I am a very blessed man, no two ways about it. I've been around to see (not remember, because I was a baby) the astronauts fly the Apollo Missions. Watched them land on the moon, I've seen them drives around on the moon. We can all talk about go fast and bootleggers, some of the fun stuff you can do in a car here on Terra Firma, but on the moon? That's two tits. I earned $2 a month taking care of a horse. $2/month and I could ride him all I wanted. I earned $3/month looking after a guys registered Angus cattle. Lost that gig when the nasty cattleman tried to take the nuts my little brother and I picked up. My five tall Mom (I think if she stood on her tip toes) saved the day, and gave the nasty old bastard and his half coward hired hands an old school Irish ass eatin that I'm almost certain would have left scars on a well adjusted adult. Those poor men.
As I got older I was blessed again to work in what I'm seeing as the last run of the old school oil industry. A lot of things really needed to change. It's so much safer now, since I got off the rig floor, outta the derrick, and the away from the brakes, down time from broken bones dropped dramatically. (So as not to be misunderstood, that was a joke. God knows I want to be fuckin A on the money with anything I write these days). We old school (and I'm telling you, it ain't a patch on the real old school) hands that would put on the extra clothes when the snow was blowing up the legs of you over alls. Tie the blocks to the ground so we could pull and run tubing and rods in a wind that was over 25 mph. Worked in snow so heavy I couldn't see the floor from 80' up in the air. I've done some stuff that will never be done again. Cementing fiberglass tubing in different injection wells. Not allowed any longer in any state, I don't believe, since there was no way to check the integrity of the well without an annular blank to test. Pumped in Southwest Kansas, and later in West Texas. It's been a charmed ride, even at times it didn't feel like it. I ended up with a part of the oil patch that I truly loved. Diagnosing wells. I was really hitting my stride, too. Cancer comes back and closes out that era of the oil patch for me. Gladly, there are men that are willing to go out and do the jobs that need to be done. Some of ain't spring chickens, either. Eddie Joe, Tommy Mac, about ten years younger than me, so they're like little brothers? HA!!! The younger guys, Aaron, Steven, Brandon, Josh, those are the guys the future of the oil patch is resting upon. If they take the time, learn the patience (took me for fucking ever) they can make a big time life out of the damned old oil field. Up and down bitch that she is, I never missed a meal, and for the most part have had a wonderful, wild ride. So many friends, lost a few, made some new. It's the party.
Damn, I've got buds that I made when we moved to Southwest Kansas that have lasted close to 40 years. We shoot the breeze (okay, used to shoot the breeze, damn voice is gone for good this time), text, a few have gone way the hell out of their way to come visit me. Some of the people I've reacquainted with on Facebook and at our 30th class reunion. We all looked older, but I swear it was like picking up the phone after you've gone to take a leak. It was like we'd just been on summer vacation and were catching up again during the first week of school. Is that unusual? God, I'd like to think it. It was a hoot. I look back and I see a three or four that I've spent a lot of time with. One in particular that has seen me at my very best, my very worst. John, brother, I'll catch us a nice ride when I hit the other side, amigo. Take your time getting there, I need to scout us something cool to go see. Lately these people I went to High School with, who still keep in touch with me via FaceBook are helping run this Terminal Velocity race. We laugh, I get pissed, they laugh at me, I laugh at me, and through it all, it's one of the best things that's happened since this bullshit with the cancer coming back to kill me. They are all damn decent people. They have big hearts, that's the best park of them. From the friend side of the aisle, I'm not certain I could have done any better.
My best party has been with the woman that helps make me who I am, who I want to be, and how to have a good time. Liz, baby, I'm not going to say much here. Everything that I can tell you, I'll see in your eyes. I can't put into words, not the way I should, to tell you how much I love our life together. This year, 100 years from now, for me it would always be too little time. I'll have a spot, don't rush, I'll have to take my time and make it perfect.
I can't forget the Highland Games people. They are my "New" friends. New because I've only known some of them for about 10 years. Others no where near that long, and yet is seems like I've know all of them for a life time. Some of the people I know, can tell you that I'm a uber competitive person. I hate to lose, bugs me worse than have a knife eased into your side real, real, slowly. When I started back before (mumble) I found and made equipment I could practice with, and hopefully get to the point "I" felt I could hang with the people I threw with. I practiced….hard…a lot. I improved, but not fast enough to suit ME. The other athletes would say, "You've really got your form and technique coming along. You're really improving." Great words of support, right? Damn right they were, and given sincerely. All I could hear, in my mind, was "Fuck dude, you're working at it and getting worse!". It was bullshit, on my part, of course. One morning I woke up and though, "I'm fucking up the one sport I really enjoy, because I only have to compete with myself. Time to back off". I don't know if any other the other athletes will understand, I hope they do, but I quit practicing. I went into the Masters Division. Great Athletes there. Once again I was the smallest man on the field, and this time it didn't bother me! I was having the time of my life. I wasn't looking to beat these guys down, that wasn't going to happen. They are all far too athletic, strong, and determined. They even continued to help me out. Only now, I was only interested in setting PR's. And I did. Several. Then I got cancer. Late September 2008. I text a friend who knows the wife of one of the Athletic Directors. By evening I'd gotten almost 50 text messages filled with support. It was one of the few times I ever sat down and bawled. I didn't realize I'd been anything more than a person to take last place at meets. I was wrong.
I went through all the treatment and every once in a while I'd get texts or calls people kept in touch. I finished all the treatment on February 2nd, 2009. Radiation had burnt my throat so badly I couldn't talk. Like an idiot, I kept after my doctor until the end of February to let me go back to work. I knew also, that the Scarby games were coming up in about 6 or 8 weeks. I contacted Mark Cooper, the AD and asked if it would be okay for me to come play, but that I also let him know it was a week to week thing. "No problem! Come and watch, we'll find something for you". Cool, but I was gonna throw, and he didn't expect that. I called him about the time the money for the games would be due, and asked if I could bring him the cash instead of mailing it. "Sure! We've got a room for you, all you need to do is call when you get here". You got rooms for all the out of town athletes? "Yep, every year". I was so naive I bought that. I show up, the room is great. Mark calls, everything is cool. I had new teeth, I rode the scooter (Fat Girl had 1000 miles on her) and was ready to play.
They didn't expect me to throw. Eight weeks out of treatment, I looked like walking death. I had more fun than a human should be allowed. I got choked up a lot that day. The Scarby actors became my fan club. They all had signs cheering me on. Choke back a tear. It got to the end of the day, I really needed to scoot, but was told I couldn't. They made me athlete of the Games. Choke back a tear. Mike Baab gave me his All Around Athlete medal. I tried to explain there was no way in hell I'd earned THAT. Once again, choke back a tear. Here I was, ready to hang up throwing forever. How the fuck could I even THNK about that now? You guys and all the athletes kept me in when I was ready to quit. I don't have the words to thank you all.
I wish I could name everyone that has been a friend, helpful, cheerleader, and just plain good people. I don't have time left, or room to do that.
I love all of you.
So yeah, Oh the Shit You'll See!! I've seen a lot, and fortunately I've had great friends and family to share it with. I'll keep doing that.
Have fun, hear?
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Friday, February 7, 2014
Damn, What A Week
Let's see, today is the closest I've been without pain, well, acceptable pain, at the least. I've had some kind of pain since I broke both ankles for the third time, and once in a while my right knee hates me as well. If fact, I think those three fuckers gathered up and hired Baxter to do me in, preferably with a lot of pain along the way. If I was a mafia Don, I'd have myself down in just to piss off the shit heads just to show them who's boss. On the other hand, that's like decapitating myself and hoping the could put it back on properly. Bad idea.
Actually it's been a rough three weeks. I'm finding it's easier to do the blog in the afternoons now, since I've had a day to get the meds in where and when they needed to go. Up until a bit ago, I wasn't able to use all the drugs I could have, simply because I keep the day as drug free as possible in case I need to drive some place or two. Today it turned out I needed to drive a couple of times. My daughter had to take my grand son to the ER. He's running a high fever and is dehydrated. Now I see why my mom got gray hairs. I must have kept her jumping not only from crawling out of old basements that were falling in, or getting sick. Both of which she said I did a lot of, and not including all the stupid shit I pulled from the tops of trees around the neighbor hood. Or jumping off the top of my dad's diesel tank he kept in the side yard with the rig and the long term work dog house. It was actually an older model travel trailer. Painted, so I don't think it was an AirStream. I wish to hell we had some pictures of that. Kathy and some of her friends painted some Peanuts characters on it. Snoopy, Lucky, Linus and Charlie Brown himself. The exterior was blue, and they painted the characters long after the last layer of blue had been laid down on the darn thing. I remember it was kind of spooky going inside it, but I don't know why it made me nervous. It really was a travel trailer, that was covered in oil field stuff. Things like charts, lease maps, different types of tubing and casing volumes. All as well as parts for the power tongs (Pop had some of the first power tubing tongs in that part of Kansas) swab cups, parts for the rig. All the same things we carried on the dog house we pulled to each location, only this one had a regular bed in the back and two smaller beds up front. They dug a latrine kind of thing and ran the sewage hose into that. It also had a water tank to take showers…oh hell, you know, all the things a travel trailer would have had. It was pretty cool.
