#179: Something Besides Cancer

After my radiation treatment today, Mrs P and I picked up my car and drove to visit our mechanic, Paul at East Vine Radiator. He is a superb mechanic, and an ever better man. We're blessed to have been referred to him and have been taking our vehicles to him since we first came to the Bluegrass. We are definitely "clients, not customers."

View Larger Map

Paul, his wife, and his son all work in his shop which is neat as a pin. Besides being a magician with a motor, he is also a collector of beautiful things. There are always at least three classic Corvettes in the shop being lovingly restored. He rolls his eyes at his expensive hobby, but you can tell how proud he is of them.

He and Mrs Paul are also avid antique fans. They travel to auctions looking for bargains on Mission style furniture (our favorite!) and beautiful American pottery items. Then they turn around and sell them from their booth in a local antique mall. His eyes dance as brightly when he talks about a barrister book case or a piece of Rosewood pottery as they do when the headers thunder on one of those old Stingrays.

Paul smiles. He loves his life and his livelihood. And he is an honorable man. Many times we have gone to pick up a vehicle in the afternoon only to be told, "Oh, there's no charge  It was easy. Just bring it back if that doesn't work." It always works.

What made this visit with Paul especially nice was what we didn't talk about. We didn't talk about my Cancer. It just didn't come up. For those short moments in his company, sharing our passion for pretty old things was enough. Sometimes even a narcissist likes to look away from the mirror for a little while.

#178: A Good Day to be Alive

I experienced my first chemo side-effect yesterday and it was a heart-breaker. Mrs P made herself a grilled cheese sandwich. As I made my way toward the kitchen, the cooking odor from that most comfortable of foods hit me like a cloud of poisoned gas. A wave of nausea knocked me a step backwards and I felt as if I might faint. Over a grilled cheese sandwich! If she had made tomato soup with it I may have been struck dead on the spot.

Consequently, I have forbidden Mum to make pierogi. Should I ever feel nausea at the smell of that classic Hunkie delight, I would lose the will to live.

Today was Mum's turn to take me in for treatment. Mrs P got to sleep in. They have decided to switch off like that. Don't want to burn out the girls in my inner circle. I took care of flushing and cleaning the PEG tube myself, and Mum helped me to coordinate the nine different drugs that start my day. I can't imagine what it would be like to go through this without the two of them. No one should ever have to do this alone.

I was warned about 'roid rage, and I know it's still early, but all I've noticed is that the steroids give me a lot of energy in the morning, then I sort of crash around 3:00 in the afternoon. Today, I took advantage of that in a couple of ways. Mum let me drive to the clinic, which I enjoyed. Then I stayed awake and alert to pay more attention to the machine as it shot me with its mystery rays. The tech explained how enormous lead plates in the gun combine with fine, sliding fingers to shape the beam. By varying the intensity, they can control how deep the particles sink into me. It is amazing to experience, though there is no sensation I can detect. They gave me a brief tour of the "cockpit" where the techs control the whole works from a safe, lead insulated distance. I was amused to see that the whole thing is run by a gang of five Dell computers daisy chained together. Not a Mac in sight. No wonder they crashed so easily yesterday.

Finally, I felt so good when we got home that I decided to take a walk. It was a tiny trip, just once around the short block across from our house, but it felt good to travel familiar sidewalks in the cool morning air. Having a hose running through my abs limits the kind of resistance work I can do, and it queers my posture a bit, but I can certainly walk. I felt no ill effects from the trip, and plan to keep moving as long as I can.

And to top it all off, I was able to eat one of Mrs P's home made bran muffins today with no ill effects.

It's a good day to be alive.

#177: Radiation Therapy Begins

OK, first I have to tell you about "waffle face." This is not something that I read about anywhere, and I found it hilarious. Remember I told you about the mask, right? Here's a  good picture from Upton's Cancer Update.

