Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Short and Sweet, I Hope.

   Yes, it's that time of the month for me. I want a damned cigarette. I cranked the computer  up and while it was loading I had already reached form one and thought "You ignorant  fuck, you have smoked in over a year, pull up your big time panties". Today's blog will probably be short. I hope anyway..

  Let' start with Sunday night. Sunday was a good day, I had plenty of get go, sat down an watched it go! I'd nap out if I didn't keep moving (that seems to be status quo) so I tried to keep moving. Any way, Liz is in the sack cutting logs already, I'm getting ready to do that myself. I get all situated in the sack, and cough once, but get that waring that it's not going to be just a cough. I jump up and (yeah, right, Jump..hahahahaha) and beat feet toward the toilet. I make it, gag once, but it's not vomit, it's blood. A pretty decent amount as well. Beautiful, bright red……I gotta get a break so I can wake Liz up (I hate waking her up on a work night) and see what she thinks. God, it finally quits (truth be told, it was the longest 2-3 minutes, and I foolishly flush the head. Now she has nothing more to go on than my own word and the towel I've used to keep my mouth wiped dry. It was probably the most I'd bled at one time since all this cancer bullshit started up again. So yeah, it's sucked mule asses. And, to top that off, when we went to see the new 300 Movie, I fell asleep. Dammit. Liz says I didn't miss much. I say if I fall asleep when I'm with her or one of the kids, I've missed a LOT.

  I took everything I was supposed to on Saturday, and still had some hellacious pain. Liz bought me this damn cool Journal, and she and Addison wrote some lovely things in it. I, however, have tried to keep a journal before and I'm worse about keeping a journal than I am this blog. That's pretty bad.  I am assured that no one will read a thing until after I'm taking the eternal celestial nap. I'll be open and honest, but (of course there's a caveat) somethings no one but I will remember. Either because of a promise, and my word given. Or because it's one of those things that even good men won't talk about.

 I break here to give Rosanne Green Arnold her props for giving me a day of Mass Prayer Saturday Morning in her church. Rosanne, thank you very much, from the bottom of my heart. And as the weekend comes around, tell the parish how much I truly appreciate them taking the time out of their day to pray for an old sinner like me.

   The bleeding has stepped up, always nice when things that are supposed to happen only improve with time. Unlike shooting, this cancer thing is NOT a deteriorating skill. Damn thing gets better at it's appointed duty all the time. Such as wine, in most cases, the damn cancer is getting better with age. It works when you are sleeping, it works when your awake, it works if you were bad or good, so damn it for damn it's sake. I get sleepy for no reason. Worse, I fall asleep while sitting. Or working on something, like the blog or my journal. The Blog is pretty funny, it usually looks something like this: "kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk", along those lines. One time it was half a page on "dash" so you could practice your Morse code. The journal or writing  notes shows up when I start writing tiny, and then there is the line dragging down the page where instead of just falling asleep I fight it until the bitter end and the mouth breathing begins.

  In truth, the biggest and most bothersome is the direct and escalating lack of energy that is coming. I still like getting out and going places. I could make use of the walker or a cane and get along better, but no, not yet. I only used the damn walker a total of ten or 15 days. Most of those in Houston. It's alright, but, fuck me, I'm only 53 years old! I may not make 54, but that's still too young for a walker. So far anyway. Lack of energy really wasn't a problem very often before the first time I'd been diagnosed with fucking cancer. I got healed up, and lack of energy was only a problem occasionally. Even within the first 5 months after surgery (that would be mid June) Even with the "all clear" CT and visual reports in May and June, the way my energy level was dropping, I should have guessed the cancer had come back. That could be the reason in July when Dr Yu (only Yu can make, your face look right). Yeah, yeah, I know. Bad reference and parody of a song. Certainly not my best work, that's for certain. After that diagnosis, and already knowing what my first surgeon told me about there not being any thing else to be done other than die if it came back after this trip in, since it had grown so well in so many places, and hearing the same thing from my Chemo Doc and the Radiation Doc, I knew my chances were zero to none. Emotionally, I'm damn sure that had a lot to do with it. Surprisingly, or not, it's somewhat of a conundrum. I'm given a terminally ill notice, but my energy level came up. I suppose if I go back and go through all the stuff I can remember, I'll find that it went up because I felt a sense of urgency to get things set up so Liz wouldn't have to face that along with me dying.

  Like I said, it's fairly short, but it took forever to get onto the page. Geez Louise!, it took me for ever to finish. I fell asleep, Hospice came by (wow, Shari is cute…and tiny) and it's time to finish

   I was reminded today how funny people can get if something makes them uneasy.  It's fine, I get that way myself even though I try not. I find if I ask (fucked if that wasn't easier 18 months ago) most people are happy to explain their issues rather than be stared at. Then there's this kind. To this day I find them funnier than a sack full of drunken squirrels.

  My company work truck got a leak under the front end. I was just 3 weeks or so from finishing my treatment for the first cancer I got, so this would have been, uhhhhhh,  2009. I run it up to Midas and write a note for the guy at the counter. "Sir, I can hear you just fine, I just can't talk from the radiation therapy I'm taking at present. My truck, parked out side, has a small leak by the front inboard CV Joint." No problem, I figure I'll hear "Pull it around to the inspection lift and we'll see." No, nope, not even close. He grabs the pad out of my hand and starts to write, but before he can get anything down I was moving in on him. I got my hand on the page first (secretly, I'm about to die laughing) and write, "No, really, I can hear every word you say. Just look at me when you talk." So, now his head is bobbin up and down like a 50 year old Chihuahua doll in the back window of a Chevy Impala. I think "fuck in A!!! All he's gotta do is tell me to come around back with the truck". Yes he did, but not like I expected. "MR SMITH!! IF YOU'LL WAIT ABOUT 15 MINUTES WE WILL SHOW YOU WHERE TO GO!!!" All I can see now is Garret Morris doing the news for the Hearing Impaired on Saturday Night Live. The only down side is, I'm cracking clear the fuck up now, since the guy went back inside, but that makes my throat so raw it bleeds. And not just a little. But I couldn't help it. A nice lady stopped to ask if I needed help, and I wrote her a nice note explaining what went on. The next person up didn't stop. He saw me bleeding and damn near killed himself getting in to the building and tell the guy. He felt like shit. I told him it wasn't any big deal at all, really. And said now, stop for a minute, and put yourself in my shoes. I explained to him it's not the first time and it makes me laugh instead of mad. We talked about it and in the end, we were both laughing our ass off. I just took at extra rag with me.

  Y'all have fun and laugh. Especially where they don't expect laughter. People will think you're bat shit                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

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