So, why have I been so quiet the past 3 or so weeks. Lets start with pain. It got bad, and Liz called the Nurse, who talked with the doc, who told the nurse, who told Liz, who told me, how to get the pain eased off a little bit. Basically we upped the patches. Today it's up to 175 mg over three days of Fentanyl. This is the first day on this high of a dosage. It's hammered me like I was a nail. I can't seem to get awake enough to finish anything without dozing off. I was having one of those great, GREAT XXX rated dreams, and fell asleep in the middle opening the throttle on the Whoopie Machine. How screwed up is that shit? The pain is still a problem, even more so than running your finger thru a pencil sharpener. Pain, it's what I Thrive upon. If that were true, I'd be wealthy. What kind of rules are those? Still, I tried to remain as close to pain free as I can. Even if it causes me to fall asleep six times while writing this post. Even with all this pain med going at me transdermal, or an opium based drug goin under my tongue (first time I spelled it correctly, just backward LOL).
I've had issues with snot clots jamming my trach tube and come very near killing me with my own panic/anxiety. I have some of mommies little helpers to aid in keeping that under control. I have found a couple of triggers that start the problem. If I catch it early enough I can talk my self out of it. Well not talk, actually, I can breath my way through it and not have to expend my Xanax unless it's really an emergency. I've also had some trouble with keeping my feeding from becoming an issue. A few times it's made me woozy, and yesterday it lovingly all came rushing out. I don't know if it's the coughing that causes that, or that my inability to swallow has something to do with the puking. I've contended that it's been the coughing, but after several thoughts about it, and replaying some other events, now I'm not so sure. There are a lot of things that aren't quite as right as I feel they should.
I've felt closer to actually being on the death march these last three weeks than I have ever felt in my life. A couple of times it felt like if I had to go on one more day, I'd rather go stand in traffic. Which I wouldn't have done. I didn't come along this far to see myself standing in traffic in the Town That Good Drivers Forgot. I believe why I feel this way is that my mortality is leading the way, it got to a cross roads and just stopped in the middle. Just like a damn rabbit. It's not the lights, it's the movement. Freezes them up like no tomorrow and they don't move until it's too late. That's how I felt these past three weeks. Finally, though, my Vanity kicked Mortality in the ass and asked that he not do that anymore because getting hit by a car would really mess up my already compromised appearance. Yeah I know, kind of a silly analogy, but I think it's pretty close to the mark. I know that the cancer is slowly (in one hand, thank God for that, on the other hand, for God's sake would you speed up just a frickin bit?) and that inevitably my body is going to finally just say "Enough" and shut down. For myself, the last three weeks have felt like that it's sped up a lot. I also know I've said that before and probably will again. Wishful thinking? Damned if I can tell you, but I do know that when the pain returns, and it will, that it gets harder to control every time it's come back it takes longer to control. Control is such a contrived word. The pain never really gets controlled, it just gets put to the back burner. The jaw pain is coming back as I type this. Not coming in screaming like a banshee, but more subtle. I suspect, by the time I get my shower this morning, even after some morphine, the pain will have settled in and I may be able to hold that to a four or five on the pain scale. Not from lack of trying, mind you, but experience with this these past seven months have shown me this is how Baxter likes to rally his troops.
Some of the other odds and ends that make me believe that things are clipping along here at a slightly greater rate.
For starters, my tongue will swell up and back down. It's done that from the beginning of this latest round. From say…mid August on. I've tried to vary my diet, but it's not like a food thing, it's seems to me that it's a more timing dilemma. Not a precise schedule, like Union Pacific, but not completely gone either.
I'm having hell staying hydrated. I'm not exercising or over working myself one iota more. Probably shut down before I get in too much trouble again. I don't know why it's so difficult. I'll up it again to maybe 80% of my body weight in ounces of liquid. That's only a couple, but that should give you all a good idea to what I mean by the "odds and ends"
A lot of what the blog does for me, besides the therapeutic value, is giving me a chance to go over some memories, and relive some really fun times. Actually some times may not have been that fun at the time, but make me laugh and smile a little now. Kinda like this one.
Spring time with cattle means doctoring the fall and winter calves. That includes checking their growth, weight, deciding which calve is going to remain a bull and which ones become steers. The last time the rancher did that, he kept a HUGE calf as a challenge to the older and wiser bull. He was able to take control of the herd and made huge babies. Looking back now, he was going to kill that really good herd off. This year there were three brood cows that died during birthing the big calves. A shame, really, since the entire herd was registered. Anyway, back to the fun part. The horse I used didn't belong to the rancher. Red was owned by a guy in town, on one of his visits to check on Red and to see if I was doing exactly what he told me, he said there was no way I was to let the rancher or his hands near his horse. Of course I agreed to that. Secret to being the perfect middle child, shut the fuck up and listen when the adults are talking. Apparently those same guys the previous spring had saddled Red up, then tried to race him with the other horses. He dumped a couple of guys. That pissed them off and they whipped the shit out of him. I saw and knew. There were at least ten old scars on his back.
I got up before sun rise, dad had already left, and rounded him up. We went on a little walk, then I secured him in the barn paddock. My lock that I'd cleaned up and found. I had the only keys to it as well. Horse safe, I went down to watch them work the calves. Out of the herd of calves there were probably 35-40 young bulls. While they castrated them, they were throwing their nuts on the ground. Even before I knew "What The Fuck?" I was thinking, what the fuck are they doing that for? Those are good eatin. I gathered up the pain in the ass little brother, a couple of two gallon pails and commenced to picking up the nuts. One pail was to carry them in, the other was for the nuts after I got them rinsed off. I hear Clay screaming like someone cut off his arm. I thought "Oh shit! One of the calves pinned him and broke an arm or something and mom is gonna be pissed at me!". Not the problem. The hands were trying to take the pail of nuts away from him, while that cock munch rancher laughed at them. Not on my watch. I ran over, took the pail, and sent Clay to go get my mom. (The rancher didn't own the ranch, he leased the pasture from the owner Neva Mai, a very sweet older lady). I told one of the ranch hands if he tried to take that pail from me, I'd kick his nuts. I wore real live cock roach killin pointy toed boots at the time. The rancher thought that was funny as hell. His hand reached out to take the pail, I drilled a hole in his shin with my boot. Charmed life that I live, he was reaching back to hammer me, and my Mom rounded the corner of the working shed. She tore those guys a new asshole. The rancher said they were his nuts off HIS steers. Mom looked him straight in the eye and said "So that's why all these are covered in dirt and ten feet from where you're working them?". We kept the nuts. I lost my job watching over his cattle. That coming winter was the one I told about earlier. I didn't have to go move the cattle. I did it so they wouldn't die.
Hugs and all that other shit that goes along with them
Actually it's been a rough three weeks. I'm finding it's easier to do the blog in the afternoons now, since I've had a day to get the meds in where and when they needed to go. Up until a bit ago, I wasn't able to use all the drugs I could have, simply because I keep the day as drug free as possible in case I need to drive some place or two. Today it turned out I needed to drive a couple of times. My daughter had to take my grand son to the ER. He's running a high fever and is dehydrated. Now I see why my mom got gray hairs. I must have kept her jumping not only from crawling out of old basements that were falling in, or getting sick. Both of which she said I did a lot of, and not including all the stupid shit I pulled from the tops of trees around the neighbor hood. Or jumping off the top of my dad's diesel tank he kept in the side yard with the rig and the long term work dog house. It was actually an older model travel trailer. Painted, so I don't think it was an AirStream. I wish to hell we had some pictures of that. Kathy and some of her friends painted some Peanuts characters on it. Snoopy, Lucky, Linus and Charlie Brown himself. The exterior was blue, and they painted the characters long after the last layer of blue had been laid down on the darn thing. I remember it was kind of spooky going inside it, but I don't know why it made me nervous. It really was a travel trailer, that was covered in oil field stuff. Things like charts, lease maps, different types of tubing and casing volumes. All as well as parts for the power tongs (Pop had some of the first power tubing tongs in that part of Kansas) swab cups, parts for the rig. All the same things we carried on the dog house we pulled to each location, only this one had a regular bed in the back and two smaller beds up front. They dug a latrine kind of thing and ran the sewage hose into that. It also had a water tank to take showers…oh hell, you know, all the things a travel trailer would have had. It was pretty cool.
So, why have I been so quiet the past 3 or so weeks. Lets start with pain. It got bad, and Liz called the Nurse, who talked with the doc, who told the nurse, who told Liz, who told me, how to get the pain eased off a little bit. Basically we upped the patches. Today it's up to 175 mg over three days of Fentanyl. This is the first day on this high of a dosage. It's hammered me like I was a nail. I can't seem to get awake enough to finish anything without dozing off. I was having one of those great, GREAT XXX rated dreams, and fell asleep in the middle opening the throttle on the Whoopie Machine. How screwed up is that shit? The pain is still a problem, even more so than running your finger thru a pencil sharpener. Pain, it's what I Thrive upon. If that were true, I'd be wealthy. What kind of rules are those? Still, I tried to remain as close to pain free as I can. Even if it causes me to fall asleep six times while writing this post. Even with all this pain med going at me transdermal, or an opium based drug goin under my tongue (first time I spelled it correctly, just backward LOL).
I've had issues with snot clots jamming my trach tube and come very near killing me with my own panic/anxiety. I have some of mommies little helpers to aid in keeping that under control. I have found a couple of triggers that start the problem. If I catch it early enough I can talk my self out of it. Well not talk, actually, I can breath my way through it and not have to expend my Xanax unless it's really an emergency. I've also had some trouble with keeping my feeding from becoming an issue. A few times it's made me woozy, and yesterday it lovingly all came rushing out. I don't know if it's the coughing that causes that, or that my inability to swallow has something to do with the puking. I've contended that it's been the coughing, but after several thoughts about it, and replaying some other events, now I'm not so sure. There are a lot of things that aren't quite as right as I feel they should.
