professor type who has been known to teach in front of 150 students with, how shall we say, aesthetically evocative pants on, and though such would usually be accompanied by a thong, she has been known to forget said item. Silly, absent-minded professors. ;-) don't hate me, big kiss. ) (BTW#2/overall/furthermore, I do have fucking fabulous friends--I'm not usually the overly expressive type but, truly, there's been a lot of love and people have done so much for me. A big thank you, you're all huge. It's true, I can't even tell you.[Such said friends, living all over, have just been good.])
Three Sisters: I have three of these too. I promised to say something nice about Sheri, so Sheri something nice! The youngest has a birthday today, so happy birthday! And the final sister is at the salad bar, or maybe it's work, I get these confused, work first then salad bar (if this latter comment seems juvenile to anyone, you don't know this sister. Gillian's met her.). Hi.
Third topic: No third topic per se. But healthwise, this week has been noteworthy for more than just how much wind I suck running every day at 4000 feet above sea level. The anti-cancer drugs, I'm starting to learn, really do take a toll in terms of energy, motivation, perhaps even mental acuity in the sense that I simply seem to think like a tired person more with the drugs. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in the Salt Lake Roasting Co, the cafe where a good chunk of my dissertation was written and I used to get free coffee for reasons I'll explain in some other innuendo filled story [3 or 4 year-old story, btw], and for those two hours I felt clear, on my game, able to work (some writing/editing), good all around. One drawback to such moments is how they are accompanied by a certain nearby fragility, a kind of pre-longing that seeps in when knowledge slips in through the concentration barrier. Somewhere in my head there is an egg timer, quiet but steady. Still worth it however. The rest of the day was spent with a friend from very way back, great time together, but trying to stay "on" for five more hours was too much [Said friends: Kenyon, Randy, and Kenyon Jr.]. All told the day was about a 6, Franky.
In terms of energy and what I'll call physical "normalcy" for lack of a better term, the past few days have seen improvements. Even running at this altitude I feel like my body will do more, like I could push it harder if that were my goal. Then in terms of work ability, concentration, and managing general side-effects, this week has also taught me a lot about how to work, what is too much, when to kick off, etc. At this point, too, the books and alternative advice has started to come in: everything from the power of positive thinking, to natural healing, to herbal supplements (multi-level marketing comes free of charge), to other hospitals, clinical trials, and so on. For "motivational" reading I might just stick with Kafka, Burroughs, and Beckett (the past two weeks anyway), but all suggestions are welcome. Two days till Seattle, two days till two cats, thanks again G.
More anon.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
4.26.06, Side Effects: Hair Loss, Weight, Wood
If today had a number I'd go 8. Not bad. To a large extent I do think the hour-to-hour of the experience is based on pain management. A task that is both physically and psychologically unfamiliar. As I come to grips with the reality of it, the need for it, and the approaches to it, it gets better. The Franky Scale ups.
To update you on the chemo process, or rather my whereabouts therein, I'm currently in the first rest week (did I already write on this....? short-term memory loss as side effect....?). After two weeks of pill and IV chemo, I rest until Saturday; then I start up with the pills once more. Next week Tuesday, the 2nd, I get my first weekly infusion of the second mini-round of chemo (three three-week rounds making one complete cycle). During this week of no chemo drugs I do seem to feel better physically, less fatigued in general, some appetite now and then, and I think less by way of night sweats/chills too.
Side effects for me seem to have been pretty mild so far. No hair loss--well, unless you count my chest hair but I lost that during presurgical foreplay with Dr. Hands. Still hasn't grown back in all the way. Otherwise, same as before, all the same places. My weight also seems pretty constant, though I've been working at it diligently since the Flood. In addition to either Met-rx (sp?) and Balance and Trader Joe's protein/nutrition powder drinks, I've been trying Boost a couple or few times a day also. Appetite, or rather lack thereof, and lack of ability to taste or enjoy food have been pretty constant effects. Some dryness of hands, but no hand-food disease-level discomfort. And, knock on wood, no mouth sores of any type. As for wood--is this too personal?--I don't think I suffered much in that dept, nor do I hope anyone else suffered much in that dept. However, during this week of non-chemo days I, or, there is, how shall we say, a certain tingle in the air. Or let's say I feel somewhat more disposed to register the natural effects of Spring. What was it Eliot said about April? (Read his poetry and it's clear, he for sure had problems with wood, but that's more Prufrock than Wasteland.)
To update you on the chemo process, or rather my whereabouts therein, I'm currently in the first rest week (did I already write on this....? short-term memory loss as side effect....?). After two weeks of pill and IV chemo, I rest until Saturday; then I start up with the pills once more. Next week Tuesday, the 2nd, I get my first weekly infusion of the second mini-round of chemo (three three-week rounds making one complete cycle). During this week of no chemo drugs I do seem to feel better physically, less fatigued in general, some appetite now and then, and I think less by way of night sweats/chills too.
