Liz wrote a wonderful blog that I had one hell of a time typing for you all. I had this damn wet eye problem several times when typing it for her. Of all the wonderful break throughs in medicine and science they can't seem to stop this wet eye syndrome I get reading stuff Liz has written or done for me. Well hell, what she still does for me to this day. I'm sure until the day I finally kick off, she'll be right there, as I would for her.
Anyhow, things change all the time. I'm certain that when they do everyone (okay, not everyone, because some folks are less surprised than I) probably is as shocked as I am that so many things tie together. Had I known that dying slowly would have so many complications and add ons I'd have opted for slightly faster. Not immediate, but slightly faster. That's a hard call, even with all the information I have. Normally I'd say "I wouldn't change anything, since all the things I've done, good, bad, or indifferent, made me who I am." Why would this be any different? Hard to say. So I'm just going to rough it out like I had good sense.
So, onward toward some of the new stuff. I know one of the triggers I have for an anxiety/panic attack are my legs getting achy I start to get antsy. That moves right up into "Fuck, am I not getting enough air?", and that runs it's way into "Oh FUCK!!! I'm not!!". That shit will start a hyperventilation problem I definitely do not need. I thought I could walk it out. You know, like when we were all younger and we'd feel like our legs were aching and it was probably just from lack of doing. So I'd get up, got walk around and sure enough, that was generally the problem. Or I was dehydrating. Something that's easy to do now since I'm not as active. No such luck. Over hydrate, no change. Walk, no change. So I'd panic for a bit, snag a Xanax (which pisses me off to no end, that I can't control something without medication) and that usually helped. Not today. Liz got to see me spas out. That wasn't my most shining moment, I can tell you for certain. She's not afraid to call my Hospice nurse, either. I'm not afraid, I just want to figure a way to overcome the problem without another drug. Turns out, it's drug induced and not unusual. It's the combination of Morphine and Fentanyl that causes it. I wasn't expecting to see my nurse until tomorrow, so I was about half zonked when he showed up. My Pop used to be able to take himself completely away from pain. I can to an extent, not like the old man could, but well enough 99% of the time I can get over it. Not so with the cancer, I can't get that far way. And that's how I was when the nurse showed up. About half gone. So, we've traded a Xanax pill for Valium sublingual liquid. Tastes like shit, does it's job. I ain't gonna complain.
I've never had a problem with coping with pain. But I'm here to tell ya, this shit kicks my narrow white ass right into the ground. It's because it never lets up, it doesn't take a breath even. Wicked assed shit. Going up 50ml on the Fentanyl patch worked really well. It's even taken the bone pain in my jaw out. That's fucking impressive. It's cut down on my morphine use to once or twice a day, when it had been running six to eight times a day, and not sleeping. I still have occasional insomnia, but that's mostly from boredom and sleeping too long during the day. Not too annoying, but somewhat a pain in the ass. I can still take the son to school, drive to get coffee and to and from therapy. And maybe this week, out to the office to say high to everyone Wednesday. That's going to become too difficult for me to do in the next two or three weeks, I believe, maybe a bit sooner than that. It's starting to affect my depth perception and my head rotation is getting smaller. Some of that is from fluid retention, 90% of it is cancer moving in and increasing it's hold on my neck and head. I feel it, I see it, and I believe a lot of people do as well. Just from their expressions. Shit, my lower lip on the right side is getting fatter. I haven't had that problem since the last time some dork jacked my mouth. That, boys and girls, is another story all to itself. One you won't get to read about either. That's one of those things I said when I started this blog that I just wouldn't discuss. Suffice it to say, the jack ass deserved what he got, and I hope he walks okay.
I can see myself slipping, and Liz made the mistake of showing her text message to my Hospice nurse, where she mentioned what I was going through, and that she can see I've slipped a long way in the last two weeks. She's correct, but I didn't think she'd notice. For crying out loud I was doing my best not to let her see that, dammit. I have dropped off a quite a bit in the last two weeks. I seem to do this weird, at least in my mind. I'll trip, slide down the rabbit hole a bit, then flatten out for a while. Damn weird to me, or it might be that I just notice later since the changes happen to me and I'm a bit too close to see the changes as they come along. We'll just wait and see, won't we?
I've been slack the last couple of weeks doing up the blog. There's been quite a bit go on, and there are somethings I can't share, or won't share because those are family things. I love you all that follow this blog, but baby, somethings gotta stay with me and Liz, and aren't for public consumption. Some of it is probably a good thing, not all, but some of it. I know that Liz and I are talking more, and being more open with each other. I had kept my mouth shut hoping to save her from being hurt or frightened. Mostly what I did was hurt her feelings because I wasn't opening up to her. I didn't let her help me do anything, because, in my mind, that was saving her from the nasty shit that I have to do on a daily basis. I should have known better. What I was doing was making her feel helpless and useless to me, when the opposite was the truth. As a rule I'm not a stupid man, I don't think, but I didn't ever in my wildest dreams want Liz to ever feel useless to me, or herself. What I did was close off the one direction she could get close to me. How foolish and short sighted was that? I was unintentionally hurting the one person in my life that's been my life. Kids, all of you are part of why I get up in the morning, you always have a big chunk of my heart. Liz owns the entire thing though, you guys have to share with her. I hope that's alright with you.
I've been slacking as well for what's probably going to sound silly to some of you, some of you may see it as part of me being me. For better or worse, this is why. I got spooked. For the first time in my life I was really frightened. I don't mean startled, I mean shit your britches scared. I've never had that feeling, not ever. I've been anxious a few times, but not to the point of being scared. I just never had time for that. So, when that happened for the first time, there was no way in hell I was going to let it get out. Reasons? Silly. I didn't want people to find me weak. Or weak in spirit. Or lacking in fortitude. Hundreds of reasons why I didn't want people to know. After all, I started this blog so people could learn how NOT to be afraid of the end. What the fuck, now I'm being a hypocrite. Those were my thoughts. What I didn't take into account, what how little the time was that I was truly scared. Not long at all, in reality, an afternoon.
This is what happened. I had a coughing fit that shut down everything. I couldn't catch a breath. I was coughing so hard it was making me dizzy and causing me black spots. I was almost over the problem when it hit me that I was afraid! I was truly scared I was going to cough myself to death, and there wouldn't be anyone around. It's not like I wanted an audience, and still don't, but on that day, in that moment, being alone scared the fucking shit right out of me. Now I'm back to about normal. Having to learn how to deal with the anxiety that in itself can be debilitating. Same thing with a panic attack. I use less medication than I did, though, so I figured out part of what the deal was, and how to work around that. Liz saw me be fruit cake fucked up this afternoon, and did something I normally wouldn't have done. She called my Hospice nurse right away. Because she's seen people who have this restless leg syndrome go from bouncy legs straight into anxiety/panic attack. So she was thinking ahead, where as I was going to bring it up when the nurse did the home visit. In about half an hour, I've got to start getting my shit together for my day. If I get a jump on a shower, meds, and clothed. I might be able to sneak in a feeding and maybe a coffee with the boys. Come home, take a nap, take the boy to school, and then go have a cup with my oldest daughter
As you can see, my life isn't really all that shitty. I picked a damn fine bunch of people to have for family. They truly are my rock and salvation. They make me be more than I probably would be on my own. They are the joy in my life, and the worry at the same time.
Being so fortunate to have so many supportive friends. It amazes me that I am so blessed in so many ways. I've done something right, somewhere, some time. I've been told many times how much I'd helped people in the past, when all I remember was just talking and having a good time. Thank all of you, for being yourselves. You've never failed to tell me when I was screwin the pooch, and you all have been great about praise when I earned it.
Now, it's time to put together my daily self. You'd think with so many pieces of me missing you'd think that would only be 10 or fifteen minutes. But nooooo, let's not do it easy. Takes me almost an hour to two hours to get my ass ready in the morning. But by God it's my time and I'll take it! HA
Hugs and all that mushy stuff. Y'all be good, hear?
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Liz Cook Smith, In Her Own Words
Liz gets her shot on the blog. I've been telling her she needs to write one. This is what she gave me. I have trouble keeping my eyes dry. It's all her today. The next lines are all hers. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have, I am just her typist today.
I know some of you are wondering why I don't put any comments on Roc's blog. So here is my "comment".
I met-or saw him at the tiny laundry mat in Elkhart, Kansas, and I thought "oh great, a cute guy and his two kids, hmmmm", and that was it. A few months later I had a note on my little Fiero (cuz that's what us cool single chicks drove in the late 80's) "Would your consider going to the movie with me?" with his name and phone number. What the hell did I have to lose? I can even tell you the first movie we went to see together "Shattered" with Tom Berringer. (I had the total hots for him back then).
That was the beginning of what changed and saved my life!
Then I met his parents. They were to most amazing couple! I thought to myself, "I want a marriage just like that!". Lo and behold, I did!
Not only did I gain a mother and father in-law, I also inherited tow wonderful kids that were so full of life and gratitude that someone else could love them, and were owing and will to love me back. I gained and brother and sister that are something else. No one was scared to say anything in that family. We were married September 12, 1992. What a wonderful, hot fall day in Neodesha, Kansas, and love surrounded us both.
We welcomed Addison Gates into our family 8-9-96 with no complications. It was also the hottest summer on record in Midland, Texas, where we also resided. We were a good family, had our ups and downs, but nothing extreme.
Ooops! Declan arrived (our pill baby) but we'd not give him back. He is a wonderful son, just like all the other kids.
Chance wanted to life with his mother in Lubbock. I was hard on Rocky to accept, because of the whole situation, but being the kind of father he was, it was "Ok". I could tell there it bothered him to an extent. Over the years Chance has grown to become an extremely hand and reliable individual. Finding a woman that loves him as the great human being that his. He has welcomed her son as his own, just as I did with with him and his sister when Rocky and I were married..
Sarah is the oldest, who gave up her life and career to stay with us she we received our devastating news. She to is a mother that works hard, and has accepted me as her mom. I always stand tall when she tells that to others. I just hope some day she find some one just like her dad.
Addison is our quiet one. Very artistic, very soft spoken. She doesn't like to ruffle feathers, but loves her family to no end. She helps me to be me, to be mom and always looks to me when she is in "?" mode.
Declan, hmmmm…is growing to be a kind young man with lots of potential. I really hope he turns out like his father.
We were good til 2008, and you all know that story so I won't dwell on it. Again in 2012-13, and you all know that story as well.
My time is to help Roc live what time he has left and to overcome the hard times, the good times, and remember our life before this happened. Of course we have our difficult moments..we get angry and frustrated at each other, but we work our way through it. Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be?
I don't comment on his blogs honestly because I simply cannot finish reading them, and when and if I do, I'm in total awe at what he has written, that I am speechless. I'm so speechless I can't think of anything to say.