I've felt closer to actually being on the death march these last three weeks than I have ever felt in my life. A couple of times it felt like if I had to go on one more day, I'd rather go stand in traffic. Which I wouldn't have done. I didn't come along this far to see myself standing in traffic in the Town That Good Drivers Forgot. I believe why I feel this way is that my mortality is leading the way, it got to a cross roads and just stopped in the middle. Just like a damn rabbit. It's not the lights, it's the movement. Freezes them up like no tomorrow and they don't move until it's too late. That's how I felt these past three weeks. Finally, though, my Vanity kicked Mortality in the ass and asked that he not do that anymore because getting hit by a car would really mess up my already compromised appearance. Yeah I know, kind of a silly analogy, but I think it's pretty close to the mark. I know that the cancer is slowly (in one hand, thank God for that, on the other hand, for God's sake would you speed up just a frickin bit?) and that inevitably my body is going to finally just say "Enough" and shut down. For myself, the last three weeks have felt like that it's sped up a lot. I also know I've said that before and probably will again. Wishful thinking? Damned if I can tell you, but I do know that when the pain returns, and it will, that it gets harder to control every time it's come back it takes longer to control. Control is such a contrived word. The pain never really gets controlled, it just gets put to the back burner. The jaw pain is coming back as I type this. Not coming in screaming like a banshee, but more subtle. I suspect, by the time I get my shower this morning, even after some morphine, the pain will have settled in and I may be able to hold that to a four or five on the pain scale. Not from lack of trying, mind you, but experience with this these past seven months have shown me this is how Baxter likes to rally his troops.
Some of the other odds and ends that make me believe that things are clipping along here at a slightly greater rate.
For starters, my tongue will swell up and back down. It's done that from the beginning of this latest round. From say…mid August on. I've tried to vary my diet, but it's not like a food thing, it's seems to me that it's a more timing dilemma. Not a precise schedule, like Union Pacific, but not completely gone either.
I'm having hell staying hydrated. I'm not exercising or over working myself one iota more. Probably shut down before I get in too much trouble again. I don't know why it's so difficult. I'll up it again to maybe 80% of my body weight in ounces of liquid. That's only a couple, but that should give you all a good idea to what I mean by the "odds and ends"
A lot of what the blog does for me, besides the therapeutic value, is giving me a chance to go over some memories, and relive some really fun times. Actually some times may not have been that fun at the time, but make me laugh and smile a little now. Kinda like this one.
Spring time with cattle means doctoring the fall and winter calves. That includes checking their growth, weight, deciding which calve is going to remain a bull and which ones become steers. The last time the rancher did that, he kept a HUGE calf as a challenge to the older and wiser bull. He was able to take control of the herd and made huge babies. Looking back now, he was going to kill that really good herd off. This year there were three brood cows that died during birthing the big calves. A shame, really, since the entire herd was registered. Anyway, back to the fun part. The horse I used didn't belong to the rancher. Red was owned by a guy in town, on one of his visits to check on Red and to see if I was doing exactly what he told me, he said there was no way I was to let the rancher or his hands near his horse. Of course I agreed to that. Secret to being the perfect middle child, shut the fuck up and listen when the adults are talking. Apparently those same guys the previous spring had saddled Red up, then tried to race him with the other horses. He dumped a couple of guys. That pissed them off and they whipped the shit out of him. I saw and knew. There were at least ten old scars on his back.
I got up before sun rise, dad had already left, and rounded him up. We went on a little walk, then I secured him in the barn paddock. My lock that I'd cleaned up and found. I had the only keys to it as well. Horse safe, I went down to watch them work the calves. Out of the herd of calves there were probably 35-40 young bulls. While they castrated them, they were throwing their nuts on the ground. Even before I knew "What The Fuck?" I was thinking, what the fuck are they doing that for? Those are good eatin. I gathered up the pain in the ass little brother, a couple of two gallon pails and commenced to picking up the nuts. One pail was to carry them in, the other was for the nuts after I got them rinsed off. I hear Clay screaming like someone cut off his arm. I thought "Oh shit! One of the calves pinned him and broke an arm or something and mom is gonna be pissed at me!". Not the problem. The hands were trying to take the pail of nuts away from him, while that cock munch rancher laughed at them. Not on my watch. I ran over, took the pail, and sent Clay to go get my mom. (The rancher didn't own the ranch, he leased the pasture from the owner Neva Mai, a very sweet older lady). I told one of the ranch hands if he tried to take that pail from me, I'd kick his nuts. I wore real live cock roach killin pointy toed boots at the time. The rancher thought that was funny as hell. His hand reached out to take the pail, I drilled a hole in his shin with my boot. Charmed life that I live, he was reaching back to hammer me, and my Mom rounded the corner of the working shed. She tore those guys a new asshole. The rancher said they were his nuts off HIS steers. Mom looked him straight in the eye and said "So that's why all these are covered in dirt and ten feet from where you're working them?". We kept the nuts. I lost my job watching over his cattle. That coming winter was the one I told about earlier. I didn't have to go move the cattle. I did it so they wouldn't die.
Hugs and all that other shit that goes along with them
Monday, February 3, 2014
Well, I Broke My Own Rule
I did break my own rule last night. I gave up a knee jerk reaction and posted a bunch of over the top bullshit that amounted to nothing. I got pissed off, and without thinking over what I really should have done. I took it over the top and told people that I was gonna stop posting anything about my Terminal Velocity. That was bull shit and I knew it, probably ten minutes after I posted all the stuff. It was wrong.
To all the people that read this blog on Facebook: I apologize. I was out of line, and very angry. It was foolish and I ask your forgiveness. I hope you'll give it to me.
The last week or so has been as close as I've ever been to shaking hands with death. I've been exhausted, I've been in some pain even with the added dosage fentanyl, and morphine. We (Hospice Doctor, Nurse, and Myself) have the chronic pain under control, and that's a good thing. But man, that acute, screaming, kick you in the nuts, bite a finger off, sudden stabbing pain, that's something else. The morphine will knock it out, and generally keep it out for a few hours. Saturday, no way it took care of it, the right side of my face was absolutely wearing me out. I had worked my way up to a full dose (40mg/1ml), every hour, and that barely squeezed it out. At the end of the day I was at the corner of Stoned and Out Of My Gourd, but the pain laid down. I did sleep almost 12 hours Saturday night into Sunday. What a difference a day makes. Yesterday it was 1/2 dose after the right side of my face started screaming at me. I took a dose every time the bone or muscle fired down upon me. I only took two all day. And I was awake at just a second before 0300 this morning. That gives me more than enough time to get myself ready for my day. I do believe I'm going to start trying to get to sleep around 2000 to 2100 hrs this evening. I feel better during the day. Although I'm absolutely worn clear the fuck out all the time.
I seem to feel as though I get these HUGE jumps in losing ground to the cancer. In retrospect, that's not how it is, truly. If I look at it closely, and not what I put in the blog or on Facebook, and if I do so honestly, the darn thing has been chewing away a little at a time since the beginning. If I REALLY want to look at it honestly I noticed some loss of energy and some extra soreness in my mouth and throat around the middle of June. About the time the wonderful Michelle Trant, SLP and I were making the biggest gains I'd seen as far as speech and swallowing was going. That would be if I were totally honest with myself. HA HA HA HA, the fuck I was. I ignored all that, mostly for myself, but also because it would have shattered Liz if I'd said anything without having solid proof. It damn near shattered her when they told us on July 8th they found a spot again. After the PET scan, I didn't even pay attention to where it had spread. I figured it was all over. There was also nothing they could do to clear it up. I asked about amputation and replacement with a much more handsome face and head. They said that wasn't an option. I'd think they'd want to get that kind of amazing surgical miracles, and how much of humanity that could be saved. Although, there is a fear that I might have gotten a head from Abby Normal. Those things, though, only happen in Mel Brooks movies.
Yeah, I'm actually worn clear the hell out. I can't stay awake, my strength is waning, and if I'm not looking too closely, my wind is also going south. I'm certain that my time is coming, I just don't know when. I'm not so sure that anyone should really no when they are going to die. Would you go crazy with fear? Would you do full time wild and out of control behavior, in trying to do the things you hadn't yet? What would suddenly become your priorities? Do all you could for yourself? Or all you could do for your family first? The Dr's have all given me a year, give or take, until I'm bust. I feel like probably less, and have since they gave me the prognosis. There are a lot of reasons I felt that way, and still feel that way. It's difficult for me to put into words why I feel that way. It was a combination of things. I couldn't keep my pulse rate down like I wanted it even with going as fast I as I could on the treadmill. Even missing part of my quad, I was able to move along at a decent clip, but my pulse wouldn't lower and my breathing was getting worse all the time. Even with the Tracheostomy tube and ability to breath through my mouth and nose, I couldn't hold my pulse or my breathing to the control I wanted. I also was increasing my bodily pain by 3 fold. I kept at it until the pain got to the point I couldn't sleep at all. And while I could get away with two to three hours a night, if I got a good power nap of twenty minutes. That wasn't happening since I went under the knife. A lot of the things some people take for granted, and even some with the same surgery I had, didn't have the same problems. As a rule, most of them could still swallow as long as they didn't have a fistula that leaked food or liquid into some place it shouldn't go. Mine was compounded that radiation therapy had turned a goodly amount of my throat to hardened (not strong) tissue. When you add in the dead quadriceps muscle, the infection that the necroses of the the tissue caused, and subsequent surgeries, my throat had no chance at all. We'd just gotten a bit to swallow, and it was going better all the time, when I had my first reconstructive surgery.
Ooops, cancer!! And the extra surgery put me back at square one, and I worked at it like it was back at square one. Although I finally had to say "enough". The pain was causing me to lose my lunch right up through my mouth and sinuses. Yes!! I puked. It's hard on me to do that, and even worse now. So I backed off. I think, maybe (or at least imagine) that I can swallow just a touch. Anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yep, I'm closer now to shaking hands with Death than I have been in the past. And it's not just the addition of time that's put me in that position. It's just a fact. I bleed more, I cough more (and more of the sputum is pink or bright red), and I'm so tired I have to nap more.
