Friday night. Oh my God how I'd like a "do over" for Friday night. It all seemed like it was going just swimmingly, then it hit. I was trying to clear my tube, Then I couldn't draw in a breath from either my nose/mouth, or my trach either one. I rushed to the bathroom, and along the way I shut the damn door. Muscle memory. Over the last seven or so months, I've trained myself to head for the bathroom so as not to throw up or to keep from shooting a mucus/blood plug, out of the tube, so I can go hang out and watch everyone else dabble in the water. I cough enough to clear everything, usually. Friday night was one of the nights I couldn't get anything to clear up, shy of vomiting. That, much to my chagrin, happened. I feel my only saving grace was the fact that I was able to get to the bathroom in time. I had so much crap in my throat, and it was too far back to suction without making me gag, which also will make me vomit. It's a terrible, vicious circle that does that to a kindly fella such as my self. Liz can vouch for that as I grow increasingly close to Terminal Velocity. Once I hit that, it won't be long before I'm at Critical Mass. I'll be Albert is spinning like a Whirling Dervish in their home town. While Liz and I sweat out the matters of getting to Critical Mass, it has gotten stronger. Which is how this entire perverted bastard has worked. Another two months of having to dig around the road blocks Baxter has added to his bag of goodies. Okay, this was the bad shit that sets up the really, incredibly stunning, things that happened on Saturday. As far as personal impact goes, the Family knocked Baxter's dick in the dirt for more than just a day.
I'd planned on making a redneck twist on Eggs Benedict. Big assed Buttermilk biscuits, sausage patties, poached eggs (which I still fuck up and can't make a nice poached egg in a pan), and a nice Hollandaise Sauce using Lime juice and a bit of Jalapeño juice add some kick. Sadly, I was so sick the night before that I still had the shakes and honest to God there wasn't a muscle in my body that didn't hurt so bad that I didn't need the morphine. I'm sitting in my recliner, trying to get my shit together so I can make a brunch, instead of breakfast that I slept through. Tired, very sore muscle wise, and near mentally worn out, knowing that if I just get up and start feeding and getting on with my day two things may happen. One, I may have a heart attack. Two, I'll have a stroke. BP and Pulse rate were still high, according to the machine at Albertson's. It has a warning, even, so that people with larger than 18" biceps be allowed to use it at all. Liz says she has to go get propane for the grill since she is grilling pork spare ribs for a mid afternoon supper. Snacks if you get hungry later in the evening. Sounded good to me. It was turning out to be a beautiful morning, and I'd not minded at all if Liz and I sat in the backyard and enjoyed the warm day. It's January for shit sake, it's not supposed to be nearly 70. Or at least it felt that way.
I'm waiting for her to get home, when my oldest son Chance comes walking in with a propane bottle in each hand. I think to myself "whaaaaaaaat?". Looked at Liz and said (on paper) Why is Chance here? "I don't know why he's here. I just pulled in and he walked up and said 'Let me carry those'. How would I know?". I was so surprised I nearly boo hooed. My eyeballs got all watery and shit, but that was just the prelude to what came next.
Chance came up and sat next to me on the couch, took my hand in his, leaned in and said "You know Stephanie and I are engaged. We talked about it, setting a date in September. That was so far away, and there was no way we were getting married without you, so we are having a small ceremony here, so you can see us get married." I was so shocked, I really had trouble taking a breath. Once again, my family has found a way to just knock me flat with kindness. I didn't know what to say, and I was afraid if I did, the water works would have started and I'm not certain I could have stopped them. In order to maintain my own cool.
I spent a lot of time in the garage wiping the wet spots off my cheeks, and mopping up my we eyes, they seemed to leak a lot. It seems that my loving wife, oldest son, in fact the entire famn damily knew but me. I didn't think they could keep a secret, let alone one of that magnitude. Good gravy. I asked Liz just this morning if she wasn't a little nervous on Friday evening that I'd be well enough for the wedding. She said, "Yes, then Saturday morning you were making plans for lunch and everything, I was nervous then, too." I called everyone bad names, but only in jest. The kicker, to me, is that I'd been fine with any date they picked. I may not have been there physically, but I'd be there in spirit. I text my friend John Moye, he'd asked "Hey Amigo, what's up?". I responded not too much, getting ready for a wedding. The rat, he sent, "Really?, When?". He was almost here, he and his main squeeze drove in from El Paso.
Now I am a bit overwhelmed. The loving wife's eyes kept getting damp and runny. I was choked up so tight I didn't know if I was afoot or horseback. I couldn't sit in one place very long because I was so overwhelmed emotionally that I didn't want to be the old dude who cries at the drop of a hat. I excuse myself for a bit, and head out the front door. (skipped the part where I put the kilt and my Jacobite shirt on). So, what do I see? My future Daughter In Law talking to Liz and a couple of our friends. I thought this would be a safe haven for a minute. WRONG!!!!! The minute Stephanie saw me her water works started, that almost made mine start, and they would have if she hadn't held out her arms for a hug. She really sobbed, and hung onto me pretty tightly. Apparently she thought this was a good thing too. It was very tough for me to keep it all wound up in one place, so I'd go to the garage, look at Fat Girl run a little water, then go back to the guests. All of it's getting pretty cool, I sat outside thinking how great it was to have so many friends, and the greatest family on the planet. It's because they alter their plans, their lives, and in a lot of cases, their own peace of mind. My buddy Bill Nall and his wife Angie had set up an account for Liz to replace the motor in the Dodge pick up. They and their son Brandon came to the wedding. We've know each other a long time. Since Brandon was in kindergarten. Bill and I shared a lot a really good times, and more than a few not so good at work. He's truly one of the good guys. Well, shit, I'm surrounded by The Good Guys and that makes me the wealthiest man I know.
Off into the back yard we go, all ready for the wedding. Liz had contacted my Hospice nurse a couple of weeks ago and got the Hospice Chaplain to officiate. He's a nice man with a good heart, one of the few that lives what he believes. A rarity in today's ME first attitude. I like him as well. So, I go stand next to my wife and hold her hand. (that's a little something I need to do more of) Then, as Stephanie and Chance step up, the Chaplain asks Steph who is giving her away. I couldn't hear, then the Chaplain looks right at me and asks me to come up. "Take Stephanie's hand. Charles, do you and Elizabeth give this woman away in Holy Matrimony?'. I'm slow, I didn't realize that I had been given such a precious honor. They are bound and determined to make the old man cry in public. Fooled them, by God. I'd had a bit of an acid burn in my throat from Friday nights fun and games of throwing up. I took a couple of deep breaths, so I was sure I had enough to make some volume. "We do", I squeaked. OMG did that little phrase hurt!!! But I was so happy and heart filled that I didn't care. I paid that piper with a little bleeding later on. It was a little thing, compared to how happy and surprised I was from 1000hrs, until 2130hrs that evening. I'm still pretty stoked from all of the goings on yesterday. I hope this feeling holds in for another week or so. It's kind of hard to beat when your oldest son takes your hand and whispers "Stephanie and I thought about it, and we couldn't stand that you might not be at the wedding, we decided to do it here." I still can't come up with an answer other than "sniff, sniff, thank you". What a very cool, very cool indeed, day that was. For as long as I've got left, this is going to top my list of things where I got to be a part of the festivities.
(BTW, Liz spare ribs where out of the park home run chow, along with the stuff other people brought along, damn good eats for me to live vicariously)
This Sunday, at this time, I'd been in Houston a week, and Liz showed up for some "Mom and Dad" time. No nerves yet, but we did go to Joe's Crab Shack and dropped $95 on food, drinks, dessert, and drinks. We laughed, cried, (mostly laughed) and we're getting ready for surgery in two days.
Bill and Angie Nall have family in Mississippi, near Hattiesburg (Bill went to college there) in Pearl as well as a town south of there "Poplar". Bill wanted to borrow my truck, put in separate fuel tanks, MRE's, snack food, lots of water, chain saws, and a generator to go try and dig his and Angie's relatives out. Five days after, when the Governor of Louisiana still wouldn't let FEMA in because it was unsafe, Bill was going to Mississippi to help his family. Not alone he wasn't. Loaning the him the truck, that would be no big deal, I was glad to do that. I caught Bill and our head honcho around the old welding shop of Anadarko's at Notrees Tx. I told him that I'd take two weeks vacation so I could go help Bill. Well, actually I only had one week of vacation left, but over the last couple of months I'd saved up to comp out a bit at a go. I got some peace and quiet that way, and it saved our field by not having overtime expense. The Honcho told us that he'd take care of the time sheets and to get loaded up and go.
Off we went, loaded up with stuff that was stacked up even with the roof of my truck. Poor Baby was so heavy, she was setting on the rear overloads. We burned up some road, buddy. Got to Pearl. (heavily armed, I might add) Went straight to Angie's sister's home. They were getting water and food, the Governor of Mississippi had the National Guard out immediately after Katrina blew through. (one fatality. A National Guard soldier was killed when a tree fell and wiped out his Humvee). Things in Pearl looked pretty good. There was a Burger King open selling sausage biscuits, Nectar of the Guards I'm pretty sure, since a hot burger was becoming a thing of the past. We spent the night in Pearl. Deathly quiet. No bugs, no mosquitoes, no birds. I pile down in the back of the truck on top of some water and MRE packs. Did anyone out there ever get that feeling that somethings watching you REALLY closely? I got that. I slowly sat up on the tailgate of the truck. Look down the drive to the street. Man, no moon, no light pollution, makes it so dark, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. I got all spooky because as dark as it was, there was something darker standing in front of the driveway. I do know it wasn't a person, but it was certainly something. I got up, walked about 10 steps, and decided whatever that was, I was going to leave it alone.
The next day, we headed over to Bill's uncle's home in Poplar. They had a lot of limbs down, fortunately none of the trees had fallen and the had minimal damage to any of their buildings. We set off to working on the drive, and got it cleared up in pretty short order. Limbs down in the front yard, though, and that was proving to be a pretty big task.While working away, Bill and Angie were helping his Aunt do something, a cop came by. Drove off, came back, drove off, came back, like some kind of damned yo yo. He finally called me over to his truck, asked where I was from, and if I had a work permit. Texas and no I don't have a permit. I'm helping a friend of mine get his Uncle's yard and drive way. He asked how much I was charging. Nothing, what part of helping a friend did not come out clearly? (yes, I was tired, hot and my blood sugar was getting low). That seemed to upset him a bit. I really didn't want to spend the night in the crossbar hotel, or have a knot on my head from a billy club. Fortunately Bill's Uncle came to my rescue. The policeman asked if Bill's Uncle knew who we were.(ya know, chemo brain tells me Angie was with me, dammit, I hate when I leave shit out or get wrong) Yes, this is my niece and a friend of hers, they are cleaning up this damage. You know they can't charge you without a permit, the cop asked. Bill's Uncle replied (picture, if you will, what a Southern Gentleman sounds like when he speaks, and you've got Bill's Uncle to a tee) Of course I know, that sir, I wrote the ordinance for the city. They are not charging me anything, and I believe this young man has already told you they weren't charging. Isn't there someplace you have more pressing duties to attend?
Fuckin A sweet. Bill's Uncle is one smooth dude. He told the cop to go to hell, but made it sound like he should be happy to go! Gotta love that. A bit later I was setting on the porch steps taking a break, havin a smoke and a bottle of water. Bill's Uncle was there as well, (burns my ass I can't recall his name) "You know, sir, what sounds really good to me right now?", I asked. No sir, what sounds good? he said. "An ice cold beer, in a frozen mug, so cold it makes ice on the mug, and sticks it to your hand". He tapped his cane a couple of times on the step "You're absolutely right, that does sound very good, doesn't it?" Yeah, it did. I wish I'd had time to have a cold one with him. He was one very cool fellow.
We went over to Bill's cousin's home to help clean up there as well. He had a yard full of very tall pine trees, and nearly that many in his back yard. He had three boys he got custody of when he divorced. They were doing a damn good job of helping dad, but everyone was running shy of clean clothes. Power hadn't made it back to his part of town just yet. Bill and his Cousin set up the generator to run a washer and dryer. Angie caught up the clothes while the rest of us got the back yard safely cleaned up. The front yard, while it had more room was a jumble of limbs all it's own. If you looked up, some of the pines had been chopped off about 15' from the tops, and others had no damage. That was damn weird but we didn't have time to stop. We worked some long days in hot, humid weather. While Mississippi it's humidity is enough to melt me into a tiny puddle of water. We got his Cousin all cleared up. A couple of cool stories from that time. Our last day there, while we were piling wood into the burn pile, a helicopter came hauling in over the tree line. Outside of our Line of Sight, but shortly back into view, turned travelled a short distance, then did a touch and go. It was Air Force 2. President Bush was going to give a speech at Poplar's High School on the day we planned to leave. And that, girls and boys, is the difference in leadership between Mississippi and Louisiana. Six days into Katrina blew itself out along the Gulf and inland states, Mississippi had nearly all the power back on and as close to normal as one can get after a hurricane. Louisiana, though, was still struggling with whether or not to let FEMA into New Orleans. I believe they were in before the end of the week, and people had been being pulled from roof tops and other places. But it seemed more willy nilly than anything prepared. You know, like trying to arrest a fifteen year old kid that picked up a load of people and was headed to Texas to get out of the city. Yes, he took the bus, but he showed some initiative and was trying to get something done. That'll teach you to be a socially away person, and to live up to being a responsible member of society. Geez. At any rate, we hauled ass out, got to Shreveport, the Nall's rented us a couple of rooms at a casino, took me to eat at Cooper's (I didn't bring even a button up shirt) where the food and drinks were wonderful, and I felt terribly underdressed. That showed up on the Black Jack table as well. I burned off what little I had (only $30, I had to have some cash for snack em's, right?) and I crashed in a bed. After the second shower I'd had in 5 or six days. We made it home safely, and as is my want when I travel anywhere, home sure looked good to me.
All in all, that trip to help out Bill and Angie's families was one of the most rewarding things I'd done in my life. Physically tiring, but so much of a boost just hearing the thank you's that I didn't feel so tired. Thanks Bill, for allowing me to tag along to help, and for introducing me to your family. I'd like to get well (I know, not happening) and do it all over again. Only this time with a bit more time, and a lot less work.