I don't want to end this on a sad note. Just know that any of you that know my husband, knows he is a virtuous man. I miss his voice, I miss his strength, and I miss the man that held me up when I was/am down.
On our second date, my 25th birthday party put on by my sisters in Elkhart, Ks. Remember? "So, what are your plans with Liz?"
(Rock here. Second date, Liz went to the bathroom. Her buds sat me on the couch, actually put a lamp in my face and asked that. I said "I plan to take her home, and make sure she's okay before I go home to bed." No, dumb ass, long term plans! "OH!! Well, she's cool. I'd like to spend a lot more time with her. Not just a bump this weekend then nothing. Maybe marry her". They seemed to accept that plan. Yes, I married her. Best decision I've ever made, on a tie with working to get custody of my kids. One is a part of me, the other makes me what I can be, every day of my life. Y'all figure out which is which. Now back to Liz)
Hugs and Shit
I know some of you are wondering why I don't put any comments on Roc's blog. So here is my "comment".
I met-or saw him at the tiny laundry mat in Elkhart, Kansas, and I thought "oh great, a cute guy and his two kids, hmmmm", and that was it. A few months later I had a note on my little Fiero (cuz that's what us cool single chicks drove in the late 80's) "Would your consider going to the movie with me?" with his name and phone number. What the hell did I have to lose? I can even tell you the first movie we went to see together "Shattered" with Tom Berringer. (I had the total hots for him back then).
That was the beginning of what changed and saved my life!
Then I met his parents. They were to most amazing couple! I thought to myself, "I want a marriage just like that!". Lo and behold, I did!
Not only did I gain a mother and father in-law, I also inherited tow wonderful kids that were so full of life and gratitude that someone else could love them, and were owing and will to love me back. I gained and brother and sister that are something else. No one was scared to say anything in that family. We were married September 12, 1992. What a wonderful, hot fall day in Neodesha, Kansas, and love surrounded us both.
We welcomed Addison Gates into our family 8-9-96 with no complications. It was also the hottest summer on record in Midland, Texas, where we also resided. We were a good family, had our ups and downs, but nothing extreme.
Ooops! Declan arrived (our pill baby) but we'd not give him back. He is a wonderful son, just like all the other kids.
Chance wanted to life with his mother in Lubbock. I was hard on Rocky to accept, because of the whole situation, but being the kind of father he was, it was "Ok". I could tell there it bothered him to an extent. Over the years Chance has grown to become an extremely hand and reliable individual. Finding a woman that loves him as the great human being that his. He has welcomed her son as his own, just as I did with with him and his sister when Rocky and I were married..
Sarah is the oldest, who gave up her life and career to stay with us she we received our devastating news. She to is a mother that works hard, and has accepted me as her mom. I always stand tall when she tells that to others. I just hope some day she find some one just like her dad.
Addison is our quiet one. Very artistic, very soft spoken. She doesn't like to ruffle feathers, but loves her family to no end. She helps me to be me, to be mom and always looks to me when she is in "?" mode.
Declan, hmmmm…is growing to be a kind young man with lots of potential. I really hope he turns out like his father.
We were good til 2008, and you all know that story so I won't dwell on it. Again in 2012-13, and you all know that story as well.
My time is to help Roc live what time he has left and to overcome the hard times, the good times, and remember our life before this happened. Of course we have our difficult moments..we get angry and frustrated at each other, but we work our way through it. Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be?
I don't comment on his blogs honestly because I simply cannot finish reading them, and when and if I do, I'm in total awe at what he has written, that I am speechless. I'm so speechless I can't think of anything to say.
I don't want to end this on a sad note. Just know that any of you that know my husband, knows he is a virtuous man. I miss his voice, I miss his strength, and I miss the man that held me up when I was/am down.
On our second date, my 25th birthday party put on by my sisters in Elkhart, Ks. Remember? "So, what are your plans with Liz?"
(Rock here. Second date, Liz went to the bathroom. Her buds sat me on the couch, actually put a lamp in my face and asked that. I said "I plan to take her home, and make sure she's okay before I go home to bed." No, dumb ass, long term plans! "OH!! Well, she's cool. I'd like to spend a lot more time with her. Not just a bump this weekend then nothing. Maybe marry her". They seemed to accept that plan. Yes, I married her. Best decision I've ever made, on a tie with working to get custody of my kids. One is a part of me, the other makes me what I can be, every day of my life. Y'all figure out which is which. Now back to Liz)
Hugs and Shit
Sunday, February 16, 2014
I've Had More Fun
Ive had more fun than I should have, just not lately. I can't keep my eyes open to save my life. I get up, I do the feed bag thing, I rinse the bag and PEG line. I set down, and out go the lights. Christ it's annoying. No, annoying is only close to what is bothersome. The fact that I can't stay awake is costing me family time. The only thing I really hold dearly and it's getting away from me, time with my family. If I'm not asleep, I need help with something, or I'm being tired, or grouchy, or all of it at one time. I'm having panic problems. Fuck, I've never been afraid of anything to PANIC over. What the Fuck is this noise, then? The damn anxiety/panic attacks have got to fucking stop and I mean right fucking now. I feel like I don't have enough time the way it is to panic.
Liz is my greatest help, my one true friend, my anchor and my sun. So for her, I've got to get the hardness back in me, so she can deal with whatever else comes along. She says "For better or worse, sickness and in health! Because I love you!" Yep, she does, and I love her more than anything on earth. She says she wants to know how to help me. I'd love to show her how, but I can't unless I can keep my head glued on straight. Anxiety and panic attacks are not glued on right. I can't help her unless I find why I have them. what's bring them on and learning to shut down that damn life sucking bastards long enough to teach Liz how to take care of me. Liz needs to take care of herself, first. There are things we talked about that she just can't afford to do, all the insurance is going to go to help her out, the grown kids have to learn to make their own way just like Liz and I did ours. They can all do it, because I gave them the tools, they just need to sort out which tools work for then and they'll become the bigger successes than even I believe they can be at this point. They are all already better persons at their age than I was mine. All I knew was how to fight and win. I didn't see the long term consequences like my kids see. A man in his moment. That was the best I could do. Not what should be our goal as men and leaders "A man in his moment, looking to the future". That makes us the real men, Bell, Edison, Tesla, Goddard, Einstein. Every one of those men in their moment, with eyes to the future. No, I don't think I'll ever possess that kind of genius, few of us ever do. All I want for my kids is to be the kind of people that see that moment, be in that moment, and see the future they can create in their moment. All four of them can do that right now, they've got the jump on the old man.
I've had more fun. All of it is in that second paragraph. I've had my moments. More than a few, but I didn't look past them. All I could see was what a good job I'd done, not the ability to teach others how to do something equally as easily. It started to come to me, about the year before I got ill. It was the first time someone said anything remotely to what I always thought, and I thought he was bull shitting me. But I promised him I'd give it a try. My Boss at the Spraberry Aldwell Unit looked at me, serious as a broke leg, "Rocky, you're these guys leader. I can tell them what I want out of them, give them all the reasons it's good for the company, and good for them. They believe you. You're able to work with them when I can't because I'm tied up behind this desk. You're their leader. Fucking act like it". First time I ever took that to heart. So I tried. I hope like hell I did, and I was effective. That was the fifth or sixth time I was in my moment, and this time I did see the future. I hope I was up to the task.
This one is really short. I'm having hell staying awake. Meds, cancer, late nights, they are catching me finally.
Maybe something different tonight or tomorrow
Liz is my greatest help, my one true friend, my anchor and my sun. So for her, I've got to get the hardness back in me, so she can deal with whatever else comes along. She says "For better or worse, sickness and in health! Because I love you!" Yep, she does, and I love her more than anything on earth. She says she wants to know how to help me. I'd love to show her how, but I can't unless I can keep my head glued on straight. Anxiety and panic attacks are not glued on right. I can't help her unless I find why I have them. what's bring them on and learning to shut down that damn life sucking bastards long enough to teach Liz how to take care of me. Liz needs to take care of herself, first. There are things we talked about that she just can't afford to do, all the insurance is going to go to help her out, the grown kids have to learn to make their own way just like Liz and I did ours. They can all do it, because I gave them the tools, they just need to sort out which tools work for then and they'll become the bigger successes than even I believe they can be at this point. They are all already better persons at their age than I was mine. All I knew was how to fight and win. I didn't see the long term consequences like my kids see. A man in his moment. That was the best I could do. Not what should be our goal as men and leaders "A man in his moment, looking to the future". That makes us the real men, Bell, Edison, Tesla, Goddard, Einstein. Every one of those men in their moment, with eyes to the future. No, I don't think I'll ever possess that kind of genius, few of us ever do. All I want for my kids is to be the kind of people that see that moment, be in that moment, and see the future they can create in their moment. All four of them can do that right now, they've got the jump on the old man.
I've had more fun. All of it is in that second paragraph. I've had my moments. More than a few, but I didn't look past them. All I could see was what a good job I'd done, not the ability to teach others how to do something equally as easily. It started to come to me, about the year before I got ill. It was the first time someone said anything remotely to what I always thought, and I thought he was bull shitting me. But I promised him I'd give it a try. My Boss at the Spraberry Aldwell Unit looked at me, serious as a broke leg, "Rocky, you're these guys leader. I can tell them what I want out of them, give them all the reasons it's good for the company, and good for them. They believe you. You're able to work with them when I can't because I'm tied up behind this desk. You're their leader. Fucking act like it". First time I ever took that to heart. So I tried. I hope like hell I did, and I was effective. That was the fifth or sixth time I was in my moment, and this time I did see the future. I hope I was up to the task.
This one is really short. I'm having hell staying awake. Meds, cancer, late nights, they are catching me finally.
Maybe something different tonight or tomorrow
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Well I'll Be
I've not posted in a while, and there are a couple of reasons for that. One I'll talk some about, the other falls into my Priority Holding Area, also known as "Nun ya". "Nun ya?" you say. Why yes, that's short for "Its none ya fuckin business." So, I'll bail right in.
I've been a bit busy fighting some personal demons called "What the fuck, I'm fairly useless" and "Fuck it, do what ya want, I don't give a fuck". The first one is self defeating, and some sociology or social behavior expert will say that I'm depressed. Got no fucking idea why I might get down in the dumps from time to time. Cancer is killing me, and there are days I don't think it's getting the job done quite fast enough. Jimmy Dean Witzke says his pain is far worse than mine because it's always and he is either drugged up so much with his prescription drugs he's zombied out, which I understand. Or that he is in pain all the time. He was nearly killed in a motorcycle/'car accident and nearly killed. I can sympathize with him on that end for certain. I've got nerve shit going on with what's left of my jaw. So yeah, I can be zombie like from the quick help meds of morphine or Lortab, or go on hurting. I've got it in so many places that I take the Morphine. It helps on me. It does one of two things, though. Knocks the piss out of me and I sleep, or knocks the pain down to a dull roar. The second suits me, because I've knee, jaw, and shoulder pain all wrapped around a dab of that drug, so a dull roar is basically what it was like before I got cancer and was given Morphine to control it. Works well for me, and being the selfish bastard I am, I don't care if it worked for you or not. Morphine is an old school drug. There are many out there that are as good if not better than opiates to control pain. If the stuff I'm on now wasn't doing the job, I'd raise hell with the people treating me, until we did find something that worked without putting me off in Zombie land. But, since I'm unable to work, not from the drugs, but from the nature of my surgery, and the fact that the cancer is sucking my strength off to feed itself, I guess I don't mind being Zombie like.