And yes, to all you who support me, and are a huge part of keeping my drive to live going, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I allowed myself to fall into the same old trap I tell people not to step into. I did and I wish I hadn't. This is one of the times that I can wish in one hand and shit it the other, and we all know which one fills up the fastest.
When I was, oh hell, nine or ten, I see my little brother (he would have been 5 or 6) hauling ass around the corner of the house screaming. He wasn't doing anything to get in trouble for, just playing in his sand pile. I started walking over just in time to see two kids my age chasing him laughing. Chris Herman (across the street neighbor) and Bill Jacobs (across the tracks north of me, and 5 or so blocks away) were chasing him hollering they were gonna beat his ass. No one beat Clay's ass but me. He ran past me, then turned for the front door. Chris Herman and Bill Jacobs stopped and told me they were gonna beat Clay's ass for throwing sand at them. I asked what they were doing in my yard to begin with. Chris took a swing. I busted him as hard as I could and split his lip. Bill ran off. I'm still outside screwing around with changing a tube on my bike when Herman's big brother Bill came and asked me why I hit his little brother (Chris and I were the same age). I told him the story, he told Chris he was a pussy. An hour or so later, Bill Jacobs big brother Jeff came over. He told me Bill said I was gonna whip his ass for fun. No, that's not quite right, and I told him the story. He asked me if I'd fight Bill right there. Hell yes I would (I couldn't take Jeff Jacobs, he was 3 years older and looked huge) but Bill ran home. All's well that ends well. Or so I thought. Shortly after Bill ran away, Chris Herman came over with his football uniform on (no, we didn't have Pop Warner or any other little FB league in that town, we got ours from Sears-Roebuck Christmas Wish Book) ready to whip my ass. Chris's brother Bill ran out the front door of his house about the same time I grabbed Chris by the face guard, yanked him to the ground and literally kicked his ass until my foot hurt. His brother was laughing his ass off. He even followed me to the gas station, bought me a coke and a bag of peanuts. Not a bad day in the summer of 1969 or 1970.
Addendum: In the summer of 1982 I took my scooter on a road trip through Hays KS to see some buds, and through where I'd lived as a kid. Kind of a nice trip back in time. As luck would have it, I ended up in Gorham, mid afternoon of the evening they were having a town party in the park that used to be part of my yard on the south side of US 40. Some of the German heritage boys I went to school with turned into some big mother fuckers. I was no weakling, but I was just under 6' tall then, and those guys, for the most part, towered over me. Bill Jacobs had gotten a snootful and wanted to arm wrestle. It's not hard to beat a drunk wrist wrestling. Gotta remember, I was still working the pulling unit. I wrenched every rod we had when there was a new string to run, and was working derrick as well. So, I snagged Bill down 3 outta 3, and he was cool with that afterward. Chris Herman, on the other hand, wasn't so forgiving. He wanted a fight and wouldn't take no for an answer. What I was trying to do, was make him so mad his drunk ass would fuck up and give me a shot and either kicking his nuts up into his mouth, or hammer his nose so hard he had to unzip his pants to sneeze.
I asked him "Do you need time to go get your football uniform on again? Or are you ready to go right now?" Oh Christ, he went practically purple with anger. Not with me though. There must have been 30 people at that set of tables who heard the entire thing. They either saw the original fight with the football uniform or had been told about it. They were laughing their asses off. Chris got so mad he couldn't see fucking straight. Perfect for a fight, if you're the one he wants to fight. Even more perfect if you can sit back and watch him stagger home. Almost like he did when he was 10!!!
To all the people that read this blog on Facebook: I apologize. I was out of line, and very angry. It was foolish and I ask your forgiveness. I hope you'll give it to me.
The last week or so has been as close as I've ever been to shaking hands with death. I've been exhausted, I've been in some pain even with the added dosage fentanyl, and morphine. We (Hospice Doctor, Nurse, and Myself) have the chronic pain under control, and that's a good thing. But man, that acute, screaming, kick you in the nuts, bite a finger off, sudden stabbing pain, that's something else. The morphine will knock it out, and generally keep it out for a few hours. Saturday, no way it took care of it, the right side of my face was absolutely wearing me out. I had worked my way up to a full dose (40mg/1ml), every hour, and that barely squeezed it out. At the end of the day I was at the corner of Stoned and Out Of My Gourd, but the pain laid down. I did sleep almost 12 hours Saturday night into Sunday. What a difference a day makes. Yesterday it was 1/2 dose after the right side of my face started screaming at me. I took a dose every time the bone or muscle fired down upon me. I only took two all day. And I was awake at just a second before 0300 this morning. That gives me more than enough time to get myself ready for my day. I do believe I'm going to start trying to get to sleep around 2000 to 2100 hrs this evening. I feel better during the day. Although I'm absolutely worn clear the fuck out all the time.
I seem to feel as though I get these HUGE jumps in losing ground to the cancer. In retrospect, that's not how it is, truly. If I look at it closely, and not what I put in the blog or on Facebook, and if I do so honestly, the darn thing has been chewing away a little at a time since the beginning. If I REALLY want to look at it honestly I noticed some loss of energy and some extra soreness in my mouth and throat around the middle of June. About the time the wonderful Michelle Trant, SLP and I were making the biggest gains I'd seen as far as speech and swallowing was going. That would be if I were totally honest with myself. HA HA HA HA, the fuck I was. I ignored all that, mostly for myself, but also because it would have shattered Liz if I'd said anything without having solid proof. It damn near shattered her when they told us on July 8th they found a spot again. After the PET scan, I didn't even pay attention to where it had spread. I figured it was all over. There was also nothing they could do to clear it up. I asked about amputation and replacement with a much more handsome face and head. They said that wasn't an option. I'd think they'd want to get that kind of amazing surgical miracles, and how much of humanity that could be saved. Although, there is a fear that I might have gotten a head from Abby Normal. Those things, though, only happen in Mel Brooks movies.
Yeah, I'm actually worn clear the hell out. I can't stay awake, my strength is waning, and if I'm not looking too closely, my wind is also going south. I'm certain that my time is coming, I just don't know when. I'm not so sure that anyone should really no when they are going to die. Would you go crazy with fear? Would you do full time wild and out of control behavior, in trying to do the things you hadn't yet? What would suddenly become your priorities? Do all you could for yourself? Or all you could do for your family first? The Dr's have all given me a year, give or take, until I'm bust. I feel like probably less, and have since they gave me the prognosis. There are a lot of reasons I felt that way, and still feel that way. It's difficult for me to put into words why I feel that way. It was a combination of things. I couldn't keep my pulse rate down like I wanted it even with going as fast I as I could on the treadmill. Even missing part of my quad, I was able to move along at a decent clip, but my pulse wouldn't lower and my breathing was getting worse all the time. Even with the Tracheostomy tube and ability to breath through my mouth and nose, I couldn't hold my pulse or my breathing to the control I wanted. I also was increasing my bodily pain by 3 fold. I kept at it until the pain got to the point I couldn't sleep at all. And while I could get away with two to three hours a night, if I got a good power nap of twenty minutes. That wasn't happening since I went under the knife. A lot of the things some people take for granted, and even some with the same surgery I had, didn't have the same problems. As a rule, most of them could still swallow as long as they didn't have a fistula that leaked food or liquid into some place it shouldn't go. Mine was compounded that radiation therapy had turned a goodly amount of my throat to hardened (not strong) tissue. When you add in the dead quadriceps muscle, the infection that the necroses of the the tissue caused, and subsequent surgeries, my throat had no chance at all. We'd just gotten a bit to swallow, and it was going better all the time, when I had my first reconstructive surgery.
Ooops, cancer!! And the extra surgery put me back at square one, and I worked at it like it was back at square one. Although I finally had to say "enough". The pain was causing me to lose my lunch right up through my mouth and sinuses. Yes!! I puked. It's hard on me to do that, and even worse now. So I backed off. I think, maybe (or at least imagine) that I can swallow just a touch. Anyway. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yep, I'm closer now to shaking hands with Death than I have been in the past. And it's not just the addition of time that's put me in that position. It's just a fact. I bleed more, I cough more (and more of the sputum is pink or bright red), and I'm so tired I have to nap more.
And yes, to all you who support me, and are a huge part of keeping my drive to live going, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I allowed myself to fall into the same old trap I tell people not to step into. I did and I wish I hadn't. This is one of the times that I can wish in one hand and shit it the other, and we all know which one fills up the fastest.
When I was, oh hell, nine or ten, I see my little brother (he would have been 5 or 6) hauling ass around the corner of the house screaming. He wasn't doing anything to get in trouble for, just playing in his sand pile. I started walking over just in time to see two kids my age chasing him laughing. Chris Herman (across the street neighbor) and Bill Jacobs (across the tracks north of me, and 5 or so blocks away) were chasing him hollering they were gonna beat his ass. No one beat Clay's ass but me. He ran past me, then turned for the front door. Chris Herman and Bill Jacobs stopped and told me they were gonna beat Clay's ass for throwing sand at them. I asked what they were doing in my yard to begin with. Chris took a swing. I busted him as hard as I could and split his lip. Bill ran off. I'm still outside screwing around with changing a tube on my bike when Herman's big brother Bill came and asked me why I hit his little brother (Chris and I were the same age). I told him the story, he told Chris he was a pussy. An hour or so later, Bill Jacobs big brother Jeff came over. He told me Bill said I was gonna whip his ass for fun. No, that's not quite right, and I told him the story. He asked me if I'd fight Bill right there. Hell yes I would (I couldn't take Jeff Jacobs, he was 3 years older and looked huge) but Bill ran home. All's well that ends well. Or so I thought. Shortly after Bill ran away, Chris Herman came over with his football uniform on (no, we didn't have Pop Warner or any other little FB league in that town, we got ours from Sears-Roebuck Christmas Wish Book) ready to whip my ass. Chris's brother Bill ran out the front door of his house about the same time I grabbed Chris by the face guard, yanked him to the ground and literally kicked his ass until my foot hurt. His brother was laughing his ass off. He even followed me to the gas station, bought me a coke and a bag of peanuts. Not a bad day in the summer of 1969 or 1970.