Hugs and all the stuff that goes with them
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Friday, January 17, 2014
Why Yes, Liz Did Get A New Computer!
It took the Mac Store a while to put all the contents of this eight year old machine onto Liz's brand spankin new Mac. Why a Mac? Because I'm not smart enough to use a Windows based machine, that's why. I missed a couple of days waiting for the computer geeks to get finished. No biggy, but every service these days seem to take forever to do any damn thing. So I hung around on FB. We chatted about the Apple judgement and how each of the winners get $6500 and the attorney's get $7,000,000. That brought to mind a class action suit over in Odessa several years ago. The plaintiff's won the case, but out on the front lawn of the courthouse you could see who really scored. Yep, the barrister. It was a substantial win, but there were so many plaintiff's that the checks were $1.98 each. You'll never catch me in a class action suit. Oop, hahahahaah!! I forgot that I ain't gonna be alive long enough to start one, let alone long enough to win.
I realized something in the last couple of days as well. I found that I was getting goofy. I worried about this blog. Or, when I do write upon it, that I might embarrass someone. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I'd let myself go, in so much that I started to watch what I wrote, making dead certain I wasn't intentionally hurting someone's feelings. Well, that's gonna stop right damn here, right damn now. I have a ton of friends and they all understand me and where I come from. Sometimes they even forgive my short comings, and they are great support. It's up to me to make sure that I keep my promise to be open and honest with everyone. That includes the folks that get offended. If that's happening, here's the advise I have for you, either read it, be steamed and offended, but keep that to yourself. If that's not an option, stop reading the damn blog! It's like folks that complain about violence and sex on TV. It has a power switch, turn the damn thing off.
So, what's been going on with me the last couple of days? Some strange shit, that's what. I've discovered that I've put some weight back on. That's nice, but it's the first time I've put it right across my middle. Yes, I look fat. To me anyway. I've either got a huge coincidence or there's a correlation with my mouth and throat bleeding and the amount of mucus and/or saliva. The past couple of weeks I've been watching to see if that's true. It is. It seems that if I bleeding, even without the buzzards circling, the less saliva and mucus I produce, that's just hinky. This morning is sort of bearing that out for me. I wasn't bleeding, and sure enough, my damn mouth is like a swamp. It's wet enough to float a twelve person party barge, and trap some alligators while we are at it. The bleeding is getting worse, again. If it follows my trend, and since I didn't wake up bleeding this morning, I'll stop for a day or two, then bleed for six or eight straight. It's not like pints, quarts, or gallons, but it looks like it. I posted a picture on FaceBook of my suction line. It was completely red. Deceptive too. The line isn't very big, and it is just coated a little bit from top to bottom. So, no worries, FB buddies, I wasn't going to pass out. I don't think.
Another nifty deal that's finally gotten to the point I could no longer ignore the pain. My right side, upper and lower mandible. In fact, right before my Hospice nurse showed up Wednesday, I'd had a spell that the bone pain was so bad I almost threw up. I just thought the drug that induces white blood cells to duplicate faster caused bone and joint pain. Compared to this, Neulestra is a whiny, little girl, of a pussy assed cry baby. I mean, I've broken a few bones in my life, and in some cases I've reset them myself (fingers and toes), or had the doctor set them in his office without anesthetic. No biggy, especially now that I have some deep bone pain it wasn't as bad as I thought when I was a kid.
Random memory: Dad and I went to Russell KS to pick up parts for the rig. Stuff they hadn't heard of in SW Kansas. And I'm certain they would have shipped it and we'd have it before we got home. Anyway, we went to the Elks Club in Russell. They were having a Nut Fry. Calf fries with all the trimmings and one drink or beer included. They also had turkey fries. Beside that piece of info was this "Fowl Balls!!". That cracked me up. Back to the blog, thank you for your consideration.
They (hospice) upped my morphine from 20 mg/ 1ml, to 40mg/1ml. It turns out, that's a big jump. The first prescription, 1/4 didn't do much. After a week, I could take a complete dose of it, and it made me numb. That's fine, as long as I sleep well and I had been. I found 1/2-1/3 dose was on the old scrip, compared to the new. That's like taking aspirin to stop the pain during an amputation. Just doesn't work. Now, the new scrip, that's good shit Maynard. A dose of 1/4, moderately controls the pain. 1/2 dose is getting closer. 3/4 dose makes me drowsy. A full 1ml dose will put my dick in the dirt faster than NyQuil can put me in bed. It's pretty stout. On the plus side of that, if I do a full dose, then the next day when I wake up and into the afternoon, I don't need anymore pain killer. That's a little deceptive. Along with the morphine my patches have been upped as well. So it's a combination, I believe, increased Fentanyl and morphine. Whatever the cause and effect, I''ll go with the docs and say "okay, it's working. Thanks". That combination is working so well, that I fell asleep way early this morning trying to have a Big Red soda pop. Somehow managing to get the plunger out of the syringe, and ended up sitting in a puddle of Big Red. When I first woke up, though, I was one pissed off Terminally ill boy. I swore I'd pissed my pants and was gonna call hospice to come get my O2 generator and all the other toys.Then, when I realized what it was, I was cracking up I'd paid money to see the expression on my face when I first woke up. God, brother, I'll bet that was a hoot!
Okay, I missed a couple of days, and this is count down week. John Moye drove to Houston from El Paso to keep me company. Liz and I both decided there was no need in her missing work to sit on our asses in Houston and stare at each other. And to be frank, I think we both needed a damn break from each other. It had been a long fucking month and a half for both of us, we both needed some "me" time to recharge and get ready for what turned out to be an incredibly long stay in the hospital. But John coming to visit, man I'll tell ya, that was one of the best presents anyone has ever given me. The greatest present is Liz. My anchor and guiding star. John and I can drink, act like we are 15 again, and actually just enjoy each others company without having to say a word. He shares my warped assed sense of humor. We ate like hogs, had more than a couple of beers. Just a shade more than a good stiff drink, and shot the breeze. All without me hearing, how ya feeling? (i finally started answering that with "Fucking dying. How you?") We went shooting, at a range, not at people. He left on Sunday morning, and left me very much recharged. Between Sunday January 13, 2012 to Thursday January 17, 2012, I'd eaten two boxes of cereal, corn flakes and Grape Nuts, and gone through 2 gallons of milk, 1 1/2 cases of pop of several different varieties (diet dew, diet coke, and a six pack of Fanta Orange. passable if no orange crush can be found). As is our want, John and I ate one meal that we normally can't easily get at home, like Joe's Crab Shack. We chowed down there. We each got the huge bucket things, along with a couple of cold brews each, with some desert. Ran us $75 bucks. Liz and I topped that Sunday night!!! One more Dr appointment with my chemo oncologist. She is a very nice women and was very kind in telling me that if the surgery wouldn't get it, neither would any of the chemo treatments. I had figured that, but it's always nice to get confirmation from a Dr that's fairly tall, is well proportioned, and wears Fish Net Hose. I cannot not spell or pronounce her name, and was told Dr. Poppa would do. I'm hear to tell you, no it won't. So, being the incredibly non PC, I called her, in e-mail, IM, or text message, Dr Papalicksapoodlepussy. She is a good Doctor. And I know this, because she was straight forward with me, explaining the pain and or sickness that might occur. Even though in a hospital that large, and the number of times she's seen people die, that she still had trouble talking about it. Good person, good Doc. That takes us up to Sunday morning.
Back in 1965 Mountain Dew, the soda pop, had a promotional one ton Dodge pick up that they dressed up with a hillbilly shack looking camper. It stopped in Gorham Ks, population 275 (I looked it up on google) at a beer joint/burger joint called Betty's Place. (I ate burgers there and Mrs Irwin's cafe, until we moved to just west of russell to a farm/ranch) The burgers were great there, but it was still cooler seeing the Mountain Dew guys! I swear they looked so real to a four year old kid, that I thought they'd come a long way just to have a burger and what the old guys called a beer. Then, while I'm watching from the fence at my house, they ran outside and yelled " YAHOOO! Mountain Dew!!!" shot their shot guns off into the air. Oh fuck yeah, I'm gonna cross the busy highway and see these guys up close! I looked and looked and looked again, both directions for traffic. That little town got a lot of traffic. Interstate 70 stopped and what would become the Gorham exit, so anyone going west HAD to get off the interstate at go through Gorham, Walker (pop. 15), Victoria (home of The Cathedral of The Plains, a beautiful catholic church built out of limestone blocks). So yes, Hillbilly express stopped in Gorham. I hauled ass as fast as my little red tennis shoes would carry my ass, and being four, I thought it was close to eighty-five miles an hour. My sister Kathy was watching me that morning. Mom and Clay went to do something in town, Clay was only about a month old when this all took place.
I told the guys I liked Mountain Dew, they gave me a six pack of those old green bottles that had the white label with the Mt Dew, the hillbilly, the camper, and his gun. SWEEEEEET!!!. Back home I ran, to get Kathy. I wanted to show her my six pack of soda, and take me back so maybe I could get another one. Something about her four year old brother barging in on her while she was taking a bath.
sudden side bar: as was the norm, dad had a "safety razor" that only cut the piss out of your fifty times before you got the hang of using it. I also had a pack of "play" cardboard Safety Razor Blades. One night when I was just turning 5, I was using dad's razor and my cardboard blades. I climbed up onto the sink, sat on the edge of the sink, and was shaving away just like Daddy. Daddy saw me, and I remember "Oh Jesus Christ". He took me down from the sink, calmly took the razor, and unclenched his ass cheeks when he saw it was my cardboard blades.
Back to it, but there's not much left to tell. I bugged Kathy long enough that she took me across the highway, mad as a wet hen. Looking back, she only took me so that when Mom or Dad asked about the six pack of Mt Dew, Kathy could say she took me across the highway. She was supposed to be watching me, and I assume not to let me cross the highway alone. Had I known all this, I'd have ammo for keeping out of my hair, crew cut on me and all. I didn't, but one time she had been nasty too me, or so I thought, that I cut all the hair off all her Barbary Barbies
Hugs and Shit, kids. Have fun this weekend
I realized something in the last couple of days as well. I found that I was getting goofy. I worried about this blog. Or, when I do write upon it, that I might embarrass someone. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I'd let myself go, in so much that I started to watch what I wrote, making dead certain I wasn't intentionally hurting someone's feelings. Well, that's gonna stop right damn here, right damn now. I have a ton of friends and they all understand me and where I come from. Sometimes they even forgive my short comings, and they are great support. It's up to me to make sure that I keep my promise to be open and honest with everyone. That includes the folks that get offended. If that's happening, here's the advise I have for you, either read it, be steamed and offended, but keep that to yourself. If that's not an option, stop reading the damn blog! It's like folks that complain about violence and sex on TV. It has a power switch, turn the damn thing off.
So, what's been going on with me the last couple of days? Some strange shit, that's what. I've discovered that I've put some weight back on. That's nice, but it's the first time I've put it right across my middle. Yes, I look fat. To me anyway. I've either got a huge coincidence or there's a correlation with my mouth and throat bleeding and the amount of mucus and/or saliva. The past couple of weeks I've been watching to see if that's true. It is. It seems that if I bleeding, even without the buzzards circling, the less saliva and mucus I produce, that's just hinky. This morning is sort of bearing that out for me. I wasn't bleeding, and sure enough, my damn mouth is like a swamp. It's wet enough to float a twelve person party barge, and trap some alligators while we are at it. The bleeding is getting worse, again. If it follows my trend, and since I didn't wake up bleeding this morning, I'll stop for a day or two, then bleed for six or eight straight. It's not like pints, quarts, or gallons, but it looks like it. I posted a picture on FaceBook of my suction line. It was completely red. Deceptive too. The line isn't very big, and it is just coated a little bit from top to bottom. So, no worries, FB buddies, I wasn't going to pass out. I don't think.
Another nifty deal that's finally gotten to the point I could no longer ignore the pain. My right side, upper and lower mandible. In fact, right before my Hospice nurse showed up Wednesday, I'd had a spell that the bone pain was so bad I almost threw up. I just thought the drug that induces white blood cells to duplicate faster caused bone and joint pain. Compared to this, Neulestra is a whiny, little girl, of a pussy assed cry baby. I mean, I've broken a few bones in my life, and in some cases I've reset them myself (fingers and toes), or had the doctor set them in his office without anesthetic. No biggy, especially now that I have some deep bone pain it wasn't as bad as I thought when I was a kid.
Random memory: Dad and I went to Russell KS to pick up parts for the rig. Stuff they hadn't heard of in SW Kansas. And I'm certain they would have shipped it and we'd have it before we got home. Anyway, we went to the Elks Club in Russell. They were having a Nut Fry. Calf fries with all the trimmings and one drink or beer included. They also had turkey fries. Beside that piece of info was this "Fowl Balls!!". That cracked me up. Back to the blog, thank you for your consideration.
They (hospice) upped my morphine from 20 mg/ 1ml, to 40mg/1ml. It turns out, that's a big jump. The first prescription, 1/4 didn't do much. After a week, I could take a complete dose of it, and it made me numb. That's fine, as long as I sleep well and I had been. I found 1/2-1/3 dose was on the old scrip, compared to the new. That's like taking aspirin to stop the pain during an amputation. Just doesn't work. Now, the new scrip, that's good shit Maynard. A dose of 1/4, moderately controls the pain. 1/2 dose is getting closer. 3/4 dose makes me drowsy. A full 1ml dose will put my dick in the dirt faster than NyQuil can put me in bed. It's pretty stout. On the plus side of that, if I do a full dose, then the next day when I wake up and into the afternoon, I don't need anymore pain killer. That's a little deceptive. Along with the morphine my patches have been upped as well. So it's a combination, I believe, increased Fentanyl and morphine. Whatever the cause and effect, I''ll go with the docs and say "okay, it's working. Thanks". That combination is working so well, that I fell asleep way early this morning trying to have a Big Red soda pop. Somehow managing to get the plunger out of the syringe, and ended up sitting in a puddle of Big Red. When I first woke up, though, I was one pissed off Terminally ill boy. I swore I'd pissed my pants and was gonna call hospice to come get my O2 generator and all the other toys.Then, when I realized what it was, I was cracking up I'd paid money to see the expression on my face when I first woke up. God, brother, I'll bet that was a hoot!