That is the first "Well I'll Be" moment. Well I'll be, my wife and I have to take care of ourselves. She won't back down until something that works is found. She didn't stop until things were right with my PT after not getting calls to my Doc in Houston returned so I could get on some PT, she worked her ass off. I e-mailed until I could barely write. But we got it done. Well I'll Be, we did it ourselves and didn't have to have help. How the fuck was that possible? The help we did get was through Patient Advocacy, but we didn't do it by pissing about "well I got it worse!". I'll admit, I was pissed and I stepped into that pile of shit, I will not do that again. I'm not particularly in the best of moods. My behavior toward everyone including family has been pretty pitiful and I'm working on fixing that. The "Well I'll Be" study of this portion of today's blog should be along the lines of "A Pissing Contest To See Who Has It Worst". That's what it boils down to in a lot of online and real world conversations. There's nothing I like better than having a person I know and talked with some before I got cancer, ask me how I'm doing. I write the note explaining the good and bad, and after it's read get the "wow, I've had pain like that only in my asshole since my head slipped up there 4 months ago. And I hurt my shoulder doing "Reach the Remote First" competition from the couch. And face it, man, we are all dying every day." Well I'll Be, I didn't know I had it so good! Thanks!! At which time I make a mental note reminding myself that it would be illegal for me to split them up the middle with my KBar. But not illegal to just blow them off when I see them and end up hearing "That fucker quit talking to me just because I had more aches and pains than he did, all he's got is cancer". (honest to God, that happened. I was laughing my ass off at his buddy's expression)
The second "Well I'll Be" moment of realization is this: Sometimes I'm not clear when I write things out. That's true, looking at some of the stuff I've written, and I'll be working on fixing that little problem. I get a lot of quizzical looks, since a spoken conversation can move on to different topics and in different directions at a moments notice. So, I've written something out as fast as I can, handed it to someone closest the center of the group, then have them look at me almost cross eyed. They had it back, I look at what I've written and it appears that it says "Dingle hims! Mombo be dog faced in banana patch!" Well I'll be, that's not what I wrote at all, at least that's not what my noggin saw me putting down. Yet there it is, FUBAR. So what I've done is sit and listen. I'll nod my head, or shake my head, and not do a thing unless someone asks me a question. When they do that, I know they are going to wait for an answer. Since I'm writing as fast as I can, I'm hoping with beyond hope that it's decipherable and not something goofy like "Any youse wimps wants to Mambo?" So yeah, that's led to a lot of misunderstandings in a lot of places and has left me more than just a little disappointed in myself. I'll be working on that as well. Seems like there are a lot of things I need to work upon don't I? Well, in reality these are things I should have been working on year round. Just like I did tonight. I worked on my communication skills at work constantly, both written and verbal because it was a requirement for my position. Since the cancer took the job, there's no reason when I can't continue that here, in the lap of luxury. I will keep all of you apprised of the progress along the written communication skills improvement (hopeful improvement, practicing and having the written skill further deteriorate would be a shame).
I will call this section "Oh Fuck It". It's what I'm going to use as a parameter for making certain I'm doing what I should to get myself back to the point that I'm more optimistic, having something to help other folks to better understand why or what I'm having for feelings. Mental and physical afflictions as I go along Terminal Velocity Hghwy strait toward Critical Mass Eternal Parking Lot.
Let's begin with a person's belief system. To me that falls under the heading "None Ya". It's a very personal thing with me, and it's supposed to be with everyone. "Oh Fuck It". I don't care what you believe, Christianity, Buddhism, Muslim, Atheist, I don't care. If someone asks for prayers for someone else, of course I will. Same thing with asking for good thoughts, you bet. Do I want to have a protracted discussion and asked over and over what I believe. Fuck no I do not. I know several truly Godly people and families. They help me quite a lot. We don't discuss my beliefs, they have asked me if I minded being put on their prayer list. Of course not. I consider them very good friends, and respected the family while I was in HS. Good people, living what they believe. I didn't ask before, I just let that topic go until someone started to argue, and lately that has been me. We will no longer do that. That will, once again, be one of the few Taboo Questions to ask. The others are about Family, Income, or pretty much anything I don't want to talk about, simply because they fall under the ever expanding cloud of "None Ya".
At the moment, I'm worn down to a fucking frazzled end. I've got about 11billion nerves so there's not possible chance that someone won't get on one with very little notice. I'll be an ass hat and speak mean and hateful language, because when I'm in that state that's how I operate. I'm dog tired. Really tired of being tired. When in reality I'm really tired. That state does open up the nerves for me, and I can get plain dog dirt mean about it. I don't like a lot of people when I'm tired and hurt, mostly I don't care much for myself and I rub that off onto people to see how well it sticks with them too. When it does stick, and everyone around me is as miserable as I am, boy!, that's a good place to be…..right? WRONG! I am going to halve to work really diligently not to let this tired, raw nerved me out of hiding. I really have to just kick it's ass and either cage it up like I try to do Cap'n Temper then pitch it in the trash a couple blocks away some unsuspecting dumpster diver take it away with them. (it's sneaky. The slippery little devil will attach itself to you without you even noticing.
As you frequent readers will have noticed, this isn't the most upbeat blog I've had in a while. The way things are working for me now, I'm having to either give some MORE stuff I like to do, or find a to work around those. The options for working around things are narrowing daily. Some things I found some real pleasure in are no longer going to be part of my "good days" set of toys. But the one of those that bugs me worse than any of them is cooking. I really enjoyed cooking, but I believe I've spun my last tiny culinary web. I'm far too sensitive right now about how I see what I'm doing being good or bad. I get too stupid with some of the little things, and cooking is one of the little things. It should have bothered me more when I could chew, swallow, and enjoy the full flavor of what I was burnin on the stove, oven, or grill. I can't let that drag down my "Good Days" for now good reason. People eat around here all the time, I know this to be true, I was once one of them. (secret: when I was really training hard in 2008, I ran into eating between 4500 and 5000 calories a day). I "eat" four times a day now, back in the ever popular Osmolite 1.5 Caravan of Delicious You'll Never Taste it Unless You Puke it canned goodness. Yum
Well, enough of that stuff.
A couple of years ago I tore a bicep tendon off of my arm. The bicep ended up in my armpit, my forearm looked normal, but my Upper arm looked way small, hence "Popeye Arm". So, I went to Scarby and helped out. Went to Arlington and judged a couple of days. It was here that I did something I never would have done had I not been missing throwing every day. They moved the throwing area a couple of times for the AD, and suddenly, not like a couple months ahead of time, but that day. So, me and the AD's brother are bringing some weights back. I grab the 56# Weight over bar implement and we dug out. Behind me I hear this drunk douche bag having his way running off at the head about the guys in skirts. I had a kilt, and had just gotten my splint off my arm and the AD's brother was with me carrying the 42#. I sent him on ahead, acted like I was winded, and set the 56# down. The loud mouth, his pretty pissed off buddy and girl friend caught up. It went kinda like this (loud mouth had on Nike running shoes). "Damn, this thing got heavy fast!" I say. Loud mouth "It can't weigh that much, it's not very big". "That's true, but it's solid, it's not hollow" Me. "I'll bet I can carry down to where you guys are, and I don't have to wear a skirt". "Okay", says me, "let me hand it to you". I picked it almost shoulder high in front of me and told him to get braced up because I was about to drop it. That was no lie, I did drop it. On his foot, and in immediate retrospect I thought, Holy Fuck! I might have broken his foot!!! He wasn't even yelling when I picked the weight up and said "Sometimes, bud, the guy in the kilt wins against the guy that's all mouth." Everyone giggled but the guy, he said something about kicking my ass and I said something back over my shoulder like "not with that foot" or something along those lines. On my way back I kept trying to think of ways to tell the AD what I'd done. I couldn't decide, so I said nothing. Well, until today
Have fun all the time even if you're panicked out. make it fun
I've been a bit busy fighting some personal demons called "What the fuck, I'm fairly useless" and "Fuck it, do what ya want, I don't give a fuck". The first one is self defeating, and some sociology or social behavior expert will say that I'm depressed. Got no fucking idea why I might get down in the dumps from time to time. Cancer is killing me, and there are days I don't think it's getting the job done quite fast enough. Jimmy Dean Witzke says his pain is far worse than mine because it's always and he is either drugged up so much with his prescription drugs he's zombied out, which I understand. Or that he is in pain all the time. He was nearly killed in a motorcycle/'car accident and nearly killed. I can sympathize with him on that end for certain. I've got nerve shit going on with what's left of my jaw. So yeah, I can be zombie like from the quick help meds of morphine or Lortab, or go on hurting. I've got it in so many places that I take the Morphine. It helps on me. It does one of two things, though. Knocks the piss out of me and I sleep, or knocks the pain down to a dull roar. The second suits me, because I've knee, jaw, and shoulder pain all wrapped around a dab of that drug, so a dull roar is basically what it was like before I got cancer and was given Morphine to control it. Works well for me, and being the selfish bastard I am, I don't care if it worked for you or not. Morphine is an old school drug. There are many out there that are as good if not better than opiates to control pain. If the stuff I'm on now wasn't doing the job, I'd raise hell with the people treating me, until we did find something that worked without putting me off in Zombie land. But, since I'm unable to work, not from the drugs, but from the nature of my surgery, and the fact that the cancer is sucking my strength off to feed itself, I guess I don't mind being Zombie like.