Addendum: In the summer of 1982 I took my scooter on a road trip through Hays KS to see some buds, and through where I'd lived as a kid. Kind of a nice trip back in time. As luck would have it, I ended up in Gorham, mid afternoon of the evening they were having a town party in the park that used to be part of my yard on the south side of US 40. Some of the German heritage boys I went to school with turned into some big mother fuckers. I was no weakling, but I was just under 6' tall then, and those guys, for the most part, towered over me. Bill Jacobs had gotten a snootful and wanted to arm wrestle. It's not hard to beat a drunk wrist wrestling. Gotta remember, I was still working the pulling unit. I wrenched every rod we had when there was a new string to run, and was working derrick as well. So, I snagged Bill down 3 outta 3, and he was cool with that afterward. Chris Herman, on the other hand, wasn't so forgiving. He wanted a fight and wouldn't take no for an answer. What I was trying to do, was make him so mad his drunk ass would fuck up and give me a shot and either kicking his nuts up into his mouth, or hammer his nose so hard he had to unzip his pants to sneeze.
I asked him "Do you need time to go get your football uniform on again? Or are you ready to go right now?" Oh Christ, he went practically purple with anger. Not with me though. There must have been 30 people at that set of tables who heard the entire thing. They either saw the original fight with the football uniform or had been told about it. They were laughing their asses off. Chris got so mad he couldn't see fucking straight. Perfect for a fight, if you're the one he wants to fight. Even more perfect if you can sit back and watch him stagger home. Almost like he did when he was 10!!!
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Oh, Kiss My Ass
There are a few ways you can take that. One is the long way to starting a fist fight. Another is a response to something you should have known i.e. 2 X 2 = 4. "Oh Kiss my ass! I knew that!". Another is a statement backing a fact. "Oh, kiss my ass, I'm so tired I can't see straight". That's more in line with the title today. Wanna go for a walk? Sure! Oh Kiss my ass! I've got to round up shit that takes 20 extra fucking minutes that I didn't really want to put into going for a walk/coffee/gun show/ what ever the fuck else 99.9% of the population sees as another fun outing. It's like taking a baby with you. Oh, kiss my ass! I forgot about parents of babies, so the 99.9% number is WAY off. Well, it was a guess anyway. I will tell you this, it is damn close to making it more of a nuisance to go anywhere than it is just to stay home and occasionally go outside to see what the weather is really doing.
This is where the cancer starts getting your entire system to think it can give you the finger and take everything away. He got awful fucking close with me the last three or four days, and that's no shit. I was right on the edge of just telling everyone to leave me the fuck alone, I'm just as thrilled dealing with "situational narcolepsy" at the house as I am at Starbucks. Fucking happened again this morning. I go in, order my cup of Joe, do my standard half and half with brown sugar (no, I can't taste it all) mix it up, get a taste for my tongue off the wooden stir sticks, load up a syringe and since I've dumped in some Half and Half the cup of mud isn't too hot to push in (made since now, didn't it?). So, I shove down 4 ounces of damn good coffee, snag the paper to give it a read. Nope, a nice MFD EMT shook my foot to make sure I was okay. I'd been out about an hour. Fucking shit. I write that I'm fine and thank him for checking on me. I'm embarrassed out the ass though, I don't even look the girls working in the eye because I'm embarrassed. It fucking sucks. Sorta sours my day right off the bat when I can't even enjoy a cup of coffee in one of the nice soft chairs they have without passing the fuck out. Because I passed the fuck out for almost an hour, I'm behind on my formula at home. To make that up, I've got to dump three cans of that bullshit which is overfilling and generally makes me feel like I'm gonna vomit any minute for at least three hours. So I get that in, and we go to get the dog some food and hit the gun show for a while. I know for around an hour I'm not going to feel well, but that will be okay. It's okay because it's out among the living, well, at least some of the people look like they are alive. There's always that percentage of the population that regards "living" as looking exactly like the worst redneck stereotype you can imagine. But that's for another day and story. I think the moving around helped out with the overfull feeling, it didn't last more than an hour this go round. (the second one came on a lot of coughing and that means that I also get to cough up some nasty acidic shit that is nicely balanced by the inescapable flavor of fresh moose shit that is the formula I have to use. Yum fucking yum.
We walked around the Gun Show for about an hour. tiny O2 bottle on one shoulder, suction pump on the other, and fifty or sixty rude mother fuckers that can't seem to get around me, or the guy in the wheelchair, without bumping into us or acting like we are taking up the fucking space without permission. I can't talk or I'd been using that O2 bottle as a weapon. I did drop a short note on the wheel chair guys lap. We passed each other about 20 minutes later, he gave me a thumbs up. So either he read it and thought it was funny, or read it, thought was funny and said it out loud. "Wouldn't it be nice if all these cock-suckers that keep running into me without even a "boo, hiss, or kiss my ass" would just set fuck down for 2 minutes so I can shop without having them up my ass?" Yeah, I'd had about enough of the "Friendliest People In Texas" bullshit for one day. So we headed home. I took on some much needed water because I was dehydrating a little. And yet, once again, it was time to pour three more cans of that dog shit they call Formula down. This time it stayed with me, the feeling that I'm gonna hurl since I feel so overly full. I'm also texting with a buddy of mine. He texts, I pass out, I text 30-45 minutes later and he's still okay with that. I did text him one that I didn't fix after I fell asleep, we both had a laugh over that. Hardy har.
Some little shit that hits my "Pet Peeve" button. Now that I think about it, I may put up a few pet peeves just for giggles every once in a while.
PET PEEVES
When I write down I don't hear well, and you turn your back on me to talk, huge pet peeve, shows you don't care, your memory is shorter than a hamsters dick, or you want to piss me off on purpose. I'll even toss in that you didn't mean to do that.
Some times, if I croak out "wait a minute" could possibly mean I would like to run something by you. Just going on like you were just frosts my ass to no end. And again, being the magnanimous person that I am, I'll give benefit of the doubt on this too. Some people are crowding the forgiveness. I'm glad it's not anyone in my house that's crowding it.
When I sit down anywhere, and I'm only two or three feet away, I can hear you when you talk about me, you fucking dolt. There is no room for benefit of the doubt on this one.
That's Three. check back after this is posted. If I quit dozonnn;jjjj''
Dammit!!!!!!! I dozed off. Seriously, check after I post this, there maybe a spot for some of your own Pet Peeves. No grooming required
Walker KS had a bomber training, B-29's in fact. It was between Gorham, Vicotoria, and Hays Ks.
North of Gorham, and just west of Paradise KS there was a high spot that you could see Gorham, Walker, and Victoria with the naked eye. There was also what looked like a storm shelter that had, or so it looked, like phone service and a good sized radio tower. If you're a kid, looked like a fun place to hang out. According to my dad who knew everyone and their first dog up in that country, it was not a storm shelter at all. This was German immigrant country. Volga-Germans. Enticed to Russia to settle the wilds around the Volga, then shit upon and denied the things they were promised. They moved to the high plains where they kept their heritage (learned to speak English. makes me wonder why a lot of the other immigrants we have here now can't do the same) and turned the state of Kansas into the Bread Box of the world.
That was a bunker, set up to record flights, number of planes, which planes were being pressed into service by being shipped out with their crews. The phone line was a direct hook up to a man up the road so they wouldn't be caught, early morning transmitting with a radio to Germany. They were sending all the information they gathered every day and sending it to Germany via radio. They got turned in and were arrested by the FBI.
So goes local legend. And when you're a kid of 6 or 8, that sounded neater than shit. I hope that story is true, and I wished I'd had asked Pop how to get to it before he died. I would have loved to moved back onto that ranch. Redone the old home from stem to stern and stayed there after I retired. Then remembering that Liz and I neither one like extended cold any more, or snow that stays more than 24 hours, that was looking less and less like it might happen
Hugs and all that bullshit
This is where the cancer starts getting your entire system to think it can give you the finger and take everything away. He got awful fucking close with me the last three or four days, and that's no shit. I was right on the edge of just telling everyone to leave me the fuck alone, I'm just as thrilled dealing with "situational narcolepsy" at the house as I am at Starbucks. Fucking happened again this morning. I go in, order my cup of Joe, do my standard half and half with brown sugar (no, I can't taste it all) mix it up, get a taste for my tongue off the wooden stir sticks, load up a syringe and since I've dumped in some Half and Half the cup of mud isn't too hot to push in (made since now, didn't it?). So, I shove down 4 ounces of damn good coffee, snag the paper to give it a read. Nope, a nice MFD EMT shook my foot to make sure I was okay. I'd been out about an hour. Fucking shit. I write that I'm fine and thank him for checking on me. I'm embarrassed out the ass though, I don't even look the girls working in the eye because I'm embarrassed. It fucking sucks. Sorta sours my day right off the bat when I can't even enjoy a cup of coffee in one of the nice soft chairs they have without passing the fuck out. Because I passed the fuck out for almost an hour, I'm behind on my formula at home. To make that up, I've got to dump three cans of that bullshit which is overfilling and generally makes me feel like I'm gonna vomit any minute for at least three hours. So I get that in, and we go to get the dog some food and hit the gun show for a while. I know for around an hour I'm not going to feel well, but that will be okay. It's okay because it's out among the living, well, at least some of the people look like they are alive. There's always that percentage of the population that regards "living" as looking exactly like the worst redneck stereotype you can imagine. But that's for another day and story. I think the moving around helped out with the overfull feeling, it didn't last more than an hour this go round. (the second one came on a lot of coughing and that means that I also get to cough up some nasty acidic shit that is nicely balanced by the inescapable flavor of fresh moose shit that is the formula I have to use. Yum fucking yum.