Okay, I missed a couple of days, and this is count down week. John Moye drove to Houston from El Paso to keep me company. Liz and I both decided there was no need in her missing work to sit on our asses in Houston and stare at each other. And to be frank, I think we both needed a damn break from each other. It had been a long fucking month and a half for both of us, we both needed some "me" time to recharge and get ready for what turned out to be an incredibly long stay in the hospital. But John coming to visit, man I'll tell ya, that was one of the best presents anyone has ever given me. The greatest present is Liz. My anchor and guiding star. John and I can drink, act like we are 15 again, and actually just enjoy each others company without having to say a word. He shares my warped assed sense of humor. We ate like hogs, had more than a couple of beers. Just a shade more than a good stiff drink, and shot the breeze. All without me hearing, how ya feeling? (i finally started answering that with "Fucking dying. How you?") We went shooting, at a range, not at people. He left on Sunday morning, and left me very much recharged. Between Sunday January 13, 2012 to Thursday January 17, 2012, I'd eaten two boxes of cereal, corn flakes and Grape Nuts, and gone through 2 gallons of milk, 1 1/2 cases of pop of several different varieties (diet dew, diet coke, and a six pack of Fanta Orange. passable if no orange crush can be found). As is our want, John and I ate one meal that we normally can't easily get at home, like Joe's Crab Shack. We chowed down there. We each got the huge bucket things, along with a couple of cold brews each, with some desert. Ran us $75 bucks. Liz and I topped that Sunday night!!! One more Dr appointment with my chemo oncologist. She is a very nice women and was very kind in telling me that if the surgery wouldn't get it, neither would any of the chemo treatments. I had figured that, but it's always nice to get confirmation from a Dr that's fairly tall, is well proportioned, and wears Fish Net Hose. I cannot not spell or pronounce her name, and was told Dr. Poppa would do. I'm hear to tell you, no it won't. So, being the incredibly non PC, I called her, in e-mail, IM, or text message, Dr Papalicksapoodlepussy. She is a good Doctor. And I know this, because she was straight forward with me, explaining the pain and or sickness that might occur. Even though in a hospital that large, and the number of times she's seen people die, that she still had trouble talking about it. Good person, good Doc. That takes us up to Sunday morning.
Back in 1965 Mountain Dew, the soda pop, had a promotional one ton Dodge pick up that they dressed up with a hillbilly shack looking camper. It stopped in Gorham Ks, population 275 (I looked it up on google) at a beer joint/burger joint called Betty's Place. (I ate burgers there and Mrs Irwin's cafe, until we moved to just west of russell to a farm/ranch) The burgers were great there, but it was still cooler seeing the Mountain Dew guys! I swear they looked so real to a four year old kid, that I thought they'd come a long way just to have a burger and what the old guys called a beer. Then, while I'm watching from the fence at my house, they ran outside and yelled " YAHOOO! Mountain Dew!!!" shot their shot guns off into the air. Oh fuck yeah, I'm gonna cross the busy highway and see these guys up close! I looked and looked and looked again, both directions for traffic. That little town got a lot of traffic. Interstate 70 stopped and what would become the Gorham exit, so anyone going west HAD to get off the interstate at go through Gorham, Walker (pop. 15), Victoria (home of The Cathedral of The Plains, a beautiful catholic church built out of limestone blocks). So yes, Hillbilly express stopped in Gorham. I hauled ass as fast as my little red tennis shoes would carry my ass, and being four, I thought it was close to eighty-five miles an hour. My sister Kathy was watching me that morning. Mom and Clay went to do something in town, Clay was only about a month old when this all took place.
I told the guys I liked Mountain Dew, they gave me a six pack of those old green bottles that had the white label with the Mt Dew, the hillbilly, the camper, and his gun. SWEEEEEET!!!. Back home I ran, to get Kathy. I wanted to show her my six pack of soda, and take me back so maybe I could get another one. Something about her four year old brother barging in on her while she was taking a bath.
sudden side bar: as was the norm, dad had a "safety razor" that only cut the piss out of your fifty times before you got the hang of using it. I also had a pack of "play" cardboard Safety Razor Blades. One night when I was just turning 5, I was using dad's razor and my cardboard blades. I climbed up onto the sink, sat on the edge of the sink, and was shaving away just like Daddy. Daddy saw me, and I remember "Oh Jesus Christ". He took me down from the sink, calmly took the razor, and unclenched his ass cheeks when he saw it was my cardboard blades.
Back to it, but there's not much left to tell. I bugged Kathy long enough that she took me across the highway, mad as a wet hen. Looking back, she only took me so that when Mom or Dad asked about the six pack of Mt Dew, Kathy could say she took me across the highway. She was supposed to be watching me, and I assume not to let me cross the highway alone. Had I known all this, I'd have ammo for keeping out of my hair, crew cut on me and all. I didn't, but one time she had been nasty too me, or so I thought, that I cut all the hair off all her Barbary Barbies
Hugs and Shit, kids. Have fun this weekend
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
A Learning Curve
This entire "Why am I not driving" thing has come down to this: I'm not trusted behind the wheel if my wife is home. Some days I'd agree with her on that. Depending on how long it's been between pain meds makes a difference as well. Having said all that, let me say this; Yes, the pain meds make it near impossible to drive. The new stronger dose does at least. The older dosage wasn't so hot to trot about making me go clean out. I've tested all four of the levels I can get to on this prescription. Only two of them seem to give me much relief at all, 3/4 of a ml, and a full ml of the 40 mg/1ml strength Morphine. Both of them make me way dopey and sleepy, and only a full dose makes me crash out right away, and stay crashed out for quite sometime. I'm generally sore when it I get up from taking either of the doses. Although one carries somewhat higher chance for making a serious mistake while driving, like passing out behind the wheel. On the pain reduction side it's simply wonderful. If I felt like, for even a second, that I was going to pass out at the wheel, I'd cough up the keys so fast it would make your head spin. I'll say that and give you an example, this last October 26th and 27th we were in Fort Worth to be with friends and attend a highland game competition. Both were great times, but we had to scoot outta Fort Worth around ten or eleven the morning of the 27th. Liz had to work the next morning and we needed to scoot out anyway. I was driving, and somewhere just west of Eastland, I thought I was feeling a little drowsy. I blew it off (something I'll never do again) dozed off passing a guy. Three seconds tops. Three. If it hadn't been for the buzz strip on the shoulder, I could have killed both of us. Fucking foolish, and that's why I don't mess with that while driving. That's something we never did in the past, and you can bet your sweet ass it'll never happen to me again.
Side note. Grandson Wyatt, at his day care, puts his index finger over his throat and says "This is how you have to talk to Wyatt. Pretty funny. I'm glad my oldest son has brought Wyatt and his mom into our family.
Other shit that goes with this fucking "Death with Dignity" thing. I lost time this week. It's not like it just ran fast, that's every day. This I really lost. I can't even piece together what I was doing. I see flashes of things, but not enough to tell me what I was doing. For me, that's damned scary. What I realize now, I was going to change dressings on my trach tube. I would have gone to the bathroom, cleaned up all the wounds, (nothing like gun shot wounds) and put a cleaned and ready to go tube and collar. Then I'd come back to the recliner and continued my sleep. But NOOOOO, I had to do this all by myself. Only I couldn't. This is really a simple task for me, since I've been doing it for almost 7 months now. It wasn't, it turns out, so simple after all.
I'd left spotty evidence as to what I was doing. Including two smaller tegaderm strips over the pain patch on my stomach. Apparently I'd get one thing partially finished, start another, almost finish that particular job, start another, get the picture now? So anyway, when I did get around way early that next morning, it wasn't to get ready for work, it was to continue to rub on my neck. In the end, this is what I decided, since I slept almost 19 hours out of the 24. The pain relief pills doesn't ask to see the kids at the park all day, to use it like the pulse counter as a ruse to bring the kidnapper into the light of day. I couldn't even get that part correct. Damn. Then after all the diddling around and not getting done, or even remembering what I was doing, I slept nearly all day and into the early evening yesterday. I slept right at 19 hours, counting the time I went to therapy. That's a lot of sleep. Not all of that is cancers fault, either.
So, I promised you a theory as to why my behavior and cognitive skill went down the shitter. I believe my blood oxygen was pretty low. How low, I couldn't tell you. It was mid 80's to low 90's at therapy. Not good at all. By the way I felt all day, sleeping, showering, seeing people, I couldn't tell you what I was actually doing because I simply can remember. That's FUCKING scary to me. I've never been like that, at least not when I was on some heavy duty pain killers. Percodan comes to mind at the Five State Fair in Liberal. My sister and her husband took me to the fair. Secretly, I think they wanted to follow me around and laugh. Within 15 minutes of sitting under the O2's machine, I was feeling more awake and more aware. To test my theory, I got off the O2 myself, and paid attention to my actions. None of them were very good. So I went back on the O2 and feel more like myself again. Spooky, and that's not bullshit.
This is just another one of those "fuck me, I didn't know that about myself" moments. There are, I'm sure, going to be more as this shit scoots along with me. Yuck, I say, yuck. I'm off to get coffee with the boys. I shall finish this upon returning. Don't hold your breath waiting.
I, like MacArthur, have returned. At least for the time being, I take The Son to school around 0715. To continue on for now, and in doing so, use the O2 generator to boost my blood/ox mix. Sucks to be breathing like I had good sense, and not being able to hold my O2 level high enough to function like a real live person. I figure that if I don't keep my O2 level high enough, they'll put me somewhere I'd really rather not be, just to sit there hooked up to oxygen and vegetate until my body dies. In order to be on top of my cancer and pain, I'm taking a rather hard position to put the morphine under my own tongue. Sublingual is a fairly fast fast way to get the medication into your blood stream. I also would fancy a guest and would want the kid to bag his limit well ahead of myself. That doesn't mean the entire portrait is at a loss, just that I am, for lack of a better word, impatient.
Okay, that paragraph above this one is a bag of "WTF did that come from?" and I can tell you I'm as radical as ever. Let's get this show moving, shall we?
One year ago today, January 14, 2013, I was on my way to see the radiology Dr. . Something that had already been spoken with me in depth. But we started off with the usual small talk while the Dr goes over my case file. I had a pretty good idea as to what she was going to tell me, because my Radiation oncologist had already told me. She tells me that since I've had so much radiation around all points of my neck that any more would more than likely kill me. Yep, I was right, that's what my Oncologist here told me. Because I had so much radiation, particularly on the left side of my neck that, both my carotid arteries where very thin. Good place for a blow out, that's for certain. No shock there. I thanked her and off about my merry way I went. Now to see my plastic surgeon (no, he's not made of plastic, silly's) about reconstruction after my surgery is finished. I had no other appointments on this day, so the rest of the day was mine to do as I pretty well pleased. I went to a place called The Spicy Pickle for lunch. I got a Rueben Sammich, which was passable, but not blow your mind delicious, the Campbell's Soup was pretty good for canned soup. But the pickle. Wow. Seriously, just Wow. It's not a bad place to eat and I've gotten far worse food in Houston than that. I'm not certain why I didn't travel around Houston more, but I was more of a hotel body. It's not that anything is so hard to find, even if you travel on the freeways, but that in general it's a big place, no two ways about it. I went across the street to CVX to pick up some breakfast cereal and some milk. A box of Grape Nuts, a box of Krux? Anyway, I liked it's taste. I'm bored stiff. When I get bored I tend to snack. Not just a little snack either. A big snack. I picked up a quart mixing bowl and went back to the room to have a snack and watch some of the hearings on the house and senate floor. The hearings got to be a sham, so I fixed a snack, hoping for enough of a debate that I could enjoy my snack. FYI: So I didn't explode as the grape nuts expanded. And I'd left very damn few in the debate bowl. Mine included a less than healthy dab of sugar as well. I was wound up tighter than Dick's hatband, I had more than enough colon blow, I've had enough of vitamins and minerals to run me, and a pile of both bottled water and bottled Diet Coke and Diet Dew as well. In two settings, one about 3 hrs apart from the second trip to the Bodine Bowl for a snack. Two times to have a snack, and one box of Grape Nuts. Shoot, an entire box of Grape Nuts, a quart of milk, and a Bodine Bowl to wash, and it's not even 0900. This is going to be a loooong week. This is how my month in Houston begins. Wednesday nothing was scheduled, so rather than write a ton of "Didn't do shit" I'll call it good right here, and move on to Thursday in tomorrow's blog. It should be said here, I was still very optimistic that my surgery will fly along quickly and we can move on to healing me up and my going back to work just bit ahead of my Short Term Disability runs out. We all know that's not the case, but I'm working on telling about the week prior, with maybe some hospital time included.
Here we are, polishing up, the time until I finally was allowed to come home. Hang tough, we'll get there.
When I was a little kid in Gorham Kansas, I was in the minority of residents of Gorham. Probably not the entire county, but also the probability of being a minority in the county as well. I didn't pay that much attention, and still don't. The Parochial school had closed it's doors for the last time after the school year in 1967 came to a close that May. The public school was in a three class room building, that as a first grader, I thought was absolutely HUGE. Anyway, there was an influx of kids I didn't know, which wasn't unusual, since I'd get my ass in a bind if I left the yard against the parents wishes.
Like any kid, school was a little scary at first. But I liked it just the same, it was from. I was also pegged to be the first month of school "milk man". I collected the nickels that were used by us kids, some kids didn't want any milk so they didn't pay. I've wondered, off and on since then, whether or not their parents needed that nickel to pay bills with a quarter a week saved on milk money, or figuring out how at the end of every week those kids could go to one of the two service stations in town, and hang out drinking soda pop all Saturday morning. Nothing was open on Sunday, that was truly the Sabbath in that small town, so no one worked or you'd miss one of the Masses held by Father (i can't remember his name, dang it). I broke my left arm that fall as well. This is the one the Dr set in his office without anesthesia. No crying or yelling about that, just vomit on the Dr. That'll teach that rat bastard!!!