That is the first "Well I'll Be" moment. Well I'll be, my wife and I have to take care of ourselves. She won't back down until something that works is found. She didn't stop until things were right with my PT after not getting calls to my Doc in Houston returned so I could get on some PT, she worked her ass off. I e-mailed until I could barely write. But we got it done. Well I'll Be, we did it ourselves and didn't have to have help. How the fuck was that possible? The help we did get was through Patient Advocacy, but we didn't do it by pissing about "well I got it worse!". I'll admit, I was pissed and I stepped into that pile of shit, I will not do that again. I'm not particularly in the best of moods. My behavior toward everyone including family has been pretty pitiful and I'm working on fixing that. The "Well I'll Be" study of this portion of today's blog should be along the lines of "A Pissing Contest To See Who Has It Worst". That's what it boils down to in a lot of online and real world conversations. There's nothing I like better than having a person I know and talked with some before I got cancer, ask me how I'm doing. I write the note explaining the good and bad, and after it's read get the "wow, I've had pain like that only in my asshole since my head slipped up there 4 months ago. And I hurt my shoulder doing "Reach the Remote First" competition from the couch. And face it, man, we are all dying every day." Well I'll Be, I didn't know I had it so good! Thanks!! At which time I make a mental note reminding myself that it would be illegal for me to split them up the middle with my KBar. But not illegal to just blow them off when I see them and end up hearing "That fucker quit talking to me just because I had more aches and pains than he did, all he's got is cancer". (honest to God, that happened. I was laughing my ass off at his buddy's expression)
The second "Well I'll Be" moment of realization is this: Sometimes I'm not clear when I write things out. That's true, looking at some of the stuff I've written, and I'll be working on fixing that little problem. I get a lot of quizzical looks, since a spoken conversation can move on to different topics and in different directions at a moments notice. So, I've written something out as fast as I can, handed it to someone closest the center of the group, then have them look at me almost cross eyed. They had it back, I look at what I've written and it appears that it says "Dingle hims! Mombo be dog faced in banana patch!" Well I'll be, that's not what I wrote at all, at least that's not what my noggin saw me putting down. Yet there it is, FUBAR. So what I've done is sit and listen. I'll nod my head, or shake my head, and not do a thing unless someone asks me a question. When they do that, I know they are going to wait for an answer. Since I'm writing as fast as I can, I'm hoping with beyond hope that it's decipherable and not something goofy like "Any youse wimps wants to Mambo?" So yeah, that's led to a lot of misunderstandings in a lot of places and has left me more than just a little disappointed in myself. I'll be working on that as well. Seems like there are a lot of things I need to work upon don't I? Well, in reality these are things I should have been working on year round. Just like I did tonight. I worked on my communication skills at work constantly, both written and verbal because it was a requirement for my position. Since the cancer took the job, there's no reason when I can't continue that here, in the lap of luxury. I will keep all of you apprised of the progress along the written communication skills improvement (hopeful improvement, practicing and having the written skill further deteriorate would be a shame).
I will call this section "Oh Fuck It". It's what I'm going to use as a parameter for making certain I'm doing what I should to get myself back to the point that I'm more optimistic, having something to help other folks to better understand why or what I'm having for feelings. Mental and physical afflictions as I go along Terminal Velocity Hghwy strait toward Critical Mass Eternal Parking Lot.
Let's begin with a person's belief system. To me that falls under the heading "None Ya". It's a very personal thing with me, and it's supposed to be with everyone. "Oh Fuck It". I don't care what you believe, Christianity, Buddhism, Muslim, Atheist, I don't care. If someone asks for prayers for someone else, of course I will. Same thing with asking for good thoughts, you bet. Do I want to have a protracted discussion and asked over and over what I believe. Fuck no I do not. I know several truly Godly people and families. They help me quite a lot. We don't discuss my beliefs, they have asked me if I minded being put on their prayer list. Of course not. I consider them very good friends, and respected the family while I was in HS. Good people, living what they believe. I didn't ask before, I just let that topic go until someone started to argue, and lately that has been me. We will no longer do that. That will, once again, be one of the few Taboo Questions to ask. The others are about Family, Income, or pretty much anything I don't want to talk about, simply because they fall under the ever expanding cloud of "None Ya".
At the moment, I'm worn down to a fucking frazzled end. I've got about 11billion nerves so there's not possible chance that someone won't get on one with very little notice. I'll be an ass hat and speak mean and hateful language, because when I'm in that state that's how I operate. I'm dog tired. Really tired of being tired. When in reality I'm really tired. That state does open up the nerves for me, and I can get plain dog dirt mean about it. I don't like a lot of people when I'm tired and hurt, mostly I don't care much for myself and I rub that off onto people to see how well it sticks with them too. When it does stick, and everyone around me is as miserable as I am, boy!, that's a good place to be…..right? WRONG! I am going to halve to work really diligently not to let this tired, raw nerved me out of hiding. I really have to just kick it's ass and either cage it up like I try to do Cap'n Temper then pitch it in the trash a couple blocks away some unsuspecting dumpster diver take it away with them. (it's sneaky. The slippery little devil will attach itself to you without you even noticing.
As you frequent readers will have noticed, this isn't the most upbeat blog I've had in a while. The way things are working for me now, I'm having to either give some MORE stuff I like to do, or find a to work around those. The options for working around things are narrowing daily. Some things I found some real pleasure in are no longer going to be part of my "good days" set of toys. But the one of those that bugs me worse than any of them is cooking. I really enjoyed cooking, but I believe I've spun my last tiny culinary web. I'm far too sensitive right now about how I see what I'm doing being good or bad. I get too stupid with some of the little things, and cooking is one of the little things. It should have bothered me more when I could chew, swallow, and enjoy the full flavor of what I was burnin on the stove, oven, or grill. I can't let that drag down my "Good Days" for now good reason. People eat around here all the time, I know this to be true, I was once one of them. (secret: when I was really training hard in 2008, I ran into eating between 4500 and 5000 calories a day). I "eat" four times a day now, back in the ever popular Osmolite 1.5 Caravan of Delicious You'll Never Taste it Unless You Puke it canned goodness. Yum
Well, enough of that stuff.
A couple of years ago I tore a bicep tendon off of my arm. The bicep ended up in my armpit, my forearm looked normal, but my Upper arm looked way small, hence "Popeye Arm". So, I went to Scarby and helped out. Went to Arlington and judged a couple of days. It was here that I did something I never would have done had I not been missing throwing every day. They moved the throwing area a couple of times for the AD, and suddenly, not like a couple months ahead of time, but that day. So, me and the AD's brother are bringing some weights back. I grab the 56# Weight over bar implement and we dug out. Behind me I hear this drunk douche bag having his way running off at the head about the guys in skirts. I had a kilt, and had just gotten my splint off my arm and the AD's brother was with me carrying the 42#. I sent him on ahead, acted like I was winded, and set the 56# down. The loud mouth, his pretty pissed off buddy and girl friend caught up. It went kinda like this (loud mouth had on Nike running shoes). "Damn, this thing got heavy fast!" I say. Loud mouth "It can't weigh that much, it's not very big". "That's true, but it's solid, it's not hollow" Me. "I'll bet I can carry down to where you guys are, and I don't have to wear a skirt". "Okay", says me, "let me hand it to you". I picked it almost shoulder high in front of me and told him to get braced up because I was about to drop it. That was no lie, I did drop it. On his foot, and in immediate retrospect I thought, Holy Fuck! I might have broken his foot!!! He wasn't even yelling when I picked the weight up and said "Sometimes, bud, the guy in the kilt wins against the guy that's all mouth." Everyone giggled but the guy, he said something about kicking my ass and I said something back over my shoulder like "not with that foot" or something along those lines. On my way back I kept trying to think of ways to tell the AD what I'd done. I couldn't decide, so I said nothing. Well, until today
Have fun all the time even if you're panicked out. make it fun
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Oh The Shit You'll See!
I am a very blessed man, no two ways about it. I've been around to see (not remember, because I was a baby) the astronauts fly the Apollo Missions. Watched them land on the moon, I've seen them drives around on the moon. We can all talk about go fast and bootleggers, some of the fun stuff you can do in a car here on Terra Firma, but on the moon? That's two tits. I earned $2 a month taking care of a horse. $2/month and I could ride him all I wanted. I earned $3/month looking after a guys registered Angus cattle. Lost that gig when the nasty cattleman tried to take the nuts my little brother and I picked up. My five tall Mom (I think if she stood on her tip toes) saved the day, and gave the nasty old bastard and his half coward hired hands an old school Irish ass eatin that I'm almost certain would have left scars on a well adjusted adult. Those poor men.
As I got older I was blessed again to work in what I'm seeing as the last run of the old school oil industry. A lot of things really needed to change. It's so much safer now, since I got off the rig floor, outta the derrick, and the away from the brakes, down time from broken bones dropped dramatically. (So as not to be misunderstood, that was a joke. God knows I want to be fuckin A on the money with anything I write these days). We old school (and I'm telling you, it ain't a patch on the real old school) hands that would put on the extra clothes when the snow was blowing up the legs of you over alls. Tie the blocks to the ground so we could pull and run tubing and rods in a wind that was over 25 mph. Worked in snow so heavy I couldn't see the floor from 80' up in the air. I've done some stuff that will never be done again. Cementing fiberglass tubing in different injection wells. Not allowed any longer in any state, I don't believe, since there was no way to check the integrity of the well without an annular blank to test. Pumped in Southwest Kansas, and later in West Texas. It's been a charmed ride, even at times it didn't feel like it. I ended up with a part of the oil patch that I truly loved. Diagnosing wells. I was really hitting my stride, too. Cancer comes back and closes out that era of the oil patch for me. Gladly, there are men that are willing to go out and do the jobs that need to be done. Some of ain't spring chickens, either. Eddie Joe, Tommy Mac, about ten years younger than me, so they're like little brothers? HA!!! The younger guys, Aaron, Steven, Brandon, Josh, those are the guys the future of the oil patch is resting upon. If they take the time, learn the patience (took me for fucking ever) they can make a big time life out of the damned old oil field. Up and down bitch that she is, I never missed a meal, and for the most part have had a wonderful, wild ride. So many friends, lost a few, made some new. It's the party.
Damn, I've got buds that I made when we moved to Southwest Kansas that have lasted close to 40 years. We shoot the breeze (okay, used to shoot the breeze, damn voice is gone for good this time), text, a few have gone way the hell out of their way to come visit me. Some of the people I've reacquainted with on Facebook and at our 30th class reunion. We all looked older, but I swear it was like picking up the phone after you've gone to take a leak. It was like we'd just been on summer vacation and were catching up again during the first week of school. Is that unusual? God, I'd like to think it. It was a hoot. I look back and I see a three or four that I've spent a lot of time with. One in particular that has seen me at my very best, my very worst. John, brother, I'll catch us a nice ride when I hit the other side, amigo. Take your time getting there, I need to scout us something cool to go see. Lately these people I went to High School with, who still keep in touch with me via FaceBook are helping run this Terminal Velocity race. We laugh, I get pissed, they laugh at me, I laugh at me, and through it all, it's one of the best things that's happened since this bullshit with the cancer coming back to kill me. They are all damn decent people. They have big hearts, that's the best park of them. From the friend side of the aisle, I'm not certain I could have done any better.
My best party has been with the woman that helps make me who I am, who I want to be, and how to have a good time. Liz, baby, I'm not going to say much here. Everything that I can tell you, I'll see in your eyes. I can't put into words, not the way I should, to tell you how much I love our life together. This year, 100 years from now, for me it would always be too little time. I'll have a spot, don't rush, I'll have to take my time and make it perfect.