We walked around the Gun Show for about an hour. tiny O2 bottle on one shoulder, suction pump on the other, and fifty or sixty rude mother fuckers that can't seem to get around me, or the guy in the wheelchair, without bumping into us or acting like we are taking up the fucking space without permission. I can't talk or I'd been using that O2 bottle as a weapon. I did drop a short note on the wheel chair guys lap. We passed each other about 20 minutes later, he gave me a thumbs up. So either he read it and thought it was funny, or read it, thought was funny and said it out loud. "Wouldn't it be nice if all these cock-suckers that keep running into me without even a "boo, hiss, or kiss my ass" would just set fuck down for 2 minutes so I can shop without having them up my ass?" Yeah, I'd had about enough of the "Friendliest People In Texas" bullshit for one day. So we headed home. I took on some much needed water because I was dehydrating a little. And yet, once again, it was time to pour three more cans of that dog shit they call Formula down. This time it stayed with me, the feeling that I'm gonna hurl since I feel so overly full. I'm also texting with a buddy of mine. He texts, I pass out, I text 30-45 minutes later and he's still okay with that. I did text him one that I didn't fix after I fell asleep, we both had a laugh over that. Hardy har.
Some little shit that hits my "Pet Peeve" button. Now that I think about it, I may put up a few pet peeves just for giggles every once in a while.
PET PEEVES
When I write down I don't hear well, and you turn your back on me to talk, huge pet peeve, shows you don't care, your memory is shorter than a hamsters dick, or you want to piss me off on purpose. I'll even toss in that you didn't mean to do that.
Some times, if I croak out "wait a minute" could possibly mean I would like to run something by you. Just going on like you were just frosts my ass to no end. And again, being the magnanimous person that I am, I'll give benefit of the doubt on this too. Some people are crowding the forgiveness. I'm glad it's not anyone in my house that's crowding it.
When I sit down anywhere, and I'm only two or three feet away, I can hear you when you talk about me, you fucking dolt. There is no room for benefit of the doubt on this one.
That's Three. check back after this is posted. If I quit dozonnn;jjjj''
Dammit!!!!!!! I dozed off. Seriously, check after I post this, there maybe a spot for some of your own Pet Peeves. No grooming required
Walker KS had a bomber training, B-29's in fact. It was between Gorham, Vicotoria, and Hays Ks.
North of Gorham, and just west of Paradise KS there was a high spot that you could see Gorham, Walker, and Victoria with the naked eye. There was also what looked like a storm shelter that had, or so it looked, like phone service and a good sized radio tower. If you're a kid, looked like a fun place to hang out. According to my dad who knew everyone and their first dog up in that country, it was not a storm shelter at all. This was German immigrant country. Volga-Germans. Enticed to Russia to settle the wilds around the Volga, then shit upon and denied the things they were promised. They moved to the high plains where they kept their heritage (learned to speak English. makes me wonder why a lot of the other immigrants we have here now can't do the same) and turned the state of Kansas into the Bread Box of the world.
That was a bunker, set up to record flights, number of planes, which planes were being pressed into service by being shipped out with their crews. The phone line was a direct hook up to a man up the road so they wouldn't be caught, early morning transmitting with a radio to Germany. They were sending all the information they gathered every day and sending it to Germany via radio. They got turned in and were arrested by the FBI.
So goes local legend. And when you're a kid of 6 or 8, that sounded neater than shit. I hope that story is true, and I wished I'd had asked Pop how to get to it before he died. I would have loved to moved back onto that ranch. Redone the old home from stem to stern and stayed there after I retired. Then remembering that Liz and I neither one like extended cold any more, or snow that stays more than 24 hours, that was looking less and less like it might happen
Hugs and all that bullshit
Thursday, January 30, 2014
I'm In A Foul Fucking Mood
Yeah, I'm in a foul fucking mood. For a lot of reasons I'm royally pissed off and I can't really put my finger on any particular one that sent me into a foul fucking mood. I can't even tell how long the foul fucking mood will last, but I believe this is going to last a long fucking time. I'm not just pissed off, I'm pissed off clear down to the bone. That doesn't happen very often. When it did in the past, I could go to work and stay the fuck away from everyone until it cleared up. Christ on crutch I can't even do that any more. I can't walk any particular distance until my leg starts to ache. I run out of wind just walking around the house. I can't pick crap up from the floor more than a couple of times in a row, since I don't have a soft palate everything in my mouth and throat runs into my sinuses. I can't ride that bike. It needs a new battery and an oil change. I can't do either one of those things because I can't lie on one side long enough to get the old out and the new in and put together properly. As far as doing things around the house in the manner of general maintenance, I can't do any of that either. Now I know how tits on a boar hog feel.
So, I'm getting the pain patches bumped up to around 150mg of Fentanyl, slowly but surely. I think the next big bump up comes Monday. Yippee. It doesn't make any difference what I tell anyone. Hospice nurse, Liz, Lymphedema Therapist, my massage guy, none of them really hear what I'm saying. Yes, I have continual pain in my right jaw, I also have these sharp stabbing pains in it up near where the jaw attaches to your skull. In front of your ear. That stabbing pain is enough to put me clear down twice today. A win, actually, yesterday on the 29th, it put me down four times. The pain in my jaw goes clear into my ear. Can't explain it any more plainly than that. Apparently the continual pain is all that fucking soaks in. I was sleeping pretty well between 1930 and 2000 hrs this evening when one of the stabbing pains hit. Yep, it's still throbbing from that one. I've talked to the Hospice Nurse about it. I suppose the Doc is going to be here tomorrow, on Friday, maybe he'll have an idea as what I can do to slow the frequency of the stabbing pain down. Or he'll do like every fucking one else and complete my sentences for me until I get so fucking tired of stopping and holding up one hand to let folks know "I'm not quite done you pretentious fuck. How about waiting until I quit writing?". Actually that doesn't work either. I've even gone so far as laying my pad and pen down and waiting. When they asked what I was going to say I picked up my pad and pen, "You were so good at interrupting me, I thought you knew what I was going to tell you before I did. I was waiting on you to finish.". The stupid fuck thought I was being funny, and went on trying to finish my sentences. Gosh, I can't figure why I'm in such a foul fucking mood.
I'm pissed because I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to drive. I'm losing range of motion in my head and neck. There's going to come a time when I won't be able to take myself places in a car. So it looks like I'll be hoofing it as best I can to go anywhere. And since it turns out I've got to start taking the O2 with me when I walk now, that's probably not going to be very far at all. It's a mile and a half to either one of the Starbucks where I go to have coffee. No faster than I can cover ground, and carrying the extra weight of the suction pump and a small O2 bottle, I'll have to start at 0300 to get there when it opens at 0500. Loads of fun in that, isn't there. I can, probably, get a ride to and from therapy if I'm still able to take it. That'd be nice. I won't be able to take the Son to school any more, though. That's a drag and a half. Sometimes I even like to go to the mall, just to sit around and watch people. That'll be out of the question when I'm unable to drive.
I'm fucking tired all the damn time too. That I expected to happen. I'm not so pissed off about that, as I am that if I'm not trying to keep up with a conversation, or driving, I'll drop off. I've done that twice in Starbucks. It's funny, to an extent. On the other hand it pisses me off because I've got no control, it seems, as to where or when I'm going to to drop off. The last time I dropped off at Starbucks I was reading a book, enjoying a little dab of coffee (I can push it real fast into the tube and get a taste, or get a drop or two on a finger and get a taste. the rest is just that nice warm feeling), the next thing I knew it was 0745. I'd dropped off for almost an hour. Shit, that was embarrassing. Still, it happens. Little shit wears me completely out. I can carry much at a time any more, so I have to make several trips with lighter stuff. We went to Sam's, the walk around wore me out, and having my 19 year old daughter carry more stuff into the house than I could was a real kick in my ego's nuts. So yeah, I'm fucking tired of being fucking tired.
On a personal note. Cocksuckers, if you can hear me then I can hear you. Just because I can't talk, doesn't mean I can't hear you, you dick swallowers. If you think me clearing my trach tube out is gross, at least have the common courtesy to look me in the eye when you say "Fuck, that's gross, man". Or my favorite "Look at that motherfucker. If I looked like that I'd blow my fucking brains out". You're a lying, or I'd go home and give you the weapon to do it with, you pencil dick. I particularly like older folks who don't get around very well, pushing me the fuck out of the way so they can make it to the front door of anywhere a couple of steps ahead of me. Yeah, I'm slower than the old folks now, but I wasn't pushy and rude when I was healthy you rat bastard old fuck. Maybe I should have been, but then again my mom raised me better than yours did you.
I tell ya, today has been one of those days when I would just as soon have the shit catch up with me and finish my ass tomorrow. I'm fucking tired.