In school we had grades one through three in one room, fourth and fifth in another room, grade six hand their own room. (those guys, i thought, were spy's of some kind. I never saw them come to school, have recess, or eat lunch. They were there, though). We changed teachers in the grade 1-3 room like we all changed underwear. I don't know why that's true, but it was. I would imagine that their husbands were either rail road men, or worked for one of the bigger oil companies in the area. I honestly don't know why we never saw them.
The food at that school was so much better than the damn garbage we got when we moved and I had to go to school in Russell, at Bickerdyke. This to me was a big city, it had TWO grade schools and there was at least one room for every class in the school. I was terrible at math, and I thought the teacher hated me. It turns out, he pushed me so I could learn it better, and retain more. I wish he could have followed me to all the schools after that. For looking like a mean old S.O.B., he was a nice man, with the intention of teaching every kid so that kid would learn something to carry him home on his shield. I did learn a lot from him. The mark of a real educator. Back to the food at Gorham Elementary. It was prepared by two older German ladies. Like a lot of the older folks in town, they could speak and read German before we Protestants could learn one language, they were well on their way to the second. My God was that food good!! In the late fall we got chili at least once a month. Chili came with a Cinnamon roll that looked like it would cover your head and have enough left over for some gloves. Writing about it now, I can still taste the roll. Seconds were allowed, as long as your serving tray was empty, they'd give you a small serving. Generally, and here's the weird thing, they'd give you just enough the first time through that you would be stuffed and couldn't hold another bite. I remember seeing kids that had a little more on their plate than others, seldom more than I had, and some kids that had very small servings on their plates, but when we were all finished, they'd be stuffed, or couldn't eat everything. Spinach, at the time, would make me barf if I even smelled it up close. Somehow, the cooks got wind of that, and I had something different than spinach on my tray every time they fixed Spinach. That little school is also where they first picked up that I had a speech impediment.
I had (and still would have if I could talk, and didn't watch myself) trouble with "CH" become "SH", so I'd say Shicken, instead of Chicken, and consequentially "Flowers" became "PLowers". I learned to fold my tongue in two to make a tunnel. I think that became a beer funnel. As soon as I find out myself, I'll bring along medical turn for what I had from grade school right up until the time I lost my voice"
Alright, I've dicked around with this long enough today. Be Good, hear? You in the back, do you hear? Okay. Damn well better fly right, Mister.
I sound more ghetto if I use some of that shit when I'm trash talking with the buddies
Side note. Grandson Wyatt, at his day care, puts his index finger over his throat and says "This is how you have to talk to Wyatt. Pretty funny. I'm glad my oldest son has brought Wyatt and his mom into our family.
Other shit that goes with this fucking "Death with Dignity" thing. I lost time this week. It's not like it just ran fast, that's every day. This I really lost. I can't even piece together what I was doing. I see flashes of things, but not enough to tell me what I was doing. For me, that's damned scary. What I realize now, I was going to change dressings on my trach tube. I would have gone to the bathroom, cleaned up all the wounds, (nothing like gun shot wounds) and put a cleaned and ready to go tube and collar. Then I'd come back to the recliner and continued my sleep. But NOOOOO, I had to do this all by myself. Only I couldn't. This is really a simple task for me, since I've been doing it for almost 7 months now. It wasn't, it turns out, so simple after all.
I'd left spotty evidence as to what I was doing. Including two smaller tegaderm strips over the pain patch on my stomach. Apparently I'd get one thing partially finished, start another, almost finish that particular job, start another, get the picture now? So anyway, when I did get around way early that next morning, it wasn't to get ready for work, it was to continue to rub on my neck. In the end, this is what I decided, since I slept almost 19 hours out of the 24. The pain relief pills doesn't ask to see the kids at the park all day, to use it like the pulse counter as a ruse to bring the kidnapper into the light of day. I couldn't even get that part correct. Damn. Then after all the diddling around and not getting done, or even remembering what I was doing, I slept nearly all day and into the early evening yesterday. I slept right at 19 hours, counting the time I went to therapy. That's a lot of sleep. Not all of that is cancers fault, either.
So, I promised you a theory as to why my behavior and cognitive skill went down the shitter. I believe my blood oxygen was pretty low. How low, I couldn't tell you. It was mid 80's to low 90's at therapy. Not good at all. By the way I felt all day, sleeping, showering, seeing people, I couldn't tell you what I was actually doing because I simply can remember. That's FUCKING scary to me. I've never been like that, at least not when I was on some heavy duty pain killers. Percodan comes to mind at the Five State Fair in Liberal. My sister and her husband took me to the fair. Secretly, I think they wanted to follow me around and laugh. Within 15 minutes of sitting under the O2's machine, I was feeling more awake and more aware. To test my theory, I got off the O2 myself, and paid attention to my actions. None of them were very good. So I went back on the O2 and feel more like myself again. Spooky, and that's not bullshit.
This is just another one of those "fuck me, I didn't know that about myself" moments. There are, I'm sure, going to be more as this shit scoots along with me. Yuck, I say, yuck. I'm off to get coffee with the boys. I shall finish this upon returning. Don't hold your breath waiting.
I, like MacArthur, have returned. At least for the time being, I take The Son to school around 0715. To continue on for now, and in doing so, use the O2 generator to boost my blood/ox mix. Sucks to be breathing like I had good sense, and not being able to hold my O2 level high enough to function like a real live person. I figure that if I don't keep my O2 level high enough, they'll put me somewhere I'd really rather not be, just to sit there hooked up to oxygen and vegetate until my body dies. In order to be on top of my cancer and pain, I'm taking a rather hard position to put the morphine under my own tongue. Sublingual is a fairly fast fast way to get the medication into your blood stream. I also would fancy a guest and would want the kid to bag his limit well ahead of myself. That doesn't mean the entire portrait is at a loss, just that I am, for lack of a better word, impatient.
Okay, that paragraph above this one is a bag of "WTF did that come from?" and I can tell you I'm as radical as ever. Let's get this show moving, shall we?
One year ago today, January 14, 2013, I was on my way to see the radiology Dr. . Something that had already been spoken with me in depth. But we started off with the usual small talk while the Dr goes over my case file. I had a pretty good idea as to what she was going to tell me, because my Radiation oncologist had already told me. She tells me that since I've had so much radiation around all points of my neck that any more would more than likely kill me. Yep, I was right, that's what my Oncologist here told me. Because I had so much radiation, particularly on the left side of my neck that, both my carotid arteries where very thin. Good place for a blow out, that's for certain. No shock there. I thanked her and off about my merry way I went. Now to see my plastic surgeon (no, he's not made of plastic, silly's) about reconstruction after my surgery is finished. I had no other appointments on this day, so the rest of the day was mine to do as I pretty well pleased. I went to a place called The Spicy Pickle for lunch. I got a Rueben Sammich, which was passable, but not blow your mind delicious, the Campbell's Soup was pretty good for canned soup. But the pickle. Wow. Seriously, just Wow. It's not a bad place to eat and I've gotten far worse food in Houston than that. I'm not certain why I didn't travel around Houston more, but I was more of a hotel body. It's not that anything is so hard to find, even if you travel on the freeways, but that in general it's a big place, no two ways about it. I went across the street to CVX to pick up some breakfast cereal and some milk. A box of Grape Nuts, a box of Krux? Anyway, I liked it's taste. I'm bored stiff. When I get bored I tend to snack. Not just a little snack either. A big snack. I picked up a quart mixing bowl and went back to the room to have a snack and watch some of the hearings on the house and senate floor. The hearings got to be a sham, so I fixed a snack, hoping for enough of a debate that I could enjoy my snack. FYI: So I didn't explode as the grape nuts expanded. And I'd left very damn few in the debate bowl. Mine included a less than healthy dab of sugar as well. I was wound up tighter than Dick's hatband, I had more than enough colon blow, I've had enough of vitamins and minerals to run me, and a pile of both bottled water and bottled Diet Coke and Diet Dew as well. In two settings, one about 3 hrs apart from the second trip to the Bodine Bowl for a snack. Two times to have a snack, and one box of Grape Nuts. Shoot, an entire box of Grape Nuts, a quart of milk, and a Bodine Bowl to wash, and it's not even 0900. This is going to be a loooong week. This is how my month in Houston begins. Wednesday nothing was scheduled, so rather than write a ton of "Didn't do shit" I'll call it good right here, and move on to Thursday in tomorrow's blog. It should be said here, I was still very optimistic that my surgery will fly along quickly and we can move on to healing me up and my going back to work just bit ahead of my Short Term Disability runs out. We all know that's not the case, but I'm working on telling about the week prior, with maybe some hospital time included.
Here we are, polishing up, the time until I finally was allowed to come home. Hang tough, we'll get there.
When I was a little kid in Gorham Kansas, I was in the minority of residents of Gorham. Probably not the entire county, but also the probability of being a minority in the county as well. I didn't pay that much attention, and still don't. The Parochial school had closed it's doors for the last time after the school year in 1967 came to a close that May. The public school was in a three class room building, that as a first grader, I thought was absolutely HUGE. Anyway, there was an influx of kids I didn't know, which wasn't unusual, since I'd get my ass in a bind if I left the yard against the parents wishes.
Like any kid, school was a little scary at first. But I liked it just the same, it was from. I was also pegged to be the first month of school "milk man". I collected the nickels that were used by us kids, some kids didn't want any milk so they didn't pay. I've wondered, off and on since then, whether or not their parents needed that nickel to pay bills with a quarter a week saved on milk money, or figuring out how at the end of every week those kids could go to one of the two service stations in town, and hang out drinking soda pop all Saturday morning. Nothing was open on Sunday, that was truly the Sabbath in that small town, so no one worked or you'd miss one of the Masses held by Father (i can't remember his name, dang it). I broke my left arm that fall as well. This is the one the Dr set in his office without anesthesia. No crying or yelling about that, just vomit on the Dr. That'll teach that rat bastard!!!
In school we had grades one through three in one room, fourth and fifth in another room, grade six hand their own room. (those guys, i thought, were spy's of some kind. I never saw them come to school, have recess, or eat lunch. They were there, though). We changed teachers in the grade 1-3 room like we all changed underwear. I don't know why that's true, but it was. I would imagine that their husbands were either rail road men, or worked for one of the bigger oil companies in the area. I honestly don't know why we never saw them.
The food at that school was so much better than the damn garbage we got when we moved and I had to go to school in Russell, at Bickerdyke. This to me was a big city, it had TWO grade schools and there was at least one room for every class in the school. I was terrible at math, and I thought the teacher hated me. It turns out, he pushed me so I could learn it better, and retain more. I wish he could have followed me to all the schools after that. For looking like a mean old S.O.B., he was a nice man, with the intention of teaching every kid so that kid would learn something to carry him home on his shield. I did learn a lot from him. The mark of a real educator. Back to the food at Gorham Elementary. It was prepared by two older German ladies. Like a lot of the older folks in town, they could speak and read German before we Protestants could learn one language, they were well on their way to the second. My God was that food good!! In the late fall we got chili at least once a month. Chili came with a Cinnamon roll that looked like it would cover your head and have enough left over for some gloves. Writing about it now, I can still taste the roll. Seconds were allowed, as long as your serving tray was empty, they'd give you a small serving. Generally, and here's the weird thing, they'd give you just enough the first time through that you would be stuffed and couldn't hold another bite. I remember seeing kids that had a little more on their plate than others, seldom more than I had, and some kids that had very small servings on their plates, but when we were all finished, they'd be stuffed, or couldn't eat everything. Spinach, at the time, would make me barf if I even smelled it up close. Somehow, the cooks got wind of that, and I had something different than spinach on my tray every time they fixed Spinach. That little school is also where they first picked up that I had a speech impediment.
I had (and still would have if I could talk, and didn't watch myself) trouble with "CH" become "SH", so I'd say Shicken, instead of Chicken, and consequentially "Flowers" became "PLowers". I learned to fold my tongue in two to make a tunnel. I think that became a beer funnel. As soon as I find out myself, I'll bring along medical turn for what I had from grade school right up until the time I lost my voice"
Alright, I've dicked around with this long enough today. Be Good, hear? You in the back, do you hear? Okay. Damn well better fly right, Mister.
I sound more ghetto if I use some of that shit when I'm trash talking with the buddies
Sunday, January 12, 2014
When In Doubt I Whip It Out
Of course I whip it out, the cancer card is a great play in hundreds of situations. I don't really use it very often. When I do, it's to humiliate some ass weasel that's staring at me like leprosy has caused my nose to fall off. You've seen them, they look half scared at people that don' fit their idea of "normal". It's one of the few fun things I can do without having to really speak to them directly at all. I went to Sam's with Liz a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't having the best of days, but I like to spend time with her, so I went knowing I might have to sit down. About three quarters of the way to being finished with the shopping, I had to sit down or risk falling down. My head was kinda stopped up and consequentially so were my ears and it was throwing my balance off. Put Mr. Shaky leg in the mix and I had to sit, or fall. There was this cute a button six or seven year old hispanic girl that was standing close to the table where I was sitting. I had my head in one hand holding it up, hoping I wouldn't fall asleep. She moved a little closer, looked around, moved a little closer. She kept doing that until she was almost in my hip pocket and asked me if I was sick. I wrote yes, very sick on my pad and showed it to her. "Oh", she said, "will it make me sick too?" Nope, I can make you or anyone else sick. "Okay, what do you have?'. I'm always at a quandary as to how to answer that with a kid. Will they understand what I say? No, I'm not going to tell them I'm dying, that would scare them, and that a terrible thing to do to a kid. Here goes, I have bad germs that are all mine. They won't hurt anyone but me, and they make me pretty sick all the time. Before she could answer her dad grabbed her and rather roughly and left. Two years ago I'd have gotten up and we would have had a rather loud discussion about me having never seen a prick with feet. But as it stands, about all I could do was watch and shake my head. In his defense, he probably didn't want his little girl to talk to strangers. That I can understand, I was the same way with my kids, but God he went over board.