I can't forget the Highland Games people. They are my "New" friends. New because I've only known some of them for about 10 years. Others no where near that long, and yet is seems like I've know all of them for a life time. Some of the people I know, can tell you that I'm a uber competitive person. I hate to lose, bugs me worse than have a knife eased into your side real, real, slowly. When I started back before (mumble) I found and made equipment I could practice with, and hopefully get to the point "I" felt I could hang with the people I threw with. I practiced….hard…a lot. I improved, but not fast enough to suit ME. The other athletes would say, "You've really got your form and technique coming along. You're really improving." Great words of support, right? Damn right they were, and given sincerely. All I could hear, in my mind, was "Fuck dude, you're working at it and getting worse!". It was bullshit, on my part, of course. One morning I woke up and though, "I'm fucking up the one sport I really enjoy, because I only have to compete with myself. Time to back off". I don't know if any other the other athletes will understand, I hope they do, but I quit practicing. I went into the Masters Division. Great Athletes there. Once again I was the smallest man on the field, and this time it didn't bother me! I was having the time of my life. I wasn't looking to beat these guys down, that wasn't going to happen. They are all far too athletic, strong, and determined. They even continued to help me out. Only now, I was only interested in setting PR's. And I did. Several. Then I got cancer. Late September 2008. I text a friend who knows the wife of one of the Athletic Directors. By evening I'd gotten almost 50 text messages filled with support. It was one of the few times I ever sat down and bawled. I didn't realize I'd been anything more than a person to take last place at meets. I was wrong.
I went through all the treatment and every once in a while I'd get texts or calls people kept in touch. I finished all the treatment on February 2nd, 2009. Radiation had burnt my throat so badly I couldn't talk. Like an idiot, I kept after my doctor until the end of February to let me go back to work. I knew also, that the Scarby games were coming up in about 6 or 8 weeks. I contacted Mark Cooper, the AD and asked if it would be okay for me to come play, but that I also let him know it was a week to week thing. "No problem! Come and watch, we'll find something for you". Cool, but I was gonna throw, and he didn't expect that. I called him about the time the money for the games would be due, and asked if I could bring him the cash instead of mailing it. "Sure! We've got a room for you, all you need to do is call when you get here". You got rooms for all the out of town athletes? "Yep, every year". I was so naive I bought that. I show up, the room is great. Mark calls, everything is cool. I had new teeth, I rode the scooter (Fat Girl had 1000 miles on her) and was ready to play.
They didn't expect me to throw. Eight weeks out of treatment, I looked like walking death. I had more fun than a human should be allowed. I got choked up a lot that day. The Scarby actors became my fan club. They all had signs cheering me on. Choke back a tear. It got to the end of the day, I really needed to scoot, but was told I couldn't. They made me athlete of the Games. Choke back a tear. Mike Baab gave me his All Around Athlete medal. I tried to explain there was no way in hell I'd earned THAT. Once again, choke back a tear. Here I was, ready to hang up throwing forever. How the fuck could I even THNK about that now? You guys and all the athletes kept me in when I was ready to quit. I don't have the words to thank you all.
I wish I could name everyone that has been a friend, helpful, cheerleader, and just plain good people. I don't have time left, or room to do that.
I love all of you.
So yeah, Oh the Shit You'll See!! I've seen a lot, and fortunately I've had great friends and family to share it with. I'll keep doing that.
Have fun, hear?
As I got older I was blessed again to work in what I'm seeing as the last run of the old school oil industry. A lot of things really needed to change. It's so much safer now, since I got off the rig floor, outta the derrick, and the away from the brakes, down time from broken bones dropped dramatically. (So as not to be misunderstood, that was a joke. God knows I want to be fuckin A on the money with anything I write these days). We old school (and I'm telling you, it ain't a patch on the real old school) hands that would put on the extra clothes when the snow was blowing up the legs of you over alls. Tie the blocks to the ground so we could pull and run tubing and rods in a wind that was over 25 mph. Worked in snow so heavy I couldn't see the floor from 80' up in the air. I've done some stuff that will never be done again. Cementing fiberglass tubing in different injection wells. Not allowed any longer in any state, I don't believe, since there was no way to check the integrity of the well without an annular blank to test. Pumped in Southwest Kansas, and later in West Texas. It's been a charmed ride, even at times it didn't feel like it. I ended up with a part of the oil patch that I truly loved. Diagnosing wells. I was really hitting my stride, too. Cancer comes back and closes out that era of the oil patch for me. Gladly, there are men that are willing to go out and do the jobs that need to be done. Some of ain't spring chickens, either. Eddie Joe, Tommy Mac, about ten years younger than me, so they're like little brothers? HA!!! The younger guys, Aaron, Steven, Brandon, Josh, those are the guys the future of the oil patch is resting upon. If they take the time, learn the patience (took me for fucking ever) they can make a big time life out of the damned old oil field. Up and down bitch that she is, I never missed a meal, and for the most part have had a wonderful, wild ride. So many friends, lost a few, made some new. It's the party.
Damn, I've got buds that I made when we moved to Southwest Kansas that have lasted close to 40 years. We shoot the breeze (okay, used to shoot the breeze, damn voice is gone for good this time), text, a few have gone way the hell out of their way to come visit me. Some of the people I've reacquainted with on Facebook and at our 30th class reunion. We all looked older, but I swear it was like picking up the phone after you've gone to take a leak. It was like we'd just been on summer vacation and were catching up again during the first week of school. Is that unusual? God, I'd like to think it. It was a hoot. I look back and I see a three or four that I've spent a lot of time with. One in particular that has seen me at my very best, my very worst. John, brother, I'll catch us a nice ride when I hit the other side, amigo. Take your time getting there, I need to scout us something cool to go see. Lately these people I went to High School with, who still keep in touch with me via FaceBook are helping run this Terminal Velocity race. We laugh, I get pissed, they laugh at me, I laugh at me, and through it all, it's one of the best things that's happened since this bullshit with the cancer coming back to kill me. They are all damn decent people. They have big hearts, that's the best park of them. From the friend side of the aisle, I'm not certain I could have done any better.
My best party has been with the woman that helps make me who I am, who I want to be, and how to have a good time. Liz, baby, I'm not going to say much here. Everything that I can tell you, I'll see in your eyes. I can't put into words, not the way I should, to tell you how much I love our life together. This year, 100 years from now, for me it would always be too little time. I'll have a spot, don't rush, I'll have to take my time and make it perfect.
I can't forget the Highland Games people. They are my "New" friends. New because I've only known some of them for about 10 years. Others no where near that long, and yet is seems like I've know all of them for a life time. Some of the people I know, can tell you that I'm a uber competitive person. I hate to lose, bugs me worse than have a knife eased into your side real, real, slowly. When I started back before (mumble) I found and made equipment I could practice with, and hopefully get to the point "I" felt I could hang with the people I threw with. I practiced….hard…a lot. I improved, but not fast enough to suit ME. The other athletes would say, "You've really got your form and technique coming along. You're really improving." Great words of support, right? Damn right they were, and given sincerely. All I could hear, in my mind, was "Fuck dude, you're working at it and getting worse!". It was bullshit, on my part, of course. One morning I woke up and though, "I'm fucking up the one sport I really enjoy, because I only have to compete with myself. Time to back off". I don't know if any other the other athletes will understand, I hope they do, but I quit practicing. I went into the Masters Division. Great Athletes there. Once again I was the smallest man on the field, and this time it didn't bother me! I was having the time of my life. I wasn't looking to beat these guys down, that wasn't going to happen. They are all far too athletic, strong, and determined. They even continued to help me out. Only now, I was only interested in setting PR's. And I did. Several. Then I got cancer. Late September 2008. I text a friend who knows the wife of one of the Athletic Directors. By evening I'd gotten almost 50 text messages filled with support. It was one of the few times I ever sat down and bawled. I didn't realize I'd been anything more than a person to take last place at meets. I was wrong.
I went through all the treatment and every once in a while I'd get texts or calls people kept in touch. I finished all the treatment on February 2nd, 2009. Radiation had burnt my throat so badly I couldn't talk. Like an idiot, I kept after my doctor until the end of February to let me go back to work. I knew also, that the Scarby games were coming up in about 6 or 8 weeks. I contacted Mark Cooper, the AD and asked if it would be okay for me to come play, but that I also let him know it was a week to week thing. "No problem! Come and watch, we'll find something for you". Cool, but I was gonna throw, and he didn't expect that. I called him about the time the money for the games would be due, and asked if I could bring him the cash instead of mailing it. "Sure! We've got a room for you, all you need to do is call when you get here". You got rooms for all the out of town athletes? "Yep, every year". I was so naive I bought that. I show up, the room is great. Mark calls, everything is cool. I had new teeth, I rode the scooter (Fat Girl had 1000 miles on her) and was ready to play.
They didn't expect me to throw. Eight weeks out of treatment, I looked like walking death. I had more fun than a human should be allowed. I got choked up a lot that day. The Scarby actors became my fan club. They all had signs cheering me on. Choke back a tear. It got to the end of the day, I really needed to scoot, but was told I couldn't. They made me athlete of the Games. Choke back a tear. Mike Baab gave me his All Around Athlete medal. I tried to explain there was no way in hell I'd earned THAT. Once again, choke back a tear. Here I was, ready to hang up throwing forever. How the fuck could I even THNK about that now? You guys and all the athletes kept me in when I was ready to quit. I don't have the words to thank you all.
I wish I could name everyone that has been a friend, helpful, cheerleader, and just plain good people. I don't have time left, or room to do that.
I love all of you.
So yeah, Oh the Shit You'll See!! I've seen a lot, and fortunately I've had great friends and family to share it with. I'll keep doing that.
Have fun, hear?
Friday, February 7, 2014
Damn, What A Week
Let's see, today is the closest I've been without pain, well, acceptable pain, at the least. I've had some kind of pain since I broke both ankles for the third time, and once in a while my right knee hates me as well. If fact, I think those three fuckers gathered up and hired Baxter to do me in, preferably with a lot of pain along the way. If I was a mafia Don, I'd have myself down in just to piss off the shit heads just to show them who's boss. On the other hand, that's like decapitating myself and hoping the could put it back on properly. Bad idea.