Side effects for me seem to have been pretty mild so far. No hair loss--well, unless you count my chest hair but I lost that during presurgical foreplay with Dr. Hands. Still hasn't grown back in all the way. Otherwise, same as before, all the same places. My weight also seems pretty constant, though I've been working at it diligently since the Flood. In addition to either Met-rx (sp?) and Balance and Trader Joe's protein/nutrition powder drinks, I've been trying Boost a couple or few times a day also. Appetite, or rather lack thereof, and lack of ability to taste or enjoy food have been pretty constant effects. Some dryness of hands, but no hand-food disease-level discomfort. And, knock on wood, no mouth sores of any type. As for wood--is this too personal?--I don't think I suffered much in that dept, nor do I hope anyone else suffered much in that dept. However, during this week of non-chemo days I, or, there is, how shall we say, a certain tingle in the air. Or let's say I feel somewhat more disposed to register the natural effects of Spring. What was it Eliot said about April? (Read his poetry and it's clear, he for sure had problems with wood, but that's more Prufrock than Wasteland.)
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
4.25.06, Articles for the Anal: On GTX
At least one person commented recently that they are proudly anal and like to have the references for articles I mention here, so this is a follow up. An article on the effects of the multi-drug GTX treatment I'm undergoing was mentioned before, but I only had access to the abstract. Now my helpers in the bioengineering community have hooked me up and I have th full text article--I can't post a link to it, but if you contact me privately I can make it worth your while. For now the citation is here:
"Advances in the Genetic Screening, Work-Up and Treatment of Pancreatic Cancer," Harold Frucht, MD, Peter D. Stevens, MD, David R. Fogelman, MD, et al. _Current Treatment Options in Gastroenterology_ 7 (2004): 343-354. Again, let me know if you're insomniac and/or curious.
Otherwise, a chemo update: I'm now in my first non-treatment week, or "rest" week. After 14 days of taking the Xeloda pills, big fat ones 2x a day; and then getting about 3.5 hours of IV Gemcitabine, Taxotere, and numerous secondary drugs, on both of the last Tuesdays, now I'm in the body-recovery space. How does it feel? Who knows really. I'd give myself a 6 or 7 today, pretty normal for the uneventful days; just typical pain mgt, some occasional sudden fatigue, working at hydrating and eating. Both of the latter tasks are much more joblike that I would like, but you don't get to choose. It suddenly feels strange to not be taking the 2x/daily drugs now, but I'll take it. I'm also not aware of any changes in how I feel. All my hair has stayed on my head--and the chest hair is still growing back after Dr. Feelgood gave me the full-service massage. BTW, my mother, since I fianlly asked her, says she did realize what was happening while I was being groped, halfnaked on the gurney..... Honestly I'm not sure it's just my mom playing along like she does when someone in the family makes an obscene joke--yep, even the Mormons do it--and my mom doesn't get it, but she'll laugh along anyway, just to be a good sport. Let's see, the last such joke where this happened had something to do with my mom asking if I might go into the kitchen and "toss some salad" before dinner because I'm so good at it, so I ask "Who told you that?" and she responds, "You've always been good at tossing salad." Then me, well, I was nonplussed... Mothers are not supposed to know that kind of thing; and in reality she doesn't. But did she realize that Dr. F was enjoying himself so thoroughly? And I'm still wondering what kind of tip I owe him for that. Do I pay the insurance company? Do I pay him? Should I break a twenty for singles?
"Advances in the Genetic Screening, Work-Up and Treatment of Pancreatic Cancer," Harold Frucht, MD, Peter D. Stevens, MD, David R. Fogelman, MD, et al. _Current Treatment Options in Gastroenterology_ 7 (2004): 343-354. Again, let me know if you're insomniac and/or curious.
Otherwise, a chemo update: I'm now in my first non-treatment week, or "rest" week. After 14 days of taking the Xeloda pills, big fat ones 2x a day; and then getting about 3.5 hours of IV Gemcitabine, Taxotere, and numerous secondary drugs, on both of the last Tuesdays, now I'm in the body-recovery space. How does it feel? Who knows really. I'd give myself a 6 or 7 today, pretty normal for the uneventful days; just typical pain mgt, some occasional sudden fatigue, working at hydrating and eating. Both of the latter tasks are much more joblike that I would like, but you don't get to choose. It suddenly feels strange to not be taking the 2x/daily drugs now, but I'll take it. I'm also not aware of any changes in how I feel. All my hair has stayed on my head--and the chest hair is still growing back after Dr. Feelgood gave me the full-service massage. BTW, my mother, since I fianlly asked her, says she did realize what was happening while I was being groped, halfnaked on the gurney..... Honestly I'm not sure it's just my mom playing along like she does when someone in the family makes an obscene joke--yep, even the Mormons do it--and my mom doesn't get it, but she'll laugh along anyway, just to be a good sport. Let's see, the last such joke where this happened had something to do with my mom asking if I might go into the kitchen and "toss some salad" before dinner because I'm so good at it, so I ask "Who told you that?" and she responds, "You've always been good at tossing salad." Then me, well, I was nonplussed... Mothers are not supposed to know that kind of thing; and in reality she doesn't. But did she realize that Dr. F was enjoying himself so thoroughly? And I'm still wondering what kind of tip I owe him for that. Do I pay the insurance company? Do I pay him? Should I break a twenty for singles?