I've played it at Starbucks one morning this past week. I wanted a refill, got up and got in line, right ahead of a person taking drink orders over the phone. Really? You can't get the orders for drinks until you get to the store in person? People wonder why I have such a short fuse. Ninety percent of the time it's something close to that. I tapped her shoulder, when she looked I handed her this "Ma'am, I have cancer and my feeding tube is plugged, may I cut in so I can get hot coffee in it to clear the plug". Why you poor man, of course! Yeah, I wish. She let me cut in, but was pretty upset looking. Like I care if she's upset. I figure if you're too thick to realize you're ass is holding up everyone, you lose the right to be upset, in fact, everyone should tell you that you're being rude. Which is probably being rude as well, but at least it might make it into that thick skull your behavior sucks dick for skittles.
Tomorrow marks the day I started the tests for surgery in Houston. I had appointments with what seemed like seven million Doctors that week. I got to Houston at 0530 for a 0600 appointment to draw blood to see if I was stable enough for surgery. Physically stable, mentally is always kind of an iffy proposition for me. That's a year ago. Damn, I had pretty high expectations for everything going 100% and being healed up enough to go back to work. I blew that shit plumb out of the water. "The best laid plans of mice and men", right? Although, before seeing the CT results from the 15th of January, the surgeon and I both had those same expectations. The last visit I had with him prior to this final week of preparations, I'd told him I wasn't worried, how much or where it was going to be done wouldn't change my mind about being cut on. Oooops, I misled myself on that statement. When I saw the Doc on Wednesday the 16th, he told me it looked like I was all set, and they'd found a couple of places that the cancer had moved into. Okay, lets do this in six days then, I'm tired of waiting. Once again, not only Ooops, but big fucking Oooops. It's an "Ooops" because not knowing how much it had taken up, I didn't have any thought of getting myself a bit of Houston imbibing, or at least get roaring assed drunk one last time.
Alright, I'm gonna take a poll, do you all want me to tell about my feelings after the first surgery, clear through until they took me home or do you not want to know?
This being so close, I'm gonna just call it and go forward with the blog. Remember, I won't relate what or how I was feeling until I see the poll. It's six months since they found the return of Baxter, meaning according to the Dr's (my case went to the head, neck and throat panel) there was nothing more they could do, and they would help set me up with Palliative care.Which made my wife look up at the Doc and start to cry. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I wasn't sure what Palliative care was, so while we were waiting for the next appointment I looked it up on google. Wow, Hospice, or just plain old stay home and get stoned all the time. Waiting for Death to get off the pot and do his thing. One of the things that he said was I'd bleed. No shit. It used to be one in a while. Then it was up to once a week, with a lot of bleeding all at once, then stop and not bleed again for a few weeks. Now it's all the time 24/7. Yesterday, or the day before, I'd bled enough out of my mouth that I drooled it clear down my chest. Strangely enough I must have gotten hot during my sleep that I took my shirt off. I swear though, if you'd just walked in and saw how I looked sleeping in my recliner, you'd won bets on whether or not I looked dead. I'm glad the kids didn't see that. Now the every day bleeding takes effect and that's going to increase, no two ways about it. As far as trying to guess when I'll kack, I ain't even gonna try. Eventually for certain.
I've got a few places in my neck that are hard as rocks and others that are more soft and much more tender. I don't know if that's normal or not. But then, my normal and all y'all's are two different things. I know I'm speeding right along, and I expect that to just get moving faster. I don't know, right or wrong, but I notice that and have a sneaky suspension that Baxter has his long distance/speed shoes on and is playing "Burn Rock Down Before He Has A Chance to Get Me". That would be my guess.
Random goofy thought, written in jest, but caused laughter: When all is said and done I'm having some of my ashes made into Lye Soap. That will lead to Ashes To Asses, Butt to Butt. That way everyone gets a little piece of my ass that some have dreamed about chewing out for years.
I'm writing this while sitting in Starbucks shoving a little dab of Java into my tube and have come to some conclusions.
First: Skin tight yoga pants aren't meant to hold back that kind of flesh flood that's bound to occur with
the Yoga pants. Blow out should occur near the Nuclear Camel Toe
Second: If you're over sixty, ladies, a mini skirt and go go boots aren't meant to make your varicose
veins attractive
Third: Fellas, Super Exposed Moose Knuckle is no more attractive than Nuclear Camel Toe. Looser
jeans, for God's sake, please, looser jeans
Fourth: Decide what the fuck you want before you get to the order/check out register. Stammering an
"I don't know" order does nothing but piss entire herds of people completely off. And when
that happens, don't act ignorant of the facts. You know you're a pain in the ass.
Fifth: Coffee is very HOT. Don't just slam it into your mouth, Rump Ranger, then spit it out. That
makes a mess, and only proves you're dumber than even I imagined. And also proves you're a
pig.
Sixth: And Final. Dude!! For God's sake do NOT wear spandex workout pants without underwear you
stupid bastard! Myself and hundreds of thousands of people don't give a rat's fucking ass whether
you're circumcised or not. Let alone just how unhung you appear.
The phrase for today is "Rump Ranger". Figure that one out on your own.
Love ya
I've played it at Starbucks one morning this past week. I wanted a refill, got up and got in line, right ahead of a person taking drink orders over the phone. Really? You can't get the orders for drinks until you get to the store in person? People wonder why I have such a short fuse. Ninety percent of the time it's something close to that. I tapped her shoulder, when she looked I handed her this "Ma'am, I have cancer and my feeding tube is plugged, may I cut in so I can get hot coffee in it to clear the plug". Why you poor man, of course! Yeah, I wish. She let me cut in, but was pretty upset looking. Like I care if she's upset. I figure if you're too thick to realize you're ass is holding up everyone, you lose the right to be upset, in fact, everyone should tell you that you're being rude. Which is probably being rude as well, but at least it might make it into that thick skull your behavior sucks dick for skittles.
Tomorrow marks the day I started the tests for surgery in Houston. I had appointments with what seemed like seven million Doctors that week. I got to Houston at 0530 for a 0600 appointment to draw blood to see if I was stable enough for surgery. Physically stable, mentally is always kind of an iffy proposition for me. That's a year ago. Damn, I had pretty high expectations for everything going 100% and being healed up enough to go back to work. I blew that shit plumb out of the water. "The best laid plans of mice and men", right? Although, before seeing the CT results from the 15th of January, the surgeon and I both had those same expectations. The last visit I had with him prior to this final week of preparations, I'd told him I wasn't worried, how much or where it was going to be done wouldn't change my mind about being cut on. Oooops, I misled myself on that statement. When I saw the Doc on Wednesday the 16th, he told me it looked like I was all set, and they'd found a couple of places that the cancer had moved into. Okay, lets do this in six days then, I'm tired of waiting. Once again, not only Ooops, but big fucking Oooops. It's an "Ooops" because not knowing how much it had taken up, I didn't have any thought of getting myself a bit of Houston imbibing, or at least get roaring assed drunk one last time.
Alright, I'm gonna take a poll, do you all want me to tell about my feelings after the first surgery, clear through until they took me home or do you not want to know?
This being so close, I'm gonna just call it and go forward with the blog. Remember, I won't relate what or how I was feeling until I see the poll. It's six months since they found the return of Baxter, meaning according to the Dr's (my case went to the head, neck and throat panel) there was nothing more they could do, and they would help set me up with Palliative care.Which made my wife look up at the Doc and start to cry. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I wasn't sure what Palliative care was, so while we were waiting for the next appointment I looked it up on google. Wow, Hospice, or just plain old stay home and get stoned all the time. Waiting for Death to get off the pot and do his thing. One of the things that he said was I'd bleed. No shit. It used to be one in a while. Then it was up to once a week, with a lot of bleeding all at once, then stop and not bleed again for a few weeks. Now it's all the time 24/7. Yesterday, or the day before, I'd bled enough out of my mouth that I drooled it clear down my chest. Strangely enough I must have gotten hot during my sleep that I took my shirt off. I swear though, if you'd just walked in and saw how I looked sleeping in my recliner, you'd won bets on whether or not I looked dead. I'm glad the kids didn't see that. Now the every day bleeding takes effect and that's going to increase, no two ways about it. As far as trying to guess when I'll kack, I ain't even gonna try. Eventually for certain.
I've got a few places in my neck that are hard as rocks and others that are more soft and much more tender. I don't know if that's normal or not. But then, my normal and all y'all's are two different things. I know I'm speeding right along, and I expect that to just get moving faster. I don't know, right or wrong, but I notice that and have a sneaky suspension that Baxter has his long distance/speed shoes on and is playing "Burn Rock Down Before He Has A Chance to Get Me". That would be my guess.
Random goofy thought, written in jest, but caused laughter: When all is said and done I'm having some of my ashes made into Lye Soap. That will lead to Ashes To Asses, Butt to Butt. That way everyone gets a little piece of my ass that some have dreamed about chewing out for years.
I'm writing this while sitting in Starbucks shoving a little dab of Java into my tube and have come to some conclusions.
First: Skin tight yoga pants aren't meant to hold back that kind of flesh flood that's bound to occur with
the Yoga pants. Blow out should occur near the Nuclear Camel Toe
Second: If you're over sixty, ladies, a mini skirt and go go boots aren't meant to make your varicose
veins attractive
Third: Fellas, Super Exposed Moose Knuckle is no more attractive than Nuclear Camel Toe. Looser
jeans, for God's sake, please, looser jeans
Fourth: Decide what the fuck you want before you get to the order/check out register. Stammering an
"I don't know" order does nothing but piss entire herds of people completely off. And when
that happens, don't act ignorant of the facts. You know you're a pain in the ass.
Fifth: Coffee is very HOT. Don't just slam it into your mouth, Rump Ranger, then spit it out. That
makes a mess, and only proves you're dumber than even I imagined. And also proves you're a
pig.
Sixth: And Final. Dude!! For God's sake do NOT wear spandex workout pants without underwear you
stupid bastard! Myself and hundreds of thousands of people don't give a rat's fucking ass whether
you're circumcised or not. Let alone just how unhung you appear.
The phrase for today is "Rump Ranger". Figure that one out on your own.
Love ya
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Things and Stuff
Anyway, I asked for and received a stronger dosage of morphine, and like the curious dude I am, I wait until late evening of the 9th to see how a full dose of 1ml is going to treat me. At first I thought, eh, big deal. Fifteen minutes later I stood up to make certain my ass was in the same place as where I left it. It was, but I had to find it with a map and compass. By 2300 hrs I was out, The Son woke me up and 0710 to take him to school. I came home, fed three cans of formula, because I wasn't up to feed only two, sat down and started the computer. I woke up again at 1115 hrs. I slept a bunch. Just a few minutes shy of twelve hours. The really cool thing is that I woke up for the first time in ten years without any pain anywhere! Damn, that was nice. But, now I have to find which dose will give me relief and still let me function. I tested, since the prescription calls for .25 to 1 ml every hr if needed. Okay, that's simple enough, and I had pain coming back. First try, 0.25 ml, nada. Second 0.5 ml, some but not quite. Third, 0.75 ml and that seemed to be the charm. Pain was gone, I could still function well, and it lasted close to 6 hrs. Sweet. Now I know when to med up to prevent getting behind the pain and to stay ahead of it. This ain't so bad at all.
I took a flashlight, grabbed a mirror and looked inside my mouth. Except in the last 3 weeks my right mandible isn't correct, and I can no longer open my mouth wide enough to really look. I'm talking with my Hospice nurse to see if he can get someone to check out my jaw to see if the cancer isn't off into the bone. I have a sneaky suspicion it is hanging out there, and possible close to my right inner ear. That will suck if that's the case. Back to my mouth. I look, I move the tongue around as much as I can. It still looks like I've got three tongues in there, judging by multiple ledges and thick spots. I see that my esophagus is almost 75% cut off from the front of my missing soft palate (which still lets me breath through my nose) back to nearly the very back of my throat. It has a nice little slat looking window for stuff I can't swallow to get into my trachea and aspirate it so I can cough it up and enjoy it twice. Shit.
I've also got spots that I can see that are (at least at that time) seeping a dribble of blood. That explains some of the funny taste in my mouth, and why it wasn't really showing up in my suction pot. Not enough to bother with, and I believe I aspirate and cough that back out through the trach as well. Once again, I apparently recycle myself. There are a couple of spots with lovely black dots in them. Visible cancer. I believe those to be Baxter's forward scouts. My tongue has gotten so thick on the left side now that I can't move it enough to see how that side of my mouth looks. I'm betting it's a lot like the right side of my mouth. No reason it shouldn't be, right? At least I have an idea of what's going on in the places I can see. I can't see down my trachea so I don't know really what's there. I do, however, cough up blood clots from time to time. Some are very soft like fresh blood, others are hard as rocks and are difficult to move out. I am wondering if those aren't from deeper in my trachea and are attracting mucus to seal up the leak. I know when I hack up one of the bigger clots, I bleed pretty profusely for ten or so minutes. Not gusher, but enough in that little dab of time that I can fill a hand towel fairly full of mucus and expectorated blood. The towel isn't dripping with the stuff, but it's damp from top to bottom. I knew all of this was going to happen, because I asked the Doc for worst case scenario and he told me quite a few things. Some of them he still down played, I believe. Some knowledge is better than no knowledge at all, though.