They put a block under your head, then place the mask over your face and shoulders. Once it is bolted to the table, you don't move. This allows them to target the radioactive hoodoo very precisely. Yesterday, I slept through the procedure. They shot some "films" which I guess means they did X-rays or something, then they shot me with radiation. When I woke up, they removed the mask, and sent me rolling down the hall with my IV pole. I asked to use the bathroom, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw that I had what looked like a very mild sunburn in the diamond pattern of the mask. Mrs P said they looked like snake scales. They eventually faded, but they tickled me. We'll try to get some photos of me as "Lizard Man:" later on.

I was more awake for today's treatment. I'll be starting my weekdays at 8:30 for the next 6 1/2 weeks when I have a standing appointment with the radiation techs. On Mondays, I'll meet with Dr K. He's the genius who masterminds all the cosmic rays.

Here's how the day goes. You check in at the guard house where a sleepy man looks up your name on his monitor, then lets you into the parking lot at the Markey Cancer Center. Upon entering the lobby, you're greeted by a charming lady at the reception desk and a creepy baby grand piano that plays by itself. Even the keys move. Down the elevator to the G level, where you scan your ID card at the desk. This lets the radiation techs know you have arrived. Soon, one of them appears and calls your name. You are led down a long hallway to a room with an enormous door. The thing must be at least 10 inches thick, and swings on two, half inch thick steel hinges. Inside is the "machine."

It looks like a robot, which I guess it is. There is a smooth steel table with a linen "draw sheet" on top. They use this sheet to slide you into place once you are on the table. Your head goes onto a hard plastic rest, your knees go over a soft, prism shaped cushion. Then the mask is put in place.

The mask is soft, but firm. You can breathe easily, open and close your eyes, even talk if you don't wag your chin too much. Once the bolts are clipped into place, the team starts preliminary targeting checks. There are lasers all over the place. They shoot dots and cross-hairs that the techs use to match the landmarks that they've put on tape on the mask. Once everything is in place, they leave the room and the table starts to move. It lifts you up into position, and the robot swings forward. Sometimes there are arms that reach around from the sides. Sometimes the big disk hums and beeps. The entire assembly moves with easy autonomic grace. Well, most of the time it does.

The whole gizmo came to a stop and the gentleman tech came back into the room, I assumed to release me and send me home.

"We done?"

"Nope, the machine's broke down."

Broke down? Oh no. Tell me my fat ass didn't break the table. No, it turned out there had been some kind of software glitch and the whole gizmo locked up. Sort of the high tech version of the Blue Screen of Death. Since there is apparently no "Any" key on a zillion dollar ray gun, they shut the thing down and decided to move me to the neighboring room to finish my treatment. I swung my legs up without waiting for help, and he jumped toward me.

"Wait, wait, wait!" From under the mask, I hadn't realized how far the table moved. I was a good five feet off the ground. He brought me a stool, and I hopped down like a gazelle. After a quick trip to finish up next door, I was done for the day.

Mrs P looked tired when I came out. The last two days have taken a lot out of her. She drove me home and laid down for a well-deserved nap. I'll just keep going until the steroids crash. I figure I'm good for about another hour.

#176: The First Day of Chemo

This post is much longer than I expected. Sorry, it was a pretty eventful day. I'll talk chemo today and radiation tomorrow - Pennsy

Last night was a late one. There was a blog to post, my news reader to catch up on, a couple days worth of Facebook status updates to read. Yeah, I was stalling. Finally got to bed about 1:00. Mum was still awake, reading. I don't think either of us wanted to face the dreams that our evening was likely  to hold. We were both awake again at about 3:30. Mrs. P's alarm went off at 6:00. I got up and made a vanilla protein shake. That's what goes in the spot where I put three Marlboros and half a pot of coffee back in the old days.

Then it was time to flush my PEG tube. This involves taking a large syringe and running clean water through the tube four or five times a day just to keep it clear. We also change the dressing around it then. Because the stoma is still pretty new, it leaks a little. Usually nothing newsworthy. Except this morning on the gauze we found something that looked suspiciously like the spinach and mushroom dish I enjoyed at our favorite Indian restaurant yesterday.