Actually it's been a rough three weeks. I'm finding it's easier to do the blog in the afternoons now, since I've had a day to get the meds in where and when they needed to go. Up until a bit ago, I wasn't able to use all the drugs I could have, simply because I keep the day as drug free as possible in case I need to drive some place or two. Today it turned out I needed to drive a couple of times. My daughter had to take my grand son to the ER. He's running a high fever and is dehydrated. Now I see why my mom got gray hairs. I must have kept her jumping not only from crawling out of old basements that were falling in, or getting sick. Both of which she said I did a lot of, and not including all the stupid shit I pulled from the tops of trees around the neighbor hood. Or jumping off the top of my dad's diesel tank he kept in the side yard with the rig and the long term work dog house. It was actually an older model travel trailer. Painted, so I don't think it was an AirStream. I wish to hell we had some pictures of that. Kathy and some of her friends painted some Peanuts characters on it. Snoopy, Lucky, Linus and Charlie Brown himself. The exterior was blue, and they painted the characters long after the last layer of blue had been laid down on the darn thing. I remember it was kind of spooky going inside it, but I don't know why it made me nervous. It really was a travel trailer, that was covered in oil field stuff. Things like charts, lease maps, different types of tubing and casing volumes. All as well as parts for the power tongs (Pop had some of the first power tubing tongs in that part of Kansas) swab cups, parts for the rig. All the same things we carried on the dog house we pulled to each location, only this one had a regular bed in the back and two smaller beds up front. They dug a latrine kind of thing and ran the sewage hose into that. It also had a water tank to take showers…oh hell, you know, all the things a travel trailer would have had. It was pretty cool.
So, why have I been so quiet the past 3 or so weeks. Lets start with pain. It got bad, and Liz called the Nurse, who talked with the doc, who told the nurse, who told Liz, who told me, how to get the pain eased off a little bit. Basically we upped the patches. Today it's up to 175 mg over three days of Fentanyl. This is the first day on this high of a dosage. It's hammered me like I was a nail. I can't seem to get awake enough to finish anything without dozing off. I was having one of those great, GREAT XXX rated dreams, and fell asleep in the middle opening the throttle on the Whoopie Machine. How screwed up is that shit? The pain is still a problem, even more so than running your finger thru a pencil sharpener. Pain, it's what I Thrive upon. If that were true, I'd be wealthy. What kind of rules are those? Still, I tried to remain as close to pain free as I can. Even if it causes me to fall asleep six times while writing this post. Even with all this pain med going at me transdermal, or an opium based drug goin under my tongue (first time I spelled it correctly, just backward LOL).
I've had issues with snot clots jamming my trach tube and come very near killing me with my own panic/anxiety. I have some of mommies little helpers to aid in keeping that under control. I have found a couple of triggers that start the problem. If I catch it early enough I can talk my self out of it. Well not talk, actually, I can breath my way through it and not have to expend my Xanax unless it's really an emergency. I've also had some trouble with keeping my feeding from becoming an issue. A few times it's made me woozy, and yesterday it lovingly all came rushing out. I don't know if it's the coughing that causes that, or that my inability to swallow has something to do with the puking. I've contended that it's been the coughing, but after several thoughts about it, and replaying some other events, now I'm not so sure. There are a lot of things that aren't quite as right as I feel they should.
I've felt closer to actually being on the death march these last three weeks than I have ever felt in my life. A couple of times it felt like if I had to go on one more day, I'd rather go stand in traffic. Which I wouldn't have done. I didn't come along this far to see myself standing in traffic in the Town That Good Drivers Forgot. I believe why I feel this way is that my mortality is leading the way, it got to a cross roads and just stopped in the middle. Just like a damn rabbit. It's not the lights, it's the movement. Freezes them up like no tomorrow and they don't move until it's too late. That's how I felt these past three weeks. Finally, though, my Vanity kicked Mortality in the ass and asked that he not do that anymore because getting hit by a car would really mess up my already compromised appearance. Yeah I know, kind of a silly analogy, but I think it's pretty close to the mark. I know that the cancer is slowly (in one hand, thank God for that, on the other hand, for God's sake would you speed up just a frickin bit?) and that inevitably my body is going to finally just say "Enough" and shut down. For myself, the last three weeks have felt like that it's sped up a lot. I also know I've said that before and probably will again. Wishful thinking? Damned if I can tell you, but I do know that when the pain returns, and it will, that it gets harder to control every time it's come back it takes longer to control. Control is such a contrived word. The pain never really gets controlled, it just gets put to the back burner. The jaw pain is coming back as I type this. Not coming in screaming like a banshee, but more subtle. I suspect, by the time I get my shower this morning, even after some morphine, the pain will have settled in and I may be able to hold that to a four or five on the pain scale. Not from lack of trying, mind you, but experience with this these past seven months have shown me this is how Baxter likes to rally his troops.
Some of the other odds and ends that make me believe that things are clipping along here at a slightly greater rate.
For starters, my tongue will swell up and back down. It's done that from the beginning of this latest round. From say…mid August on. I've tried to vary my diet, but it's not like a food thing, it's seems to me that it's a more timing dilemma. Not a precise schedule, like Union Pacific, but not completely gone either.
I'm having hell staying hydrated. I'm not exercising or over working myself one iota more. Probably shut down before I get in too much trouble again. I don't know why it's so difficult. I'll up it again to maybe 80% of my body weight in ounces of liquid. That's only a couple, but that should give you all a good idea to what I mean by the "odds and ends"
A lot of what the blog does for me, besides the therapeutic value, is giving me a chance to go over some memories, and relive some really fun times. Actually some times may not have been that fun at the time, but make me laugh and smile a little now. Kinda like this one.
Spring time with cattle means doctoring the fall and winter calves. That includes checking their growth, weight, deciding which calve is going to remain a bull and which ones become steers. The last time the rancher did that, he kept a HUGE calf as a challenge to the older and wiser bull. He was able to take control of the herd and made huge babies. Looking back now, he was going to kill that really good herd off. This year there were three brood cows that died during birthing the big calves. A shame, really, since the entire herd was registered. Anyway, back to the fun part. The horse I used didn't belong to the rancher. Red was owned by a guy in town, on one of his visits to check on Red and to see if I was doing exactly what he told me, he said there was no way I was to let the rancher or his hands near his horse. Of course I agreed to that. Secret to being the perfect middle child, shut the fuck up and listen when the adults are talking. Apparently those same guys the previous spring had saddled Red up, then tried to race him with the other horses. He dumped a couple of guys. That pissed them off and they whipped the shit out of him. I saw and knew. There were at least ten old scars on his back.
I got up before sun rise, dad had already left, and rounded him up. We went on a little walk, then I secured him in the barn paddock. My lock that I'd cleaned up and found. I had the only keys to it as well. Horse safe, I went down to watch them work the calves. Out of the herd of calves there were probably 35-40 young bulls. While they castrated them, they were throwing their nuts on the ground. Even before I knew "What The Fuck?" I was thinking, what the fuck are they doing that for? Those are good eatin. I gathered up the pain in the ass little brother, a couple of two gallon pails and commenced to picking up the nuts. One pail was to carry them in, the other was for the nuts after I got them rinsed off. I hear Clay screaming like someone cut off his arm. I thought "Oh shit! One of the calves pinned him and broke an arm or something and mom is gonna be pissed at me!". Not the problem. The hands were trying to take the pail of nuts away from him, while that cock munch rancher laughed at them. Not on my watch. I ran over, took the pail, and sent Clay to go get my mom. (The rancher didn't own the ranch, he leased the pasture from the owner Neva Mai, a very sweet older lady). I told one of the ranch hands if he tried to take that pail from me, I'd kick his nuts. I wore real live cock roach killin pointy toed boots at the time. The rancher thought that was funny as hell. His hand reached out to take the pail, I drilled a hole in his shin with my boot. Charmed life that I live, he was reaching back to hammer me, and my Mom rounded the corner of the working shed. She tore those guys a new asshole. The rancher said they were his nuts off HIS steers. Mom looked him straight in the eye and said "So that's why all these are covered in dirt and ten feet from where you're working them?". We kept the nuts. I lost my job watching over his cattle. That coming winter was the one I told about earlier. I didn't have to go move the cattle. I did it so they wouldn't die.
Hugs and all that other shit that goes along with them
Actually it's been a rough three weeks. I'm finding it's easier to do the blog in the afternoons now, since I've had a day to get the meds in where and when they needed to go. Up until a bit ago, I wasn't able to use all the drugs I could have, simply because I keep the day as drug free as possible in case I need to drive some place or two. Today it turned out I needed to drive a couple of times. My daughter had to take my grand son to the ER. He's running a high fever and is dehydrated. Now I see why my mom got gray hairs. I must have kept her jumping not only from crawling out of old basements that were falling in, or getting sick. Both of which she said I did a lot of, and not including all the stupid shit I pulled from the tops of trees around the neighbor hood. Or jumping off the top of my dad's diesel tank he kept in the side yard with the rig and the long term work dog house. It was actually an older model travel trailer. Painted, so I don't think it was an AirStream. I wish to hell we had some pictures of that. Kathy and some of her friends painted some Peanuts characters on it. Snoopy, Lucky, Linus and Charlie Brown himself. The exterior was blue, and they painted the characters long after the last layer of blue had been laid down on the darn thing. I remember it was kind of spooky going inside it, but I don't know why it made me nervous. It really was a travel trailer, that was covered in oil field stuff. Things like charts, lease maps, different types of tubing and casing volumes. All as well as parts for the power tongs (Pop had some of the first power tubing tongs in that part of Kansas) swab cups, parts for the rig. All the same things we carried on the dog house we pulled to each location, only this one had a regular bed in the back and two smaller beds up front. They dug a latrine kind of thing and ran the sewage hose into that. It also had a water tank to take showers…oh hell, you know, all the things a travel trailer would have had. It was pretty cool.
So, why have I been so quiet the past 3 or so weeks. Lets start with pain. It got bad, and Liz called the Nurse, who talked with the doc, who told the nurse, who told Liz, who told me, how to get the pain eased off a little bit. Basically we upped the patches. Today it's up to 175 mg over three days of Fentanyl. This is the first day on this high of a dosage. It's hammered me like I was a nail. I can't seem to get awake enough to finish anything without dozing off. I was having one of those great, GREAT XXX rated dreams, and fell asleep in the middle opening the throttle on the Whoopie Machine. How screwed up is that shit? The pain is still a problem, even more so than running your finger thru a pencil sharpener. Pain, it's what I Thrive upon. If that were true, I'd be wealthy. What kind of rules are those? Still, I tried to remain as close to pain free as I can. Even if it causes me to fall asleep six times while writing this post. Even with all this pain med going at me transdermal, or an opium based drug goin under my tongue (first time I spelled it correctly, just backward LOL).
I've had issues with snot clots jamming my trach tube and come very near killing me with my own panic/anxiety. I have some of mommies little helpers to aid in keeping that under control. I have found a couple of triggers that start the problem. If I catch it early enough I can talk my self out of it. Well not talk, actually, I can breath my way through it and not have to expend my Xanax unless it's really an emergency. I've also had some trouble with keeping my feeding from becoming an issue. A few times it's made me woozy, and yesterday it lovingly all came rushing out. I don't know if it's the coughing that causes that, or that my inability to swallow has something to do with the puking. I've contended that it's been the coughing, but after several thoughts about it, and replaying some other events, now I'm not so sure. There are a lot of things that aren't quite as right as I feel they should.