My damn right leg wears out way fast now. That's a change from a month ago when I was getting winded so easily. I don't get winded that easily now, but my right leg hates me for letting them cut out half of it's quad. It's carrying a grudge. I can walk about anywhere I want, and if I'm going to walk over a block or so I drag the O2 with me just in case. Kinda handy to have that, really. I was more silly than not for raging against the O2. I have decided that only showed me off as being dumb as a box of rocks. There are several people who would say "You just now figured that out?" Yes, I'm slow. It does bother me though, that it gets the shakes something fierce but never aches like I've over worked it. It just trembles like I've taken it as far as it can go, and pushed some more. Like doing heavy squats until you can't stand up to finish that last repetition. Only once the leg starts that, it's difficult to get it to stop. I feed it a little sugar water, and that helps to calm it down a bit. I'd rather use honey, but I'm not certain I can thin that enough to get it into the tube and not clog. That would be bad, m'kay? I expect my arms to do that, since my shoulders and neck are so dicked up. All of those contribute to my arm, shoulder, and neck weakness. My neck is very solid to the touch, like the muscle is in rigor mortice. With some lymphedema therapy (reduces the swelling in my neck and shoulders) and massage, I can get some muscle to relax. This is good since it helps with my range of motion, as well as my mental well being. I wonder from time to time, since the muscle is so much like a stone, if the cancer hasn't taken a liking to my neck. I hope not, that would really suck. Then the only recourse is decapitation. I'm not certain I could survive that. Not for more than a day or two anyway. Short blog today. I'm still adapting to the new morphine dose and a couple of other things, hope I'm adapted quickly.
Back in the early 70's we lived in Great Bend Ks, with the ass end of a mobile home backed up against the Arkansas river, and it's flood control berm. South Walnut, not the bustling, wealthy or even middle class side of town. It was us poor kids on our own down there. There were fun things to do though. There was a neglected Granny Smith Apple orchard. The fruit was tiny, double sour, and hard as a damn rock. A person with a half decent arm could knock the flyin piss out of someone. I know, because the neighborhood thug, an eighteen year old eighth grader named Devon, drilled me square in the temple with one. Liked to turned my damn lights out. That summer some folks from Louisiana moved into the park. I can see all three of the boys in that family clear as a fucking bell, but I can't remember their names, weird huh? Anyway, as is the want with us poor folk when new people move to town you gotta find out what type of people they are. I found out pretty fast these three douche drinkers weren't worth shit. They were gang up on a person if their bluejay mouth over ran their scrawny asses.
Anyway, these three little fuckers make buds with the eighteen year old eighth grader. How they did that, I'll never know. Looking back though, he had to be the only kid in grade eight that could legally buy beer. If he'd been half human, that would have made him pretty cool. All it did in reality was make him a stupid bitch that bullied kids five or six years younger than him. Okay, all that aside, this is what happened about two weeks before school. I'm out dickin around on the berm since it was big enough for vehicles and had a nice sand road on top. One of the peckerwood kids throws a rock and nailed me in the side. It was the oldest, the one that was my age. I decided I'd had enough of that little cock munch and was gonna drill his ass. Which I did. What I didn't see was Devon come up out of the cover on the river side of the berm. BOOM! Blind sided by a guy that was six or seven years older than me and had about a hundred pounds on me. I didn't go down, but turned and rammed an elbow into his nuts. Now he's howling, I didn't get a square shot or he'd gone down. I did, however, get some really good shots in before one of the peckerwood crew got behind me and knock my feet out from under me.
Devon was on me like white on rice. Beat the living shit right out of me, and I think may have put the boots to me while I was down. So now I'm limping home, the water works are on. My dad (who thought it was one of the peckerwood crew) said "Don't stand and bawl about it, either stop crying or go whip his ass." Yep, off I went, only I couldn't see at all out of my left eye and my right was going closed. Once again, I got a few good shots in on Devon, but, alas, once again he beat me blind. My dad apologized forever about that. I didn't see it like he should have, I didn't tell him an eighteen year old whipped my ass. Believe me, it wasn't the first ass whippin, and it wasn't the last, either.
I laugh about it now, but God almighty I got a beating. Twice!
Have fun today, kids. Do something I would (excluding jumping someone that has about 100lbs on you), and enjoy yourself
Hugs and shit
I took a flashlight, grabbed a mirror and looked inside my mouth. Except in the last 3 weeks my right mandible isn't correct, and I can no longer open my mouth wide enough to really look. I'm talking with my Hospice nurse to see if he can get someone to check out my jaw to see if the cancer isn't off into the bone. I have a sneaky suspicion it is hanging out there, and possible close to my right inner ear. That will suck if that's the case. Back to my mouth. I look, I move the tongue around as much as I can. It still looks like I've got three tongues in there, judging by multiple ledges and thick spots. I see that my esophagus is almost 75% cut off from the front of my missing soft palate (which still lets me breath through my nose) back to nearly the very back of my throat. It has a nice little slat looking window for stuff I can't swallow to get into my trachea and aspirate it so I can cough it up and enjoy it twice. Shit.
I've also got spots that I can see that are (at least at that time) seeping a dribble of blood. That explains some of the funny taste in my mouth, and why it wasn't really showing up in my suction pot. Not enough to bother with, and I believe I aspirate and cough that back out through the trach as well. Once again, I apparently recycle myself. There are a couple of spots with lovely black dots in them. Visible cancer. I believe those to be Baxter's forward scouts. My tongue has gotten so thick on the left side now that I can't move it enough to see how that side of my mouth looks. I'm betting it's a lot like the right side of my mouth. No reason it shouldn't be, right? At least I have an idea of what's going on in the places I can see. I can't see down my trachea so I don't know really what's there. I do, however, cough up blood clots from time to time. Some are very soft like fresh blood, others are hard as rocks and are difficult to move out. I am wondering if those aren't from deeper in my trachea and are attracting mucus to seal up the leak. I know when I hack up one of the bigger clots, I bleed pretty profusely for ten or so minutes. Not gusher, but enough in that little dab of time that I can fill a hand towel fairly full of mucus and expectorated blood. The towel isn't dripping with the stuff, but it's damp from top to bottom. I knew all of this was going to happen, because I asked the Doc for worst case scenario and he told me quite a few things. Some of them he still down played, I believe. Some knowledge is better than no knowledge at all, though.
My damn right leg wears out way fast now. That's a change from a month ago when I was getting winded so easily. I don't get winded that easily now, but my right leg hates me for letting them cut out half of it's quad. It's carrying a grudge. I can walk about anywhere I want, and if I'm going to walk over a block or so I drag the O2 with me just in case. Kinda handy to have that, really. I was more silly than not for raging against the O2. I have decided that only showed me off as being dumb as a box of rocks. There are several people who would say "You just now figured that out?" Yes, I'm slow. It does bother me though, that it gets the shakes something fierce but never aches like I've over worked it. It just trembles like I've taken it as far as it can go, and pushed some more. Like doing heavy squats until you can't stand up to finish that last repetition. Only once the leg starts that, it's difficult to get it to stop. I feed it a little sugar water, and that helps to calm it down a bit. I'd rather use honey, but I'm not certain I can thin that enough to get it into the tube and not clog. That would be bad, m'kay? I expect my arms to do that, since my shoulders and neck are so dicked up. All of those contribute to my arm, shoulder, and neck weakness. My neck is very solid to the touch, like the muscle is in rigor mortice. With some lymphedema therapy (reduces the swelling in my neck and shoulders) and massage, I can get some muscle to relax. This is good since it helps with my range of motion, as well as my mental well being. I wonder from time to time, since the muscle is so much like a stone, if the cancer hasn't taken a liking to my neck. I hope not, that would really suck. Then the only recourse is decapitation. I'm not certain I could survive that. Not for more than a day or two anyway. Short blog today. I'm still adapting to the new morphine dose and a couple of other things, hope I'm adapted quickly.
Back in the early 70's we lived in Great Bend Ks, with the ass end of a mobile home backed up against the Arkansas river, and it's flood control berm. South Walnut, not the bustling, wealthy or even middle class side of town. It was us poor kids on our own down there. There were fun things to do though. There was a neglected Granny Smith Apple orchard. The fruit was tiny, double sour, and hard as a damn rock. A person with a half decent arm could knock the flyin piss out of someone. I know, because the neighborhood thug, an eighteen year old eighth grader named Devon, drilled me square in the temple with one. Liked to turned my damn lights out. That summer some folks from Louisiana moved into the park. I can see all three of the boys in that family clear as a fucking bell, but I can't remember their names, weird huh? Anyway, as is the want with us poor folk when new people move to town you gotta find out what type of people they are. I found out pretty fast these three douche drinkers weren't worth shit. They were gang up on a person if their bluejay mouth over ran their scrawny asses.
Anyway, these three little fuckers make buds with the eighteen year old eighth grader. How they did that, I'll never know. Looking back though, he had to be the only kid in grade eight that could legally buy beer. If he'd been half human, that would have made him pretty cool. All it did in reality was make him a stupid bitch that bullied kids five or six years younger than him. Okay, all that aside, this is what happened about two weeks before school. I'm out dickin around on the berm since it was big enough for vehicles and had a nice sand road on top. One of the peckerwood kids throws a rock and nailed me in the side. It was the oldest, the one that was my age. I decided I'd had enough of that little cock munch and was gonna drill his ass. Which I did. What I didn't see was Devon come up out of the cover on the river side of the berm. BOOM! Blind sided by a guy that was six or seven years older than me and had about a hundred pounds on me. I didn't go down, but turned and rammed an elbow into his nuts. Now he's howling, I didn't get a square shot or he'd gone down. I did, however, get some really good shots in before one of the peckerwood crew got behind me and knock my feet out from under me.
Devon was on me like white on rice. Beat the living shit right out of me, and I think may have put the boots to me while I was down. So now I'm limping home, the water works are on. My dad (who thought it was one of the peckerwood crew) said "Don't stand and bawl about it, either stop crying or go whip his ass." Yep, off I went, only I couldn't see at all out of my left eye and my right was going closed. Once again, I got a few good shots in on Devon, but, alas, once again he beat me blind. My dad apologized forever about that. I didn't see it like he should have, I didn't tell him an eighteen year old whipped my ass. Believe me, it wasn't the first ass whippin, and it wasn't the last, either.
I laugh about it now, but God almighty I got a beating. Twice!
Have fun today, kids. Do something I would (excluding jumping someone that has about 100lbs on you), and enjoy yourself
Hugs and shit
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Another Day, Another Chance To Bleed A Little
There are a couple of good things to talk about first. I took a shower last night without having a coughing fit so strong it makes me shaky, and I got sleep I wasn't expecting, or even wanted. The shower was easy, I fixed the spare trach tube up with a cut up collar and some tape so I could shower with one in. I believe that sucking in that hot moist air without a tube made the back of my trachea irritated and made me cough. With the tube in, it didn't put any kind of air directly on the back of my trachea so there was no need to cough. That's my story and I'll stick with it. The sleep on one hand was nice, on the other hand I wanted to go have coffee with the boys this morning. Missed that by almost three hours by the time I took The Son to school and got to Starbucks where I'm writing the blog from this morning. That first shot of coffee into the tube is always a minor shock. It's warm first on the right side of my body, then that goes around clockwise (if you're facing me) until it makes a warm trail. Then it seems like it just gets really warm all over all at once. This morning I shot it in quick enough to get a taste. Yes, I still like the flavor of the coffee. If I were a pessimist I'd be looking for the other shoe to drop since the morning started out so well. It's a bit brisk out, but the sky is clear and the sun rise came pretty quickly. Just a darn nice day all the way around.
I'm still sleeping a lot more than I did as early as two weeks ago. At first that was bothersome, now I look at it like it's just something else to work around. I can stay awake past a couple of the long naps I fall asleep for now, but when I do that, I crash out around 1800 or so and wake up wide assed away at 0100 or so. Which wouldn't bother me if my oldest and my grandson weren't using the dining room for their bedroom. I don't like to have the lights on in case it wakes them up. Not fair to the little guy if PaPa can't sleep for shit. Strangely enough, the morphine doesn't make me as sleepy as picking up the newspaper or a book and reading a little does. Speaking of morphine, I am going to see if they can up strength just a touch. It's getting to the point it won't hold the jaw pain down. I would say the jaw pain is from the pec being tight and pulling it towards the left. That may be part of it, but it's not all. I've got some pain in the upper and lower jaw on the right as well. Like phantom pain from having the teeth pulled, and in the last five years I'd only had that a couple of times. Those few times the pain only lasted a minute or two and was gone. This is a new, and bothersome pain that just starts out and throbs away for seemingly hours on end. Then it will lie down for a few hours, I'll get all relaxed and shit, then BOOM! the nasty damn stuff is back. That may explain why I sleep so much, I do know that pain wears me out. It always wore me down a little in the past, but nothing like it does now. I suppose the body is pissed off at me for making it work so hard to stay mobile and breathing. The opposite of that, immobile and not breathing, doesn't seem like that much fun. Although, if it's like the dream I've been having riding the Fat Girl down some smooth highway in the High Lonesome is a pretty nice way to dream about the upcoming, date unknown, Critical Mass.
I didn't want to disappoint, or make you think I was deceptive in my title this morning, "Another Day, Another Chance To Bleed A Little", because I am. I woke up at 0230 this morning, coughed really hard a couple of times and there she was!!! I'd upset something and it wanted to have a go at leaking. At first it was out of the trach, throat and or mouth all at the same time. Makes it look like a lot when in fact it's really not much. The trach quit rather abruptly, the mouth/throat is still leaking away, just not a lot at a time. It's also about time. The bleeding business is almost set up on it's own schedule as of late. It broke it's own rule and had missed a couple of days that it was supposed to be doing it's thing. When it does that, it generally runs off at double or triple time until it feels like it's caught up. Today it jumped out on a good run, hung a spike up in the cinder track and nearly went down. I think that it startled itself by coming out so fast like it did, and now it's down to a trickle, I'm fairly confident that it's going to stop entirely in the next half hour or so. I had given some thought to the idea that the swelling was caused by a pool of blood hiding in some previously unknown fistula that headed off into the left side of my neck. Especially since that side was loaded with infection. After further reflection on that idea, I nixed it. Unless my mechanical diagnosing skills have completely failed, it couldn't just pool up from a fistula into the side of my neck, it would need to be a one way track for it to do that, and I didn't cough up infected fluid (thank God, I'd have shit my pants if that had happened). So no, it's not from a fistula. I did get a mirror and and looked into my mouth as best I could last night. Talk about a mess, it's a wonder I don't bleed a couple of buckets full every day from the nasty look thing.