So, I'm getting the pain patches bumped up to around 150mg of Fentanyl, slowly but surely. I think the next big bump up comes Monday. Yippee. It doesn't make any difference what I tell anyone. Hospice nurse, Liz, Lymphedema Therapist, my massage guy, none of them really hear what I'm saying. Yes, I have continual pain in my right jaw, I also have these sharp stabbing pains in it up near where the jaw attaches to your skull. In front of your ear. That stabbing pain is enough to put me clear down twice today. A win, actually, yesterday on the 29th, it put me down four times. The pain in my jaw goes clear into my ear. Can't explain it any more plainly than that. Apparently the continual pain is all that fucking soaks in. I was sleeping pretty well between 1930 and 2000 hrs this evening when one of the stabbing pains hit. Yep, it's still throbbing from that one. I've talked to the Hospice Nurse about it. I suppose the Doc is going to be here tomorrow, on Friday, maybe he'll have an idea as what I can do to slow the frequency of the stabbing pain down. Or he'll do like every fucking one else and complete my sentences for me until I get so fucking tired of stopping and holding up one hand to let folks know "I'm not quite done you pretentious fuck. How about waiting until I quit writing?". Actually that doesn't work either. I've even gone so far as laying my pad and pen down and waiting. When they asked what I was going to say I picked up my pad and pen, "You were so good at interrupting me, I thought you knew what I was going to tell you before I did. I was waiting on you to finish.". The stupid fuck thought I was being funny, and went on trying to finish my sentences. Gosh, I can't figure why I'm in such a foul fucking mood.
I'm pissed because I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to drive. I'm losing range of motion in my head and neck. There's going to come a time when I won't be able to take myself places in a car. So it looks like I'll be hoofing it as best I can to go anywhere. And since it turns out I've got to start taking the O2 with me when I walk now, that's probably not going to be very far at all. It's a mile and a half to either one of the Starbucks where I go to have coffee. No faster than I can cover ground, and carrying the extra weight of the suction pump and a small O2 bottle, I'll have to start at 0300 to get there when it opens at 0500. Loads of fun in that, isn't there. I can, probably, get a ride to and from therapy if I'm still able to take it. That'd be nice. I won't be able to take the Son to school any more, though. That's a drag and a half. Sometimes I even like to go to the mall, just to sit around and watch people. That'll be out of the question when I'm unable to drive.
I'm fucking tired all the damn time too. That I expected to happen. I'm not so pissed off about that, as I am that if I'm not trying to keep up with a conversation, or driving, I'll drop off. I've done that twice in Starbucks. It's funny, to an extent. On the other hand it pisses me off because I've got no control, it seems, as to where or when I'm going to to drop off. The last time I dropped off at Starbucks I was reading a book, enjoying a little dab of coffee (I can push it real fast into the tube and get a taste, or get a drop or two on a finger and get a taste. the rest is just that nice warm feeling), the next thing I knew it was 0745. I'd dropped off for almost an hour. Shit, that was embarrassing. Still, it happens. Little shit wears me completely out. I can carry much at a time any more, so I have to make several trips with lighter stuff. We went to Sam's, the walk around wore me out, and having my 19 year old daughter carry more stuff into the house than I could was a real kick in my ego's nuts. So yeah, I'm fucking tired of being fucking tired.
On a personal note. Cocksuckers, if you can hear me then I can hear you. Just because I can't talk, doesn't mean I can't hear you, you dick swallowers. If you think me clearing my trach tube out is gross, at least have the common courtesy to look me in the eye when you say "Fuck, that's gross, man". Or my favorite "Look at that motherfucker. If I looked like that I'd blow my fucking brains out". You're a lying, or I'd go home and give you the weapon to do it with, you pencil dick. I particularly like older folks who don't get around very well, pushing me the fuck out of the way so they can make it to the front door of anywhere a couple of steps ahead of me. Yeah, I'm slower than the old folks now, but I wasn't pushy and rude when I was healthy you rat bastard old fuck. Maybe I should have been, but then again my mom raised me better than yours did you.
I tell ya, today has been one of those days when I would just as soon have the shit catch up with me and finish my ass tomorrow. I'm fucking tired.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
How Strange This All Gets
This is getting strange on a couple of fronts. I never dreamed in all my life that I'd have an anxiety attack, and just for good measure on the fun side, a panic attack was thrown in. (That was even more weird TASSCCCCCCCCCCC). In Parenthesis is what happens when you fall asleep typing. Back to getting strange. Both of those things are are new to me, and I wasn't sure what was going on, except that I was experiencing things I never had happen to me before. That counts as strange.
Before I go on, I need to do something. I owe any of you folks who have to deal with Anxiety and/or Panic issues on a daily or so basis an apology. I never thought much about it either way before this last episode I had. It's a frightening and disabling affliction. I don't believe I've ever felt so helpless in all my life. So, if anyone I may have slighted in the past because I didn't know any better, I am asking your forgiveness.
Now back to your regularly scheduled blog. Yes, this has been damned strange to me. It's not like I probably won't have a lot of things happen that I've never had happen to me before, you know, like permanently die. I was only "Mostly Dead" when I coded on the operating table in Houston. It's so weird, to me at least, that I had something happen that I knew exactly what was going on, and couldn't just shut it down like right now. Although, just seeing Liz come in to help me, put a stop to the craziness almost immediately. I tell people she is my rock. That just played it out for me. Well, not just me now, she has her props on a blog and on FaceBook both.
Okay, so yesterday Liz talked to the Hospice nurse and he came by when I was napping. Startled the dick off me. He brought Xanax, some more powerful dosage on my pain patches, to increase again on Friday, then again on Monday. If they'd jumped the patches up to where they want them, I'd be passed out for two days. This little jump in dosage has had me napping all day. I also started to get a little anxious as I was typing this. I've found a trigger. It's nearly drug time, so my nose it starting to plug up a little. My body notices this before I do, so it makes my neck feel like it's swelling. In reality, it's not. That was the first thing I checked. If it were, the tracheotomy collar would be getting tighter as well and it's not. Still, I could feel myself starting to head down that road to Maximum FREAK Out. I do not like Maximum Freak Out. Very early this afternoon, a large mucus/blood clot got nailed on my tube. I knew it was, and I also knew I could fix it fairly easily if I could keep my wits about me for about 10-20 minutes, I'd be in good shape. A Xanax and almost an hour ago, I feel pretty good about myself. Got back to the med spot in the master bedroom with more than enough time to spare. It's certainly a good thing to have all the tools and time I need to take care of myself for a bit longer.
Liz contacted the Hospice Nurse, and then was worried it might make me angry. No, that wouldn't make me angry, she was showing that she loved me and was taking care of me. Only a complete dick headed douchenozzle would get angry with his wife for looking out for ways to give him some respite from a problem than very nearly caused a major breakdown in his ability to take care of himself and not hindered by something that damn near caused a breakdown in the Independent Factor of self care. How stupid on my part would that have been? That would rank right up that in the top 5 of the album "Stupid Shit I've Pulled and Walked Away From". The crack up is, it's worked so well I'm dozing off from time to time as I write this blog. Geez, the only Blog that's taken this long to finish. I can see the headlines now. "Texas Man Dies From Writing His Blog", film at 11. Well, no, probably nothing that drastic, but it's dang funny. You know, though, she may have asked knowing that in my past when I was less thoughtful in my reactions. Thank gosh for growing up just a fucking little.
Okay. That's a little bit of how things are going. I've reminded myself I can't do a lot of things like I could 18 months ago. I'm dying. Sometimes it feels like it's just doing the "Hey! Let's Kill Rock" dance to an Irish whirl, other times it's feels as slow as molasses in winter. No matter how it feels to me, it's killing me in it's own way, on it's own schedule. Either way, it's gonna kill me whether I want it to or not. That's the nature of things. Lots of good people get cut out of their life a lot sooner than they need to be. The killer in this case is a cancer. I've said it before, and I can't say this part enough.
"Cancer Can Not Kill ME!!!! It can kill my body, but it can't kill my spirit or my will to live". There are a lot of things worse than cancer, in my book. And since each of us has a book of our own, the things worse than cancer will vary as much as the people who are writing their own books. So far this hasn't had the balls to work on my brain and really rob me of the stuff I want to hold onto as my own. The little secret things that I want to keep hidden, and a few of the larger parts of what make me, me. Alright, enough of the gloom and fucking doom. I don't wanna die and have everyone think "Good God Almighty that dude was a fucking drag!" Yeah, that would be a suck ass way to be remembered.
The Book of Rock: What makes today special? Well, dick head, you're alive aren't you?
Any day you wake up and are still drawing breath, that's a special day. It beats waking up and going down stairs only to find you can't eat your Shredded Wheat because an ethereal creature can't hold a spoon. But that's okay, I've done that during my lifetime. And while I've seen many things and have led a fun filled and productive point up until this past year, I've still got a lot to see and do.
I'll catch those things up on the next time around. My sis says I've been a Viking, Highlander, and a Knight Templar. It would be cool to come back again and see what it was that was set up for me this next time around. My hope is, that they put that off until Liz and I can do it all over again in some new and exotic place to live.
Live today like it's your last, simply because you don't know if it truly is or not. And if it's not, weeeell you've lost nothing and gained the world one more time, haven't you?
Before I go on, I need to do something. I owe any of you folks who have to deal with Anxiety and/or Panic issues on a daily or so basis an apology. I never thought much about it either way before this last episode I had. It's a frightening and disabling affliction. I don't believe I've ever felt so helpless in all my life. So, if anyone I may have slighted in the past because I didn't know any better, I am asking your forgiveness.
Now back to your regularly scheduled blog. Yes, this has been damned strange to me. It's not like I probably won't have a lot of things happen that I've never had happen to me before, you know, like permanently die. I was only "Mostly Dead" when I coded on the operating table in Houston. It's so weird, to me at least, that I had something happen that I knew exactly what was going on, and couldn't just shut it down like right now. Although, just seeing Liz come in to help me, put a stop to the craziness almost immediately. I tell people she is my rock. That just played it out for me. Well, not just me now, she has her props on a blog and on FaceBook both.
