Well Dammit All

    Yep, that's it. Dammit All. Damn the Cancer, damn my lack of energy FROM the cancer, damn my lazy ass that hasn't kept up with people. Dammit All.  See, this isn't how this whole damn thing was supposed to go. I wasn't supposed to doubt myself and my abilities to fight the cancer as it got more dedicated to killing me. Every day was supposed to be all cherries and whipped cream. Kiss my ass if it's a damn sight more difficult than that. Some days I doubt myself. Like Saturday. Friday, great day, baby. Lots of energy, did some cookin, baked a pound cake from scratch. Saturday I woke up at 0600, absolutely unable to decide what I should do first. I got started, got the Ativan that holds off panic, then in an hour, I got the anti-depressant in me, a couple of hours after that, I'd not fed, I didn't have anywhere near all my drugs in me, and I STILL couldn't group my shit without help. That, girls and boys, was disconcerting to say the least. So, after getting a large amount of help from the Lovely and our friend Cheri, I managed to sleep close to 21 hours in total. Did I need that much rest? Apparently. I thought I'd be pretty spry Saturday after having a somewhat better than average day on Friday. Was not to be. Sunday, though, that went pretty well. Up at my usual, felt pretty good, took a short nap. Gathered up the ol' walker and went with Liz and Cheri to Stanton, Tx for "Old Sorehead Days". A city wide flea market kind of deal. Some of the outdoor furniture has really improved in the last 20 years or so and Liz got a really decent two seat lawn swing for a more than reasonable price. I got around without completely passing out, a "Whoa Buckaroo, that made ya wobbly!" That was from bending over to pick up my pen, then standing up too fast. Silly boy. My Lymphedema therapist took a week vacation. I'm retaining more fluid in my shoulders, neck, and face than the Titanic forward storage hold. Makes me terribly uncomfortable, as well as drool like a herd of Pavlovian Dogs staring at the supper dish.

  It's been a bit over two weeks since I blogged last. That seems like an incredibly long time to me, when I look at the date. Odd isn't it, how our perception of time gets all muddled up at times? How long did it take to pop Jiffy Pop when we were kids? Three, four minutes? Felt like an hour or so, though, didn't it. For perception on time, I look back at a project my youngest son's incredibly hot Kindergarten teacher did that I thought was one of the most innovative things I've seen a teacher do with kids. She had them write down their favorite food and the recipe to make them. She typed them all up, put them in a little book that looked like a real cook book. It was absolutely fabulous. One of my son's favorites were baked potatoes. This is now our lesson in Perception of Time. The recipe reads thus: "Get 6 big potatoes, my dad eats two. Wash them off and poke holes in them with a fork, be careful not to stab yourself. Put them in plastic bags and put them into the microwave. Cook them for six days. Delicious!" Six days. That is one eviscerated potato. It's nummy goodness completely removed I imagine after hour 6 of 134. That, though, is how it looks to a five-year old that is waiting for his 6 minute potato and Iwantitrightnowdarnitmomitsbeenayear attitude. Time drags when you're a kid and there's something you want to do, play, or eat, or being punished. You could have flayed my youngest with a Cat-O-Nine Tails, and he'd not said a word. On the other hand, put him in a time out for ten minutes and his entire world fell apart. There was wailing, lamentations, rending of cloth. The punishment was blatantly against the US Constitution, was used by the Roman's against Christians. The only thing worse to him was hearing, "Five more minutes if you keep crying".
   I'm very close to that mark myself right now. I've been home so long, slowly getting worse in more than just a few ways. Some I just notice, and when I take stock of myself, hell, that's been going for more than a couple months. It just got to the point it moved onto my radar screen with louder blips. In five and a half months it'll be two years since I started chemo to reduce this fucking tumor enough that I could wait nearly 50 days to have my face carved up like a piece of mold covered cheese. In some cases the time is blasting by, in others, it's dragging a battleship anchor behind a 1963 VW Beetle.

  SIDEBAR: The new show on TNT "Murder in The First", pretty good. One detective's wife dying of         cancer, makes me a bit uneasy.

   I'm noticing something else that I'm starting to lose. Cancer, drugs, lack of use, take your pick, but it makes me a little spooked and more than a little uneasy. It's like this. I could stand still, close my eyes, and retrace my steps almost precisely in my mind like I was watching a movie. I could sort of do that down hole in wells. See the tools work or not work, how far away from X while we were still working on Y to get there. Not as good as my old man, but pretty fair. My dad, though, couldn't find his ass with both hands if he wasn't standing right where he stopped to look for it. That little skill that I have used a LOT is slipping away. I'm not certain why, but it is slippery in there anymore. I've got a couple things working on me I didn't have two years ago. You know, like opiates, a couple of different pain meds that aren't opium based. That may have something to do with my missing some of the fun mental games I used to play in order to try and keep the old noodle from going to soft.  Wow, that was a bad choice of word grouping wasn't it?

    After all that is said and done, today is a good day. Massage early on, lymphedema therapy, writing the blog, a couple of funny things that happened. The last one was a close call, but I'm chuckling about. I have to change tubes once in a while during the day, just the nature of the beast since I can't swallow. Here's how it played out. You older folks see if you can read this with a Howard Cosell voice rolling around.
  "Here comes Smith. SUCCESSfully cleaning out his tracheostomy tube now searching for the KY Jelly to make insertion a smooth and simple exercise. NO! It can't be he's grabbed the tube of BEN GAY COOL  TREATMENT!! That will be a horrifying and painful misTAKE if he doesn't catch the error. He sees it! Saving himself from what would be the remainder of his life in abject ridicule and self loathing."


  You all have more fun than a box full of mixed chocolates