I've felt closer to actually being on the death march these last three weeks than I have ever felt in my life. A couple of times it felt like if I had to go on one more day, I'd rather go stand in traffic. Which I wouldn't have done. I didn't come along this far to see myself standing in traffic in the Town That Good Drivers Forgot. I believe why I feel this way is that my mortality is leading the way, it got to a cross roads and just stopped in the middle. Just like a damn rabbit. It's not the lights, it's the movement. Freezes them up like no tomorrow and they don't move until it's too late. That's how I felt these past three weeks. Finally, though, my Vanity kicked Mortality in the ass and asked that he not do that anymore because getting hit by a car would really mess up my already compromised appearance. Yeah I know, kind of a silly analogy, but I think it's pretty close to the mark. I know that the cancer is slowly (in one hand, thank God for that, on the other hand, for God's sake would you speed up just a frickin bit?) and that inevitably my body is going to finally just say "Enough" and shut down. For myself, the last three weeks have felt like that it's sped up a lot. I also know I've said that before and probably will again. Wishful thinking? Damned if I can tell you, but I do know that when the pain returns, and it will, that it gets harder to control every time it's come back it takes longer to control. Control is such a contrived word. The pain never really gets controlled, it just gets put to the back burner. The jaw pain is coming back as I type this. Not coming in screaming like a banshee, but more subtle. I suspect, by the time I get my shower this morning, even after some morphine, the pain will have settled in and I may be able to hold that to a four or five on the pain scale. Not from lack of trying, mind you, but experience with this these past seven months have shown me this is how Baxter likes to rally his troops.
Some of the other odds and ends that make me believe that things are clipping along here at a slightly greater rate.
For starters, my tongue will swell up and back down. It's done that from the beginning of this latest round. From say…mid August on. I've tried to vary my diet, but it's not like a food thing, it's seems to me that it's a more timing dilemma. Not a precise schedule, like Union Pacific, but not completely gone either.
I'm having hell staying hydrated. I'm not exercising or over working myself one iota more. Probably shut down before I get in too much trouble again. I don't know why it's so difficult. I'll up it again to maybe 80% of my body weight in ounces of liquid. That's only a couple, but that should give you all a good idea to what I mean by the "odds and ends"
A lot of what the blog does for me, besides the therapeutic value, is giving me a chance to go over some memories, and relive some really fun times. Actually some times may not have been that fun at the time, but make me laugh and smile a little now. Kinda like this one.
Spring time with cattle means doctoring the fall and winter calves. That includes checking their growth, weight, deciding which calve is going to remain a bull and which ones become steers. The last time the rancher did that, he kept a HUGE calf as a challenge to the older and wiser bull. He was able to take control of the herd and made huge babies. Looking back now, he was going to kill that really good herd off. This year there were three brood cows that died during birthing the big calves. A shame, really, since the entire herd was registered. Anyway, back to the fun part. The horse I used didn't belong to the rancher. Red was owned by a guy in town, on one of his visits to check on Red and to see if I was doing exactly what he told me, he said there was no way I was to let the rancher or his hands near his horse. Of course I agreed to that. Secret to being the perfect middle child, shut the fuck up and listen when the adults are talking. Apparently those same guys the previous spring had saddled Red up, then tried to race him with the other horses. He dumped a couple of guys. That pissed them off and they whipped the shit out of him. I saw and knew. There were at least ten old scars on his back.
I got up before sun rise, dad had already left, and rounded him up. We went on a little walk, then I secured him in the barn paddock. My lock that I'd cleaned up and found. I had the only keys to it as well. Horse safe, I went down to watch them work the calves. Out of the herd of calves there were probably 35-40 young bulls. While they castrated them, they were throwing their nuts on the ground. Even before I knew "What The Fuck?" I was thinking, what the fuck are they doing that for? Those are good eatin. I gathered up the pain in the ass little brother, a couple of two gallon pails and commenced to picking up the nuts. One pail was to carry them in, the other was for the nuts after I got them rinsed off. I hear Clay screaming like someone cut off his arm. I thought "Oh shit! One of the calves pinned him and broke an arm or something and mom is gonna be pissed at me!". Not the problem. The hands were trying to take the pail of nuts away from him, while that cock munch rancher laughed at them. Not on my watch. I ran over, took the pail, and sent Clay to go get my mom. (The rancher didn't own the ranch, he leased the pasture from the owner Neva Mai, a very sweet older lady). I told one of the ranch hands if he tried to take that pail from me, I'd kick his nuts. I wore real live cock roach killin pointy toed boots at the time. The rancher thought that was funny as hell. His hand reached out to take the pail, I drilled a hole in his shin with my boot. Charmed life that I live, he was reaching back to hammer me, and my Mom rounded the corner of the working shed. She tore those guys a new asshole. The rancher said they were his nuts off HIS steers. Mom looked him straight in the eye and said "So that's why all these are covered in dirt and ten feet from where you're working them?". We kept the nuts. I lost my job watching over his cattle. That coming winter was the one I told about earlier. I didn't have to go move the cattle. I did it so they wouldn't die.
Hugs and all that other shit that goes along with them
Monday, February 3, 2014
Well, I Broke My Own Rule
I did break my own rule last night. I gave up a knee jerk reaction and posted a bunch of over the top bullshit that amounted to nothing. I got pissed off, and without thinking over what I really should have done. I took it over the top and told people that I was gonna stop posting anything about my Terminal Velocity. That was bull shit and I knew it, probably ten minutes after I posted all the stuff. It was wrong.
To all the people that read this blog on Facebook: I apologize. I was out of line, and very angry. It was foolish and I ask your forgiveness. I hope you'll give it to me.
The last week or so has been as close as I've ever been to shaking hands with death. I've been exhausted, I've been in some pain even with the added dosage fentanyl, and morphine. We (Hospice Doctor, Nurse, and Myself) have the chronic pain under control, and that's a good thing. But man, that acute, screaming, kick you in the nuts, bite a finger off, sudden stabbing pain, that's something else. The morphine will knock it out, and generally keep it out for a few hours. Saturday, no way it took care of it, the right side of my face was absolutely wearing me out. I had worked my way up to a full dose (40mg/1ml), every hour, and that barely squeezed it out. At the end of the day I was at the corner of Stoned and Out Of My Gourd, but the pain laid down. I did sleep almost 12 hours Saturday night into Sunday. What a difference a day makes. Yesterday it was 1/2 dose after the right side of my face started screaming at me. I took a dose every time the bone or muscle fired down upon me. I only took two all day. And I was awake at just a second before 0300 this morning. That gives me more than enough time to get myself ready for my day. I do believe I'm going to start trying to get to sleep around 2000 to 2100 hrs this evening. I feel better during the day. Although I'm absolutely worn clear the fuck out all the time.
I seem to feel as though I get these HUGE jumps in losing ground to the cancer. In retrospect, that's not how it is, truly. If I look at it closely, and not what I put in the blog or on Facebook, and if I do so honestly, the darn thing has been chewing away a little at a time since the beginning. If I REALLY want to look at it honestly I noticed some loss of energy and some extra soreness in my mouth and throat around the middle of June. About the time the wonderful Michelle Trant, SLP and I were making the biggest gains I'd seen as far as speech and swallowing was going. That would be if I were totally honest with myself. HA HA HA HA, the fuck I was. I ignored all that, mostly for myself, but also because it would have shattered Liz if I'd said anything without having solid proof. It damn near shattered her when they told us on July 8th they found a spot again. After the PET scan, I didn't even pay attention to where it had spread. I figured it was all over. There was also nothing they could do to clear it up. I asked about amputation and replacement with a much more handsome face and head. They said that wasn't an option. I'd think they'd want to get that kind of amazing surgical miracles, and how much of humanity that could be saved. Although, there is a fear that I might have gotten a head from Abby Normal. Those things, though, only happen in Mel Brooks movies.
Yeah, I'm actually worn clear the hell out. I can't stay awake, my strength is waning, and if I'm not looking too closely, my wind is also going south. I'm certain that my time is coming, I just don't know when. I'm not so sure that anyone should really no when they are going to die. Would you go crazy with fear? Would you do full time wild and out of control behavior, in trying to do the things you hadn't yet? What would suddenly become your priorities? Do all you could for yourself? Or all you could do for your family first? The Dr's have all given me a year, give or take, until I'm bust. I feel like probably less, and have since they gave me the prognosis. There are a lot of reasons I felt that way, and still feel that way. It's difficult for me to put into words why I feel that way. It was a combination of things. I couldn't keep my pulse rate down like I wanted it even with going as fast I as I could on the treadmill. Even missing part of my quad, I was able to move along at a decent clip, but my pulse wouldn't lower and my breathing was getting worse all the time. Even with the Tracheostomy tube and ability to breath through my mouth and nose, I couldn't hold my pulse or my breathing to the control I wanted. I also was increasing my bodily pain by 3 fold. I kept at it until the pain got to the point I couldn't sleep at all. And while I could get away with two to three hours a night, if I got a good power nap of twenty minutes. That wasn't happening since I went under the knife. A lot of the things some people take for granted, and even some with the same surgery I had, didn't have the same problems. As a rule, most of them could still swallow as long as they didn't have a fistula that leaked food or liquid into some place it shouldn't go. Mine was compounded that radiation therapy had turned a goodly amount of my throat to hardened (not strong) tissue. When you add in the dead quadriceps muscle, the infection that the necroses of the the tissue caused, and subsequent surgeries, my throat had no chance at all. We'd just gotten a bit to swallow, and it was going better all the time, when I had my first reconstructive surgery.
Ooops, cancer!! And the extra surgery put me back at square one, and I worked at it like it was back at square one. Although I finally had to say "enough". The pain was causing me to lose my lunch right up through my mouth and sinuses. Yes!! I puked. It's hard on me to do that, and even worse now. So I backed off. I think, maybe (or at least imagine) that I can swallow just a touch. Anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yep, I'm closer now to shaking hands with Death than I have been in the past. And it's not just the addition of time that's put me in that position. It's just a fact. I bleed more, I cough more (and more of the sputum is pink or bright red), and I'm so tired I have to nap more.
And yes, to all you who support me, and are a huge part of keeping my drive to live going, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I allowed myself to fall into the same old trap I tell people not to step into. I did and I wish I hadn't. This is one of the times that I can wish in one hand and shit it the other, and we all know which one fills up the fastest.