I've gotten a little, scratch that, a LOT complacent when it comes to stretching my neck to help maintain decent rotation on all planes of movement. I'm going to ask Liz to KTape my that tendon area that is the bottom tie down for the pec muscle they put in my mouth. As easily as I dismissed the KTape early on, I can say with all honesty it works. I'm not entirely sure how, and I'm going to ask one of the PT folk, it works. It is stretchy, so I'm going to fancy a guess and say that once it gets some tension, it works at flex and release, flex and release, the affected area and in essence massages the muscle or tendon making them relax and allows for better movement. A stunningly simple concept that makes me scratch my head and wonder why in the hell I didn't think that one up on my own. Short sightedness once again keeps me from being so incredibly wealthy that even the Sultan Brunei calls and asks for investing advise. (Not going to happen, I don't believe). That, of course, is my Walter Mitty moment. At any rate, the KTape will help so I'm going to shave my chest down the scar tissue and up to the tendon/muscle/I'm not sure what it is, and my range of motion should improve a bit.
A couple of things that happened while wearing my kilt, that will at first glance, appear that I used some fairly poor judgement. You all can decide for yourself, but be kind, after all I'm dying. (I'm laughing at pulling the "The cancer is killing me" card)
My first bike in well over 20 years was a little Yamaha Roadstar 1100 Silverado. Nice little bike, and it was a good bike to have for a couple of years to get me back in the riding groove after such a long break. Anyway, I found I could strap my golf clubs to the bike by setting the bag on the passenger floorboard, and tying the middle to the back rest. This particular day I was just going to go hit some balls so I put the kilt on. Yes, I went Regimental. I'd ridden the bike in my kilt before, but on this occasion I'd forgotten to tuck the kilt in under my legs so it didn't fly up and embarrass the neighbors. I idled the fifty yards or so to the stop sign at the end of my block, looked, hung a right and started out. I hammered the throttle, grabbed a gear or two up, and at forty-five mph my kilt caught air and flew clear up over my forehead. Did I panic? Ya damn right I did! Well, for a split second anyway. I reached up and pulled it down, and stuck a hand full of kilt under my left thigh. Not until I got one honk with a laughing car driver, and one nice wave from the lady in the lane next to me. Bless her heart
Liz and I went to Las Vegas for our anniversary (she's gonna shoot me, I can't remember which anniversary) and I was wearing the kilt while we were visiting several casinos along the strip. Riding the escalator to cross over on the way to New York New York, I got a sudden breeze directly across both my ass cheeks. I reached back and smoothed it down. I no sooner moved my hand and it happened again, this time it came with "I told you that's what they wear!!". A lovely little old lady had yanked my kilt up and was showing her friend and several other people what I didn't have on under it. Oh, they just giggled!!!
Standing in line at Starbucks one morning, my work schedule then I had some weekdays off, and having just finished a work out that was damn good, I was looking forward to a nice cuppa joe and a sit out on the patio to enjoy the nice spring weather. Move up a spot and wait, move up a spot and wait. Move up a spot and the back of my kilt is up to almost my neck. Followed with "Oh My God!!! He's naked!!!' Well, no, I was Regimental again, since I failed to throw some clean drawers in the gym bag for after my shower. At least this nice lady was late twenty's early thirty's and pretty damn hot looking. Hot looking and as red faced as a baboons ass. This time I laughed a lot.
A few douchenozzles will try and pick a fight with or try to make fun of men in kilts. I think it's because their girlfriends or wives find a man in a kilt irresistible. Anyway, Liz and a few of our friends (I'm old enough to be 3/4 of our friends daddy or at least big brother) went out to drink, shoot pool, and in general just laugh our asses off. I was a year out of my last cancer treatment from the first go round. We are all upstairs at a bar shooting pool and just having a good time in general. Of course some dick weasel keeps coming over and bumping into me on purpose. I ignored the stupid bastard a few times, but Mr Temper kept asking how long I was gonna let this little fellatio giving moron get away with this bumping into me. Not long, it turned out. "Got a problem, boy?". He allows only fags and pussies wear a skirt. I corrected his idea of the difference between a kilt and a skirt. "It's not a skirt, it's a kilt. The difference is, when I have this kilt on, the only thing I have on under it is your girl friends lipstick". He seemed to take offense to that, and said we needed to go outside. Bear in mind we are upstairs in a bar, and the stairs are damn steep. "Suits me, head out, I'll follow". His buddies just sat there staring. The stairway was out of their line of sight, that was a good thing. The ass hat stepped onto the first step going down and I pushed his ass as hard as I could. He was bouncing pretty well when I turned around. I got all set for him to come barreling back up the steps to take a swing at me. Nothing. I wait. Nothing. Hmmm, steep stairs. I better take a look, I might have screwed the pooch and really hurt the moron. Nope, he's not lying down there, there's no EMTs, no cops, just a really drunk girl that gave up trying to climb the stairs. His buddies came by the table asking where their friend went. "He went down stairs. I haven't seen him since". For the next couple of days I kept looking for cops or something on the news about an injured man who fell down the stairs at Woofers and Tweeters. Ha! Dodged that bullet too.
Alright, girls and boys, I'm finished for today. Go out and play nice. Laugh a lot, that stuff is contagious and everyone likes a good laugh.
I'm still sleeping a lot more than I did as early as two weeks ago. At first that was bothersome, now I look at it like it's just something else to work around. I can stay awake past a couple of the long naps I fall asleep for now, but when I do that, I crash out around 1800 or so and wake up wide assed away at 0100 or so. Which wouldn't bother me if my oldest and my grandson weren't using the dining room for their bedroom. I don't like to have the lights on in case it wakes them up. Not fair to the little guy if PaPa can't sleep for shit. Strangely enough, the morphine doesn't make me as sleepy as picking up the newspaper or a book and reading a little does. Speaking of morphine, I am going to see if they can up strength just a touch. It's getting to the point it won't hold the jaw pain down. I would say the jaw pain is from the pec being tight and pulling it towards the left. That may be part of it, but it's not all. I've got some pain in the upper and lower jaw on the right as well. Like phantom pain from having the teeth pulled, and in the last five years I'd only had that a couple of times. Those few times the pain only lasted a minute or two and was gone. This is a new, and bothersome pain that just starts out and throbs away for seemingly hours on end. Then it will lie down for a few hours, I'll get all relaxed and shit, then BOOM! the nasty damn stuff is back. That may explain why I sleep so much, I do know that pain wears me out. It always wore me down a little in the past, but nothing like it does now. I suppose the body is pissed off at me for making it work so hard to stay mobile and breathing. The opposite of that, immobile and not breathing, doesn't seem like that much fun. Although, if it's like the dream I've been having riding the Fat Girl down some smooth highway in the High Lonesome is a pretty nice way to dream about the upcoming, date unknown, Critical Mass.
I didn't want to disappoint, or make you think I was deceptive in my title this morning, "Another Day, Another Chance To Bleed A Little", because I am. I woke up at 0230 this morning, coughed really hard a couple of times and there she was!!! I'd upset something and it wanted to have a go at leaking. At first it was out of the trach, throat and or mouth all at the same time. Makes it look like a lot when in fact it's really not much. The trach quit rather abruptly, the mouth/throat is still leaking away, just not a lot at a time. It's also about time. The bleeding business is almost set up on it's own schedule as of late. It broke it's own rule and had missed a couple of days that it was supposed to be doing it's thing. When it does that, it generally runs off at double or triple time until it feels like it's caught up. Today it jumped out on a good run, hung a spike up in the cinder track and nearly went down. I think that it startled itself by coming out so fast like it did, and now it's down to a trickle, I'm fairly confident that it's going to stop entirely in the next half hour or so. I had given some thought to the idea that the swelling was caused by a pool of blood hiding in some previously unknown fistula that headed off into the left side of my neck. Especially since that side was loaded with infection. After further reflection on that idea, I nixed it. Unless my mechanical diagnosing skills have completely failed, it couldn't just pool up from a fistula into the side of my neck, it would need to be a one way track for it to do that, and I didn't cough up infected fluid (thank God, I'd have shit my pants if that had happened). So no, it's not from a fistula. I did get a mirror and and looked into my mouth as best I could last night. Talk about a mess, it's a wonder I don't bleed a couple of buckets full every day from the nasty look thing.
I've gotten a little, scratch that, a LOT complacent when it comes to stretching my neck to help maintain decent rotation on all planes of movement. I'm going to ask Liz to KTape my that tendon area that is the bottom tie down for the pec muscle they put in my mouth. As easily as I dismissed the KTape early on, I can say with all honesty it works. I'm not entirely sure how, and I'm going to ask one of the PT folk, it works. It is stretchy, so I'm going to fancy a guess and say that once it gets some tension, it works at flex and release, flex and release, the affected area and in essence massages the muscle or tendon making them relax and allows for better movement. A stunningly simple concept that makes me scratch my head and wonder why in the hell I didn't think that one up on my own. Short sightedness once again keeps me from being so incredibly wealthy that even the Sultan Brunei calls and asks for investing advise. (Not going to happen, I don't believe). That, of course, is my Walter Mitty moment. At any rate, the KTape will help so I'm going to shave my chest down the scar tissue and up to the tendon/muscle/I'm not sure what it is, and my range of motion should improve a bit.
A couple of things that happened while wearing my kilt, that will at first glance, appear that I used some fairly poor judgement. You all can decide for yourself, but be kind, after all I'm dying. (I'm laughing at pulling the "The cancer is killing me" card)
My first bike in well over 20 years was a little Yamaha Roadstar 1100 Silverado. Nice little bike, and it was a good bike to have for a couple of years to get me back in the riding groove after such a long break. Anyway, I found I could strap my golf clubs to the bike by setting the bag on the passenger floorboard, and tying the middle to the back rest. This particular day I was just going to go hit some balls so I put the kilt on. Yes, I went Regimental. I'd ridden the bike in my kilt before, but on this occasion I'd forgotten to tuck the kilt in under my legs so it didn't fly up and embarrass the neighbors. I idled the fifty yards or so to the stop sign at the end of my block, looked, hung a right and started out. I hammered the throttle, grabbed a gear or two up, and at forty-five mph my kilt caught air and flew clear up over my forehead. Did I panic? Ya damn right I did! Well, for a split second anyway. I reached up and pulled it down, and stuck a hand full of kilt under my left thigh. Not until I got one honk with a laughing car driver, and one nice wave from the lady in the lane next to me. Bless her heart
Liz and I went to Las Vegas for our anniversary (she's gonna shoot me, I can't remember which anniversary) and I was wearing the kilt while we were visiting several casinos along the strip. Riding the escalator to cross over on the way to New York New York, I got a sudden breeze directly across both my ass cheeks. I reached back and smoothed it down. I no sooner moved my hand and it happened again, this time it came with "I told you that's what they wear!!". A lovely little old lady had yanked my kilt up and was showing her friend and several other people what I didn't have on under it. Oh, they just giggled!!!
Standing in line at Starbucks one morning, my work schedule then I had some weekdays off, and having just finished a work out that was damn good, I was looking forward to a nice cuppa joe and a sit out on the patio to enjoy the nice spring weather. Move up a spot and wait, move up a spot and wait. Move up a spot and the back of my kilt is up to almost my neck. Followed with "Oh My God!!! He's naked!!!' Well, no, I was Regimental again, since I failed to throw some clean drawers in the gym bag for after my shower. At least this nice lady was late twenty's early thirty's and pretty damn hot looking. Hot looking and as red faced as a baboons ass. This time I laughed a lot.
A few douchenozzles will try and pick a fight with or try to make fun of men in kilts. I think it's because their girlfriends or wives find a man in a kilt irresistible. Anyway, Liz and a few of our friends (I'm old enough to be 3/4 of our friends daddy or at least big brother) went out to drink, shoot pool, and in general just laugh our asses off. I was a year out of my last cancer treatment from the first go round. We are all upstairs at a bar shooting pool and just having a good time in general. Of course some dick weasel keeps coming over and bumping into me on purpose. I ignored the stupid bastard a few times, but Mr Temper kept asking how long I was gonna let this little fellatio giving moron get away with this bumping into me. Not long, it turned out. "Got a problem, boy?". He allows only fags and pussies wear a skirt. I corrected his idea of the difference between a kilt and a skirt. "It's not a skirt, it's a kilt. The difference is, when I have this kilt on, the only thing I have on under it is your girl friends lipstick". He seemed to take offense to that, and said we needed to go outside. Bear in mind we are upstairs in a bar, and the stairs are damn steep. "Suits me, head out, I'll follow". His buddies just sat there staring. The stairway was out of their line of sight, that was a good thing. The ass hat stepped onto the first step going down and I pushed his ass as hard as I could. He was bouncing pretty well when I turned around. I got all set for him to come barreling back up the steps to take a swing at me. Nothing. I wait. Nothing. Hmmm, steep stairs. I better take a look, I might have screwed the pooch and really hurt the moron. Nope, he's not lying down there, there's no EMTs, no cops, just a really drunk girl that gave up trying to climb the stairs. His buddies came by the table asking where their friend went. "He went down stairs. I haven't seen him since". For the next couple of days I kept looking for cops or something on the news about an injured man who fell down the stairs at Woofers and Tweeters. Ha! Dodged that bullet too.
Alright, girls and boys, I'm finished for today. Go out and play nice. Laugh a lot, that stuff is contagious and everyone likes a good laugh.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Now What?
It seems just when I get to feeling pretty decent the damn cancer or some part of my body comes up with ways to simply fuck it up. Monday was going just great! I had a really good and responsive lymphedema therapy session. Text Liz to see if she wanted to see "Grudge Match" with me, and she did. I got The Boy to school with plenty of time to make my early therapy appointment. Got to the movie with Liz, get a seat and it turns out there are only four of us in the theater. Damn nice for a change. This, though, was my fuck up. Since there were people in there with us I didn't use my suction like I should have and I accumulated a lot of secretions that made it incredibly difficult to breath at times. I should have gotten up, gone to the can, and suctioned my stuff out. I'd been on a secretion making binge lately, and this has happened once before. I don't know why I'm making so much gunk, but my body is right now and I have to really watch it. Well, we get home, and I'm horribly uncomfortable. I try hacking up the goo in my throat, and it's so thick and there's so much of it I get the heaves. Which, by the way, is far better than vomiting, believe me. The trouble is, the heaves take as much out of me as vomiting does, and it hoses me up for hours. The hours go by and it turns out I got a lot of sleep, good thing.