Monday, April 24, 2006
4.24.06, Hunting Season Is Now Open!
Beware! The slings and arrows of men!
No, but wait, they are not calumny or slander, rather they are the razor sharp steel of familial love, dipped before shooting in intimacy, history, and knowing too many embarrassing stories about each other. Quaint and homey in a way, sure, maybe in a, well, Spanish Inquisition sort of way. Btw, today feels kind of like a 7; but now the Franky Scale and the pain scale could coincide, now that I am surrounded with all this love. Not to say I don't enjoy being back home with family, it's just that my family--I hope they forgive me for saying this publicly--have a collective genetic disease whereby the cell phone and/or telephone receiver (deceptively named in English because "receiving" is not at all what hunting season is about, as we all know...) but the telephone receiver never quite developed according to its own DNA plan, independently that is, and instead it fused at some point with the three bones of the ear--stapes, incus, malleus--so that your only hope of looking "normal" in life is not to pretend the thing doesn't exist, no, instead you must love it, touch it, fondle it, dial it, you must call with it--A LOT!; and there's a secondary condition too, short-term memory circuits are in fact short-circuits that think "re-dial"--then forget what they just did--then again "re-dial"--there's even one more call as I write this. (This was our trade-off in the pre-existence to this life: all of my family got this disfiguring phone disease, and I got in the line for cankers, I thought 'Shit, I'd way rather have recurring canker sores than a phone stuck to the side of my head...,' or I at least I thought it was the line for cankers but there some big-ass tall guy in front of me blocking the view and it turns out not have been "cankers" after all but "cancer." My bad.)
And as punishment for ignoring the last ringing on the phone across the room, the phone at my side begins to shake, quiver, and grow in size. With each vibration it swells.... I try to reach it and kill the "ring" option, just to make it stop. It's too late, though. It's growing in size, it's switched from ring to voicemail so there's that 3, or 5, or 10 second pause, and then... ARGHHHHHHHHHH.... more ringing und vibrating to let me know the message has been successfully received. To let me know that hunting season is still on, all's good, "those two aren't just fishing' buddies,".... oops....the only redemption I have now is that I have a medicine cabinet, now, the size of the latest-model Hummer and it has things like antiulcer pills, antiemetic pills, antinausea-from-too-many-call pills, antidiarrhea-from-phonecall pills, antianxiety-from-being-in-Utah pills. Oh yes, there are many alternatives. Now if I can just find my earplugs long enough to get to the pill box....
[of course I love you all, the support is wonderful, we all just seem to get a bit phone happy sometimes where there is a life to live out there. xox]
No, but wait, they are not calumny or slander, rather they are the razor sharp steel of familial love, dipped before shooting in intimacy, history, and knowing too many embarrassing stories about each other. Quaint and homey in a way, sure, maybe in a, well, Spanish Inquisition sort of way. Btw, today feels kind of like a 7; but now the Franky Scale and the pain scale could coincide, now that I am surrounded with all this love. Not to say I don't enjoy being back home with family, it's just that my family--I hope they forgive me for saying this publicly--have a collective genetic disease whereby the cell phone and/or telephone receiver (deceptively named in English because "receiving" is not at all what hunting season is about, as we all know...) but the telephone receiver never quite developed according to its own DNA plan, independently that is, and instead it fused at some point with the three bones of the ear--stapes, incus, malleus--so that your only hope of looking "normal" in life is not to pretend the thing doesn't exist, no, instead you must love it, touch it, fondle it, dial it, you must call with it--A LOT!; and there's a secondary condition too, short-term memory circuits are in fact short-circuits that think "re-dial"--then forget what they just did--then again "re-dial"--there's even one more call as I write this. (This was our trade-off in the pre-existence to this life: all of my family got this disfiguring phone disease, and I got in the line for cankers, I thought 'Shit, I'd way rather have recurring canker sores than a phone stuck to the side of my head...,' or I at least I thought it was the line for cankers but there some big-ass tall guy in front of me blocking the view and it turns out not have been "cankers" after all but "cancer." My bad.)