When I was, oh hell, nine or ten, I see my little brother (he would have been 5 or 6) hauling ass around the corner of the house screaming. He wasn't doing anything to get in trouble for, just playing in his sand pile. I started walking over just in time to see two kids my age chasing him laughing. Chris Herman (across the street neighbor) and Bill Jacobs (across the tracks north of me, and 5 or so blocks away) were chasing him hollering they were gonna beat his ass. No one beat Clay's ass but me. He ran past me, then turned for the front door. Chris Herman and Bill Jacobs stopped and told me they were gonna beat Clay's ass for throwing sand at them. I asked what they were doing in my yard to begin with. Chris took a swing. I busted him as hard as I could and split his lip. Bill ran off. I'm still outside screwing around with changing a tube on my bike when Herman's big brother Bill came and asked me why I hit his little brother (Chris and I were the same age). I told him the story, he told Chris he was a pussy. An hour or so later, Bill Jacobs big brother Jeff came over. He told me Bill said I was gonna whip his ass for fun. No, that's not quite right, and I told him the story. He asked me if I'd fight Bill right there. Hell yes I would (I couldn't take Jeff Jacobs, he was 3 years older and looked huge) but Bill ran home. All's well that ends well. Or so I thought. Shortly after Bill ran away, Chris Herman came over with his football uniform on (no, we didn't have Pop Warner or any other little FB league in that town, we got ours from Sears-Roebuck Christmas Wish Book) ready to whip my ass. Chris's brother Bill ran out the front door of his house about the same time I grabbed Chris by the face guard, yanked him to the ground and literally kicked his ass until my foot hurt. His brother was laughing his ass off. He even followed me to the gas station, bought me a coke and a bag of peanuts. Not a bad day in the summer of 1969 or 1970.
Addendum: In the summer of 1982 I took my scooter on a road trip through Hays KS to see some buds, and through where I'd lived as a kid. Kind of a nice trip back in time. As luck would have it, I ended up in Gorham, mid afternoon of the evening they were having a town party in the park that used to be part of my yard on the south side of US 40. Some of the German heritage boys I went to school with turned into some big mother fuckers. I was no weakling, but I was just under 6' tall then, and those guys, for the most part, towered over me. Bill Jacobs had gotten a snootful and wanted to arm wrestle. It's not hard to beat a drunk wrist wrestling. Gotta remember, I was still working the pulling unit. I wrenched every rod we had when there was a new string to run, and was working derrick as well. So, I snagged Bill down 3 outta 3, and he was cool with that afterward. Chris Herman, on the other hand, wasn't so forgiving. He wanted a fight and wouldn't take no for an answer. What I was trying to do, was make him so mad his drunk ass would fuck up and give me a shot and either kicking his nuts up into his mouth, or hammer his nose so hard he had to unzip his pants to sneeze.
I asked him "Do you need time to go get your football uniform on again? Or are you ready to go right now?" Oh Christ, he went practically purple with anger. Not with me though. There must have been 30 people at that set of tables who heard the entire thing. They either saw the original fight with the football uniform or had been told about it. They were laughing their asses off. Chris got so mad he couldn't see fucking straight. Perfect for a fight, if you're the one he wants to fight. Even more perfect if you can sit back and watch him stagger home. Almost like he did when he was 10!!!
To all the people that read this blog on Facebook: I apologize. I was out of line, and very angry. It was foolish and I ask your forgiveness. I hope you'll give it to me.
The last week or so has been as close as I've ever been to shaking hands with death. I've been exhausted, I've been in some pain even with the added dosage fentanyl, and morphine. We (Hospice Doctor, Nurse, and Myself) have the chronic pain under control, and that's a good thing. But man, that acute, screaming, kick you in the nuts, bite a finger off, sudden stabbing pain, that's something else. The morphine will knock it out, and generally keep it out for a few hours. Saturday, no way it took care of it, the right side of my face was absolutely wearing me out. I had worked my way up to a full dose (40mg/1ml), every hour, and that barely squeezed it out. At the end of the day I was at the corner of Stoned and Out Of My Gourd, but the pain laid down. I did sleep almost 12 hours Saturday night into Sunday. What a difference a day makes. Yesterday it was 1/2 dose after the right side of my face started screaming at me. I took a dose every time the bone or muscle fired down upon me. I only took two all day. And I was awake at just a second before 0300 this morning. That gives me more than enough time to get myself ready for my day. I do believe I'm going to start trying to get to sleep around 2000 to 2100 hrs this evening. I feel better during the day. Although I'm absolutely worn clear the fuck out all the time.
I seem to feel as though I get these HUGE jumps in losing ground to the cancer. In retrospect, that's not how it is, truly. If I look at it closely, and not what I put in the blog or on Facebook, and if I do so honestly, the darn thing has been chewing away a little at a time since the beginning. If I REALLY want to look at it honestly I noticed some loss of energy and some extra soreness in my mouth and throat around the middle of June. About the time the wonderful Michelle Trant, SLP and I were making the biggest gains I'd seen as far as speech and swallowing was going. That would be if I were totally honest with myself. HA HA HA HA, the fuck I was. I ignored all that, mostly for myself, but also because it would have shattered Liz if I'd said anything without having solid proof. It damn near shattered her when they told us on July 8th they found a spot again. After the PET scan, I didn't even pay attention to where it had spread. I figured it was all over. There was also nothing they could do to clear it up. I asked about amputation and replacement with a much more handsome face and head. They said that wasn't an option. I'd think they'd want to get that kind of amazing surgical miracles, and how much of humanity that could be saved. Although, there is a fear that I might have gotten a head from Abby Normal. Those things, though, only happen in Mel Brooks movies.
Yeah, I'm actually worn clear the hell out. I can't stay awake, my strength is waning, and if I'm not looking too closely, my wind is also going south. I'm certain that my time is coming, I just don't know when. I'm not so sure that anyone should really no when they are going to die. Would you go crazy with fear? Would you do full time wild and out of control behavior, in trying to do the things you hadn't yet? What would suddenly become your priorities? Do all you could for yourself? Or all you could do for your family first? The Dr's have all given me a year, give or take, until I'm bust. I feel like probably less, and have since they gave me the prognosis. There are a lot of reasons I felt that way, and still feel that way. It's difficult for me to put into words why I feel that way. It was a combination of things. I couldn't keep my pulse rate down like I wanted it even with going as fast I as I could on the treadmill. Even missing part of my quad, I was able to move along at a decent clip, but my pulse wouldn't lower and my breathing was getting worse all the time. Even with the Tracheostomy tube and ability to breath through my mouth and nose, I couldn't hold my pulse or my breathing to the control I wanted. I also was increasing my bodily pain by 3 fold. I kept at it until the pain got to the point I couldn't sleep at all. And while I could get away with two to three hours a night, if I got a good power nap of twenty minutes. That wasn't happening since I went under the knife. A lot of the things some people take for granted, and even some with the same surgery I had, didn't have the same problems. As a rule, most of them could still swallow as long as they didn't have a fistula that leaked food or liquid into some place it shouldn't go. Mine was compounded that radiation therapy had turned a goodly amount of my throat to hardened (not strong) tissue. When you add in the dead quadriceps muscle, the infection that the necroses of the the tissue caused, and subsequent surgeries, my throat had no chance at all. We'd just gotten a bit to swallow, and it was going better all the time, when I had my first reconstructive surgery.
Ooops, cancer!! And the extra surgery put me back at square one, and I worked at it like it was back at square one. Although I finally had to say "enough". The pain was causing me to lose my lunch right up through my mouth and sinuses. Yes!! I puked. It's hard on me to do that, and even worse now. So I backed off. I think, maybe (or at least imagine) that I can swallow just a touch. Anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yep, I'm closer now to shaking hands with Death than I have been in the past. And it's not just the addition of time that's put me in that position. It's just a fact. I bleed more, I cough more (and more of the sputum is pink or bright red), and I'm so tired I have to nap more.
And yes, to all you who support me, and are a huge part of keeping my drive to live going, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I allowed myself to fall into the same old trap I tell people not to step into. I did and I wish I hadn't. This is one of the times that I can wish in one hand and shit it the other, and we all know which one fills up the fastest.
When I was, oh hell, nine or ten, I see my little brother (he would have been 5 or 6) hauling ass around the corner of the house screaming. He wasn't doing anything to get in trouble for, just playing in his sand pile. I started walking over just in time to see two kids my age chasing him laughing. Chris Herman (across the street neighbor) and Bill Jacobs (across the tracks north of me, and 5 or so blocks away) were chasing him hollering they were gonna beat his ass. No one beat Clay's ass but me. He ran past me, then turned for the front door. Chris Herman and Bill Jacobs stopped and told me they were gonna beat Clay's ass for throwing sand at them. I asked what they were doing in my yard to begin with. Chris took a swing. I busted him as hard as I could and split his lip. Bill ran off. I'm still outside screwing around with changing a tube on my bike when Herman's big brother Bill came and asked me why I hit his little brother (Chris and I were the same age). I told him the story, he told Chris he was a pussy. An hour or so later, Bill Jacobs big brother Jeff came over. He told me Bill said I was gonna whip his ass for fun. No, that's not quite right, and I told him the story. He asked me if I'd fight Bill right there. Hell yes I would (I couldn't take Jeff Jacobs, he was 3 years older and looked huge) but Bill ran home. All's well that ends well. Or so I thought. Shortly after Bill ran away, Chris Herman came over with his football uniform on (no, we didn't have Pop Warner or any other little FB league in that town, we got ours from Sears-Roebuck Christmas Wish Book) ready to whip my ass. Chris's brother Bill ran out the front door of his house about the same time I grabbed Chris by the face guard, yanked him to the ground and literally kicked his ass until my foot hurt. His brother was laughing his ass off. He even followed me to the gas station, bought me a coke and a bag of peanuts. Not a bad day in the summer of 1969 or 1970.
Addendum: In the summer of 1982 I took my scooter on a road trip through Hays KS to see some buds, and through where I'd lived as a kid. Kind of a nice trip back in time. As luck would have it, I ended up in Gorham, mid afternoon of the evening they were having a town party in the park that used to be part of my yard on the south side of US 40. Some of the German heritage boys I went to school with turned into some big mother fuckers. I was no weakling, but I was just under 6' tall then, and those guys, for the most part, towered over me. Bill Jacobs had gotten a snootful and wanted to arm wrestle. It's not hard to beat a drunk wrist wrestling. Gotta remember, I was still working the pulling unit. I wrenched every rod we had when there was a new string to run, and was working derrick as well. So, I snagged Bill down 3 outta 3, and he was cool with that afterward. Chris Herman, on the other hand, wasn't so forgiving. He wanted a fight and wouldn't take no for an answer. What I was trying to do, was make him so mad his drunk ass would fuck up and give me a shot and either kicking his nuts up into his mouth, or hammer his nose so hard he had to unzip his pants to sneeze.
I asked him "Do you need time to go get your football uniform on again? Or are you ready to go right now?" Oh Christ, he went practically purple with anger. Not with me though. There must have been 30 people at that set of tables who heard the entire thing. They either saw the original fight with the football uniform or had been told about it. They were laughing their asses off. Chris got so mad he couldn't see fucking straight. Perfect for a fight, if you're the one he wants to fight. Even more perfect if you can sit back and watch him stagger home. Almost like he did when he was 10!!!
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