Okay, so yesterday Liz talked to the Hospice nurse and he came by when I was napping. Startled the dick off me. He brought Xanax, some more powerful dosage on my pain patches, to increase again on Friday, then again on Monday. If they'd jumped the patches up to where they want them, I'd be passed out for two days. This little jump in dosage has had me napping all day. I also started to get a little anxious as I was typing this. I've found a trigger. It's nearly drug time, so my nose it starting to plug up a little. My body notices this before I do, so it makes my neck feel like it's swelling. In reality, it's not. That was the first thing I checked. If it were, the tracheotomy collar would be getting tighter as well and it's not. Still, I could feel myself starting to head down that road to Maximum FREAK Out. I do not like Maximum Freak Out. Very early this afternoon, a large mucus/blood clot got nailed on my tube. I knew it was, and I also knew I could fix it fairly easily if I could keep my wits about me for about 10-20 minutes, I'd be in good shape. A Xanax and almost an hour ago, I feel pretty good about myself. Got back to the med spot in the master bedroom with more than enough time to spare. It's certainly a good thing to have all the tools and time I need to take care of myself for a bit longer.
Liz contacted the Hospice Nurse, and then was worried it might make me angry. No, that wouldn't make me angry, she was showing that she loved me and was taking care of me. Only a complete dick headed douchenozzle would get angry with his wife for looking out for ways to give him some respite from a problem than very nearly caused a major breakdown in his ability to take care of himself and not hindered by something that damn near caused a breakdown in the Independent Factor of self care. How stupid on my part would that have been? That would rank right up that in the top 5 of the album "Stupid Shit I've Pulled and Walked Away From". The crack up is, it's worked so well I'm dozing off from time to time as I write this blog. Geez, the only Blog that's taken this long to finish. I can see the headlines now. "Texas Man Dies From Writing His Blog", film at 11. Well, no, probably nothing that drastic, but it's dang funny. You know, though, she may have asked knowing that in my past when I was less thoughtful in my reactions. Thank gosh for growing up just a fucking little.
Okay. That's a little bit of how things are going. I've reminded myself I can't do a lot of things like I could 18 months ago. I'm dying. Sometimes it feels like it's just doing the "Hey! Let's Kill Rock" dance to an Irish whirl, other times it's feels as slow as molasses in winter. No matter how it feels to me, it's killing me in it's own way, on it's own schedule. Either way, it's gonna kill me whether I want it to or not. That's the nature of things. Lots of good people get cut out of their life a lot sooner than they need to be. The killer in this case is a cancer. I've said it before, and I can't say this part enough.
"Cancer Can Not Kill ME!!!! It can kill my body, but it can't kill my spirit or my will to live". There are a lot of things worse than cancer, in my book. And since each of us has a book of our own, the things worse than cancer will vary as much as the people who are writing their own books. So far this hasn't had the balls to work on my brain and really rob me of the stuff I want to hold onto as my own. The little secret things that I want to keep hidden, and a few of the larger parts of what make me, me. Alright, enough of the gloom and fucking doom. I don't wanna die and have everyone think "Good God Almighty that dude was a fucking drag!" Yeah, that would be a suck ass way to be remembered.
The Book of Rock: What makes today special? Well, dick head, you're alive aren't you?
Any day you wake up and are still drawing breath, that's a special day. It beats waking up and going down stairs only to find you can't eat your Shredded Wheat because an ethereal creature can't hold a spoon. But that's okay, I've done that during my lifetime. And while I've seen many things and have led a fun filled and productive point up until this past year, I've still got a lot to see and do.
I'll catch those things up on the next time around. My sis says I've been a Viking, Highlander, and a Knight Templar. It would be cool to come back again and see what it was that was set up for me this next time around. My hope is, that they put that off until Liz and I can do it all over again in some new and exotic place to live.
Live today like it's your last, simply because you don't know if it truly is or not. And if it's not, weeeell you've lost nothing and gained the world one more time, haven't you?
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Damn!!! So THAT'S What A Panic Attack Is Like
I've had a rough few days. I've felt terrible, been in more than my average pain, been on the O2 more than I like, and even today, I've got the damn shakes in my hands. I've slept a lot, more than I like, and I've been lethargic in about every direction I turn. It's not fun, it's unlike me all the way around, and it makes me feel like the fucking cancer is shortening up my time. Doing that all the while skipping the massive bleeding I've been expecting. Some of it may be a slight case of dehydration. I know I've slipped a little on fluid intake, although it's still close to half my body weight in ounces. Like 80-100 ounces of liquid a day. I'll work on that for certain. The Lymphedema therapy has really lowered the swelling in my face and neck on the left side. Something, though, is making the right side, along the lower jawline get larger and more firm. The therapy hasn't helped that, I suspect cancer. I can't look down at things like I could have two weeks ago, just by looking at the floor. When I do that it feels like my ability to breath is cut off a bit. And, strangely enough, I panicked.
Yep, last night I had a complete panic attack. I felt like I couldn't get enough of a breath. I yanked off my trach tape and pulled the tube out of my neck, I ran around in circles. I was able to tell Sarah, in a note, that I was panicking. So I knew what was happening, just couldn't stop it. I had her go get Liz to help, although I am not sure what Liz was going to do for me, I know I wanted her there. I also knew that I had to get the trach tube back in place. Leaving it out would solve nothing. It was running through my head I might have to go to the hospital. That wouldn't have been the coolest thing I've done in the last few weeks. I was scared. How the fuck did that happen? I don't know, I'm not a person that gets scared easily, and I panic even less often than I get scared. Weird. So that's what it's like to have a "panic attack". I had no idea, it was something I'd never experienced before, and don't want to experience again. It's a waste of time and energy. It started to happen again this morning, but since I knew what was going on, I managed to get myself under control, and skip that part that is breath sucking and heart rate blasting, attack. I had a minute to catch myself. Get my breathing back under control and not once felt like I needed to run around in circles. I'm not certain what caused either one, the full blown attack and the start of one again. I'll get is scoped so I know what to expect and be able to head off the behavior that brings it on. Or even if there is a behavior that brings it on. I'm wondering if it's an action, or just a feeling that brings the things inline to start the attack. I know that running short of breath, and having my heart race ain't happening. That kind of shit isn't good for me when I'm healthy, let alone now. I'm going to do my best to stop it dead in it's tracks.
I've had a lot of dreams, but not many I remember. That's odd for me, since I generally remember the dream like it happened and crystal clear, for at least a day. I've forgotten more dreams than I remember. That's odd for sure. I did remember in a dream, the actual story Kathy told me years ago about a guy at the Cleveland Indians home field. She and a friend had gone to a game. Some ass wagon was pestering a black woman in front of him. She said a black guy came out of the group, stabbed the guy in the inside of one thigh up by his balls. Blood sprayed badly, onto her program and her cloths, and ruined those. The guy that got stabbed bled out in minutes, propped up upon a light pole. EMT's couldn't get there. Weird what dreams stay with you. Like one when I was taking Chantix. I dreamed Liz and the kids and I were running around a bowl of soup, along the edge of the bowl. It was huge, or we were tiny, I'm not certain which. The last thing I remember was yelling at them if the fell in, to try and swim for the oyster crackers in the soup. WTF???? I'm not sure about that one, weird all the way around and happily short.
I've had a more than normal amount of pain on the right side of my face. It's been getting progressively worse over the last two to three weeks. Culminating in keeping me from resting or concentrating yesterday. It lasted nearly all day and into the night, and if I look at it, may have been part of the reason I had a panic attack. The pain was pretty strong and I took the morphine at full doses during the afternoon. That kind of slowed it down, and by the evening I couldn't hit my ass with both hands. That may be part of the panic attack, I don't know, but it was as weird as I've felt in about a year. So it's not been a fun week or so for me at all. In fact, since the last time I did a blog, I feel like I've slipped a bit. Nothing really to prove that out, but I feel like it. I hope it's a passing feeling, since the sudden change in weather can do weird things to me as well. I fear, though, that it's a lasting feeling. Like the pain that comes and stays. I hope this is not the right feeling, I've still got a few things I want to do, and I'd like to hope that my procrastinating forces my body to hold on a bit longer than it would like. That'd teach the damn thing, wouldn't it?
Back when I was a kid we lived in a small town. One of those really small town with maybe 300 people in it tops. It had a highway that ran through east and west, and since I was small I couldn't cross it by myself, so I didn't know what was on the north side of the highway. We moved across the street when I was in second grade. Probably 8 years old. Then, I was pinned between the house and the railroad tracks on the north. Shit. Now I only had a block to dick around in. I could go to the service station since it was on my side of the high way. I just had to cross two regular streets, that was okay. I had to hustle down an alley too, but that wasn't a big deal. At the service station I could get a full size coke for 15cents, buy a nickel bag of planters salty as hell peanuts and pour them in the coke. I've not down that but once or twice since I was ten years old, but I remember it was different to taste a salty 18coke, and have something to chew up while you drank a soda. I could get one of those every day. If I hunted up enough empty bottles to pay for the coke and Planter's Peanuts. It took eight empty full size bottles (the little shorty bottles weren't worth anything) to get a coke and peanuts. At the time you got 3 cents a bottle for turning them in. If you bought pop for the house, they charged you the 18 cents as deposit. You brought the six pack back full of empties, it cost you 18 cents less. As long as you had the bottles, you got a bit back or they paid for the bottle deposit. Funny now, how the environmentalists bitch about recycling all the plastic we bought, but back in the late 60's we were already recycling the glass bottles. Isn't that going at it about ass backwards? With the price of glass now, I'm sure it would be cost prohibitive. But that taught me how to work for things I wanted
Y'all have fun
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)