And as punishment for ignoring the last ringing on the phone across the room, the phone at my side begins to shake, quiver, and grow in size. With each vibration it swells.... I try to reach it and kill the "ring" option, just to make it stop. It's too late, though. It's growing in size, it's switched from ring to voicemail so there's that 3, or 5, or 10 second pause, and then... ARGHHHHHHHHHH.... more ringing und vibrating to let me know the message has been successfully received. To let me know that hunting season is still on, all's good, "those two aren't just fishing' buddies,".... oops....the only redemption I have now is that I have a medicine cabinet, now, the size of the latest-model Hummer and it has things like antiulcer pills, antiemetic pills, antinausea-from-too-many-call pills, antidiarrhea-from-phonecall pills, antianxiety-from-being-in-Utah pills. Oh yes, there are many alternatives. Now if I can just find my earplugs long enough to get to the pill box....
[of course I love you all, the support is wonderful, we all just seem to get a bit phone happy sometimes where there is a life to live out there. xox]
Sunday, April 23, 2006
4.23.06, Slouching off to Zion & The Pain Scale
This morning I'm heading back to Salt Lake City for the next week, for some time with family, some "vacation," and hopefully to gain a few of the pounds lost in my evacuation last week. It's rather like the second coming, but I have been there a few times. (If readers have not realized at this point, the reverence level on these posts varies, usually from rather indifferent to rather inappropriate; I hope you don't mind.)
Yesterday on the Franky Scale was a 7. A great deal of the Daily Numbers Game, as I learn day by day when I purchase my tickets, is has to do with pain management. Despite the irony of my looking fine and generally not feeling "sick" too often during this experience, there is pain which is essentially constant if it goes unchecked, or rather "unmanaged." Their terminology concerning management is quite apt: one does need to keep it in check, prevent it, or maintain it at its very lowest level or else the management become crisis management and every minute until it is checked once again become a minute lost. Among the stupid truisms--like "life is complex"--there is one I keep realizing every day now that "pain is really annoying" or "pain is a pain in the ass" if you will. Even at the lower levels on the pain scale, from 2 to 5 or 6 let's say, there is a certain taxing tedium to simply having it *not go away.* So that sitting, attempting to read, trying to lie down, contemplating eating, etc. etc. all become incrementally or even exponentially more difficult. The next level is what "They" call breakthrough pain, when the constant droning pain suddenly exceeds some unspoken bounds and moves beyond your control.
The point of it all is not to complain but rather to explain where the daily number comes from and the fact that there is much more wisdom in all the Little Pamphlets they offer at the local hospital or cancer center: "Pain Control: A Guide for People with Cancer and Their Families" (National Cancer Institute), "Understanding Chemotherapy: A Guide for Patients and Families" (American Cancer Society), or "When Someone in Your Family Has Cancer" (National Cancer Institute). The "Pain Control" booklet has been invaluable, something to use everyday--but for those of us who expect more flash production and presentation these booklets seem like they would disappoint.
In the end, though the advice comes in unlikely packages and though I tend to make like of the daily numbers game, the extent to which my life now revolves around that abstraction--a "7"--a "3"--or a "5"--seems to be the extent to which my life revolves each day.
Yesterday on the Franky Scale was a 7. A great deal of the Daily Numbers Game, as I learn day by day when I purchase my tickets, is has to do with pain management. Despite the irony of my looking fine and generally not feeling "sick" too often during this experience, there is pain which is essentially constant if it goes unchecked, or rather "unmanaged." Their terminology concerning management is quite apt: one does need to keep it in check, prevent it, or maintain it at its very lowest level or else the management become crisis management and every minute until it is checked once again become a minute lost. Among the stupid truisms--like "life is complex"--there is one I keep realizing every day now that "pain is really annoying" or "pain is a pain in the ass" if you will. Even at the lower levels on the pain scale, from 2 to 5 or 6 let's say, there is a certain taxing tedium to simply having it *not go away.* So that sitting, attempting to read, trying to lie down, contemplating eating, etc. etc. all become incrementally or even exponentially more difficult. The next level is what "They" call breakthrough pain, when the constant droning pain suddenly exceeds some unspoken bounds and moves beyond your control.
The point of it all is not to complain but rather to explain where the daily number comes from and the fact that there is much more wisdom in all the Little Pamphlets they offer at the local hospital or cancer center: "Pain Control: A Guide for People with Cancer and Their Families" (National Cancer Institute), "Understanding Chemotherapy: A Guide for Patients and Families" (American Cancer Society), or "When Someone in Your Family Has Cancer" (National Cancer Institute). The "Pain Control" booklet has been invaluable, something to use everyday--but for those of us who expect more flash production and presentation these booklets seem like they would disappoint.
In the end, though the advice comes in unlikely packages and though I tend to make like of the daily numbers game, the extent to which my life now revolves around that abstraction--a "7"--a "3"--or a "5"--seems to be the extent to which my life revolves each day.
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