Tuesday, The Boy has to wake me up to take him to school. That means I've had at least 5 hours of straight sleep without waking up. That's a real good thing. I get home, feed and sleep some more. The day went like this, after the morning drugs and feed time. Feed, nap for 30 minutes, awake for 45 to an hour, sleep 30 minutes, feed, awake for 45 minutes to an hour. It ran along like that just fine. I found a water line had broken and was running like a maniac. I showed Liz where to turn it off. Made her a list of stuff she needed, and went to my massage. Got home and she had the entire thing about fixed. I did a little "show me how", which involves me pointing and giving advise, and Liz doing the work. It will stay with her longer that way. I figure if it works with oil field guys and pumping, pulling unit work, or roustabout work, it will be easier still for Liz. Good afternoon that I really enjoyed. I napped again.
Liz is tired and her back hurts from being on her feet so long at work today so she trundles off to bed. I'm still making an overflowing amount of secretions, which is bother some but not imperative that I do something other than suction it out. Or so I thought. I skin out of the trach tube because it's a pain in the ass to wear taking a shower. It soaks up water, gets heavy, and if I don't get a dry one it right away the one I showered with drips a stream down my back. So I've take to removing it the last two days. Here's the problem. It seems when I take it out, I get a coughing fit, and end up with either the heaves or a real vomit moment. That's what happened tonight. I got a coughing spell going and couldn't get it slowed down long enough to suction my throat. When it did finally slow down enough, I've got a damn mucus plug in my throat, I can't draw air through my mouth or the trach stoma. That's enough to spook ya. It ebbs again, I'm able to breath a bit now, only it's a real struggle. I go find Liz, get her to give me a hand, because after 20 minutes of bathing, vomiting, and fighting for each breath, my body is shot and I've got the shakes like an old alkie that is looking for a drink right before the DT's hit. Scared her a little, not to mention made me just a bit jumpy. I got Sarah to help her clean the bathroom a bit, while I sat curled up in a damn ball in the recliner, trying to get everything back in order. I did, finally.
Later I'm eased back about to doze off for what I hope is a nice night's sleep, when Sarah comes in eating a fried egg sammich. She powered it down even though it had some kind of bag smelling shit that Flax Seed bread is giving off after she toasted it. Five minutes later she says she's gonna shower. Comes over and says "Look at this rash. It just popped up after I ate that bread. I get up and wave her over with me, grind up a couple of Benedryl tablets. I'd prefer liquid, but ground up and not taken with a lot of water goes to work pretty quickly. I also snag the phone and find a contact number for a friend of mine who's wife is a nurse. I dialed it and had Sarah ask about the rash and if we needed to take her to the ER. Nope, we'd done everything correctly, and I had her stay awake for a couple of hours to make sure her breathing stayed on the regular and even side of the table. So, when she bombed out, I stayed awake and watched over her for a while, and napped a bit in between as well. Honestly, if not for the two episodes with "Let's Keep Roc From Breatthin" the past two days would have been better than most of the holiday fun this year. Damned stuff anyway!
I was setting around thinking how far south my physical abilities have gone and feeling pretty good that I'd come to terms with that since I am going to croak, and my body is going to use up more and more of itself fighting to stay alive. That's not a bad thing, really, as long as I get enough oxygen to think straight, I can do the weakening thing better. I don't like it, but I can cope with it.
I thought back to when I first went to work for Anadarko in 1989. We used to get a list of "PM" to do. Preventative Maintenance. I actually preferred doing that to anything like pumping, even though I did it while I relief pumped when I wasn't on the roustabout gang the first couple of years. One of the things was greasing all the spots on a pumping unit that needed them. Wrist pins (keeping in mind if it blew out the back of the bearing rather than the relief zirk), saddle and tail bearings, electric motor bearings, things like that. Well, after pumping and gauging and doing the PM stuff, I'd get bored and start doing shit that today if I got caught they'd run your ass off so fast it would make your eyes water. Like walking the top rail of the angle iron fences around the pumping units and well heads to grease the wrist pins. No, I wouldn't shut the unit off either. It could get a little hinky if the top rail got wiggly, but it was a challenge. My favorite and I did get busted on this one, was to walk the rail greasing wrist pins, then go up the ladder and grease the saddle bearing, and walk the walking beam back to the engine or motor and grease the tail bearing. Anyway, I'm up on this 640 Conventional Lufkin greasing the wrist pins and just finishing the saddle bearing. I climb up on top of the walking beam, look around and don't see a damn soul anywhere, and nonchalantly head down the beam toward the saddle bearing. A 640 has a really wide walking beam, so it's not even like I had to concentrate a lot getting there. I sit down, grease up the tail bearing, turn around and head back. No sweat, this one is only running eight strokes per minute in the long hole, so it's an easy walk. Except when I got down, there was one of the bosses with steam blowing out his ears. Remember, this is back when if you fucked the pooch, they'd come down on your ass like a ton of bricks. There wasn't any "be nice" classes, there was chew you out, make certain you understand, then forget about it. If you did the same exact thing again, they'd more than likely run your ass off. Oh buddy, I got reamed out pretty well. I can't even remember what all was said except for "Are you out of your fucking mind?" (first thing said) and "Anyone sees you pulling that shit again, Mister, I'll see your ass gets run off so fast your fucking head will spin." Good thing about those ass eatings? No one carried a damn grudge if they were worth anything. Thirty minutes later the same boss asked me to come give him a hand, I did and not a word was said about what I fucked up doing. Looking back, yeah, he was right. I violated about Ten Million OSHA and Anadarko Safety rules. Those ass eatings I never minded. It was the ones that I've gotten just because the boss wanted to eat someones ass out and I was handy.
Back in 2012 I was putting some new equipment on a pumping unit and polish rod. A load cell for the Pump Off Controller. I called a couple of guys to come make sure I didn't get hurt, and to hand me tools and the like. We were using 456 Weatherford units on the wells, with long stroke, and running them with Fiberglass. The Strokes Per Minute weren't over ten, but it was a long way off the ground to reach the clamps and hanger bar. I got my truck pulled up where I could climb up and grab the reins on the hanger bar and pull myself up. About five or six hand over hand moves, with a rein (here the entire thing is called a bridle, or "bridal" if you weren't certain and guessed) in each hand. I can stand inside the hanger bar then, and work close enough to the top that I can pass the old load cell and the clamp over the top and down to the guys helping me. They were both cracking up, because they'd seen me do that several times, and one afternoon when the weren't busting ass they both tried to climb one, and couldn't quite do it. Not the safest, but it was the fastest. I did do something I never EVER did when someone was around, and this is the one and only place I'll even say anything about it. Did I though, or am I just pullin your collective legs? I'd shut the unit down, change out the load cell cable, and instead of just climbing up onto the flow line to hook it in, I'd start the unit, take the cable end in one hand, grab one side of the bridle, and hook the cable end in while riding the unit up and down with one hand. But, seeing as how that's really dangerous, and I was the safety bitch at the time, did I do that or not?
Love y'all, thanks so much for the support, prayers, and bullshittin with me when you can.
Tuesday, The Boy has to wake me up to take him to school. That means I've had at least 5 hours of straight sleep without waking up. That's a real good thing. I get home, feed and sleep some more. The day went like this, after the morning drugs and feed time. Feed, nap for 30 minutes, awake for 45 to an hour, sleep 30 minutes, feed, awake for 45 minutes to an hour. It ran along like that just fine. I found a water line had broken and was running like a maniac. I showed Liz where to turn it off. Made her a list of stuff she needed, and went to my massage. Got home and she had the entire thing about fixed. I did a little "show me how", which involves me pointing and giving advise, and Liz doing the work. It will stay with her longer that way. I figure if it works with oil field guys and pumping, pulling unit work, or roustabout work, it will be easier still for Liz. Good afternoon that I really enjoyed. I napped again.
Liz is tired and her back hurts from being on her feet so long at work today so she trundles off to bed. I'm still making an overflowing amount of secretions, which is bother some but not imperative that I do something other than suction it out. Or so I thought. I skin out of the trach tube because it's a pain in the ass to wear taking a shower. It soaks up water, gets heavy, and if I don't get a dry one it right away the one I showered with drips a stream down my back. So I've take to removing it the last two days. Here's the problem. It seems when I take it out, I get a coughing fit, and end up with either the heaves or a real vomit moment. That's what happened tonight. I got a coughing spell going and couldn't get it slowed down long enough to suction my throat. When it did finally slow down enough, I've got a damn mucus plug in my throat, I can't draw air through my mouth or the trach stoma. That's enough to spook ya. It ebbs again, I'm able to breath a bit now, only it's a real struggle. I go find Liz, get her to give me a hand, because after 20 minutes of bathing, vomiting, and fighting for each breath, my body is shot and I've got the shakes like an old alkie that is looking for a drink right before the DT's hit. Scared her a little, not to mention made me just a bit jumpy. I got Sarah to help her clean the bathroom a bit, while I sat curled up in a damn ball in the recliner, trying to get everything back in order. I did, finally.
Later I'm eased back about to doze off for what I hope is a nice night's sleep, when Sarah comes in eating a fried egg sammich. She powered it down even though it had some kind of bag smelling shit that Flax Seed bread is giving off after she toasted it. Five minutes later she says she's gonna shower. Comes over and says "Look at this rash. It just popped up after I ate that bread. I get up and wave her over with me, grind up a couple of Benedryl tablets. I'd prefer liquid, but ground up and not taken with a lot of water goes to work pretty quickly. I also snag the phone and find a contact number for a friend of mine who's wife is a nurse. I dialed it and had Sarah ask about the rash and if we needed to take her to the ER. Nope, we'd done everything correctly, and I had her stay awake for a couple of hours to make sure her breathing stayed on the regular and even side of the table. So, when she bombed out, I stayed awake and watched over her for a while, and napped a bit in between as well. Honestly, if not for the two episodes with "Let's Keep Roc From Breatthin" the past two days would have been better than most of the holiday fun this year. Damned stuff anyway!
I was setting around thinking how far south my physical abilities have gone and feeling pretty good that I'd come to terms with that since I am going to croak, and my body is going to use up more and more of itself fighting to stay alive. That's not a bad thing, really, as long as I get enough oxygen to think straight, I can do the weakening thing better. I don't like it, but I can cope with it.
I thought back to when I first went to work for Anadarko in 1989. We used to get a list of "PM" to do. Preventative Maintenance. I actually preferred doing that to anything like pumping, even though I did it while I relief pumped when I wasn't on the roustabout gang the first couple of years. One of the things was greasing all the spots on a pumping unit that needed them. Wrist pins (keeping in mind if it blew out the back of the bearing rather than the relief zirk), saddle and tail bearings, electric motor bearings, things like that. Well, after pumping and gauging and doing the PM stuff, I'd get bored and start doing shit that today if I got caught they'd run your ass off so fast it would make your eyes water. Like walking the top rail of the angle iron fences around the pumping units and well heads to grease the wrist pins. No, I wouldn't shut the unit off either. It could get a little hinky if the top rail got wiggly, but it was a challenge. My favorite and I did get busted on this one, was to walk the rail greasing wrist pins, then go up the ladder and grease the saddle bearing, and walk the walking beam back to the engine or motor and grease the tail bearing. Anyway, I'm up on this 640 Conventional Lufkin greasing the wrist pins and just finishing the saddle bearing. I climb up on top of the walking beam, look around and don't see a damn soul anywhere, and nonchalantly head down the beam toward the saddle bearing. A 640 has a really wide walking beam, so it's not even like I had to concentrate a lot getting there. I sit down, grease up the tail bearing, turn around and head back. No sweat, this one is only running eight strokes per minute in the long hole, so it's an easy walk. Except when I got down, there was one of the bosses with steam blowing out his ears. Remember, this is back when if you fucked the pooch, they'd come down on your ass like a ton of bricks. There wasn't any "be nice" classes, there was chew you out, make certain you understand, then forget about it. If you did the same exact thing again, they'd more than likely run your ass off. Oh buddy, I got reamed out pretty well. I can't even remember what all was said except for "Are you out of your fucking mind?" (first thing said) and "Anyone sees you pulling that shit again, Mister, I'll see your ass gets run off so fast your fucking head will spin." Good thing about those ass eatings? No one carried a damn grudge if they were worth anything. Thirty minutes later the same boss asked me to come give him a hand, I did and not a word was said about what I fucked up doing. Looking back, yeah, he was right. I violated about Ten Million OSHA and Anadarko Safety rules. Those ass eatings I never minded. It was the ones that I've gotten just because the boss wanted to eat someones ass out and I was handy.
Back in 2012 I was putting some new equipment on a pumping unit and polish rod. A load cell for the Pump Off Controller. I called a couple of guys to come make sure I didn't get hurt, and to hand me tools and the like. We were using 456 Weatherford units on the wells, with long stroke, and running them with Fiberglass. The Strokes Per Minute weren't over ten, but it was a long way off the ground to reach the clamps and hanger bar. I got my truck pulled up where I could climb up and grab the reins on the hanger bar and pull myself up. About five or six hand over hand moves, with a rein (here the entire thing is called a bridle, or "bridal" if you weren't certain and guessed) in each hand. I can stand inside the hanger bar then, and work close enough to the top that I can pass the old load cell and the clamp over the top and down to the guys helping me. They were both cracking up, because they'd seen me do that several times, and one afternoon when the weren't busting ass they both tried to climb one, and couldn't quite do it. Not the safest, but it was the fastest. I did do something I never EVER did when someone was around, and this is the one and only place I'll even say anything about it. Did I though, or am I just pullin your collective legs? I'd shut the unit down, change out the load cell cable, and instead of just climbing up onto the flow line to hook it in, I'd start the unit, take the cable end in one hand, grab one side of the bridle, and hook the cable end in while riding the unit up and down with one hand. But, seeing as how that's really dangerous, and I was the safety bitch at the time, did I do that or not?
Love y'all, thanks so much for the support, prayers, and bullshittin with me when you can.
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