We were faced with two equally fearful prospects. First, there was a possibility that stomach contents were leaking. This is very bad mojo. The juice in your stomach is designed to break down organic tissue. Having it sloshing around inside your abdomen is a terrible plan. Second, it was certain that I was going to have to admit that I spent my last day before chemo - a therapy almost assured to cause nausea - gumming on enough curry and tandoori to bust a gut. Mrs P, ever the student of those forensic procedural shows, bagged and tagged the evidence so we could take it with us to the cancer center.

There is such comfort in falling into a routine someone else knows well. After a short wait, we moved from sign-in to triage, from triage to the treatment room. "Dee", the nurse from my medical oncologist's office was summoned to examine the verdant discharge on my bandages. After a thorough examination of the tube site, the team agreed that the green stuff was gross, a little hilarious, and harmless. The Chemo could proceed.

"Rodger", the chemo nurse explained the procedure to me. He would give me two litres of fluid, then a bag of medicine, then two more litres of fluid. The "medicine" is very dangerous to the kidneys, so they do all they can to keep them flushed clean. I should feel free to get up and use the bathroom at the first urge. We would be working my radiation treatment into the schedule sometime during one of the two hydration periods.

Two children in white lab coats were my next visitors. I was shocked the first time I saw a police officer on a subway car who was clearly much younger than I. I have started to feel the same way about a lot of the wonderful young people who are working to save me. They are  brilliant and competent, but they are also so fresh-faced that they make me want to ask for ID before I show them my scar.

He was my pharmacist. She was his student and not his prom date, as I had assumed. He told me about the specific medicines i was going to be using. My kidneys could fail. My hearing could be damaged. My esophagus might swell shut. My bowels could stop moving. Gotta love this kid. While Mum and Mrs P took careful notes, (God bless them,) he went over each of the pills I'd be taking home. Steroids, anti-nausea potions, more anti-nausea potions, even more anti-nausea potions. "Don't lose these," he cautioned after showing us one particularly potent pellet, "they cost about two thousand dollars a piece." So that's where the nausea comes from.

The girls worked crossword puzzles and did needlework while I listened to my iPod and gazed out the window of our little cubicle. Time dripped through the pump that fed the juice into my left wrist. I had to move my LiveStrong bracelet to my right arm. In the process, it got turned around so the lettering faced away from me. I reversed it again so I could read it. The words are for me, not to impress other people.

When it was time, after about two hours, Rodger and another nurse came in with a large IV bag in a dark amber shroud, almost the color of a beer bottle. I should be so lucky. They were wearing blue haz-mat robes and gloves to protect their skin from the stuff that would soon be pumping into my veins. Like missile officers reviewing launch codes they triple-checked my identity.

"What is your name and birthdate?"
"My records show him as ... born on..."
"His wrist band shows him as so and so, birthdate thus and such, patient number..."
"I have him as patient number..."
"The bag contains..."
"My records show that the bag should contain..."
Check, check, and check.

There were a lot of light-hearted moments in the room. This was not one of them. this was some nasty stuff. How nasty is it? My pee is toxic. I had to use a special bathroom on the ward. The staff could not be exposed to the chemicals they were giving me or they might experience all the wicked side effects they'd been telling me about for two months. I have to "double-flush" to make sure none of the stuff they are putting on me winds up in the bowl at home when someone else uses it. Disinfect seat and handle. Nasty stuff.

As the chemo was finishing, a dear friend who is on the staff came down to visit with us for a while. She offered to walk us over to the radiation therapy building once I was back on fluids again. Rodger set me up, and we trundled my little IV pole across the courtyard. It was a beautiful Bluegrass afternoon. We laughed and joked and drank in the air and the energy of the young people enjoying their lunches at picnic tables. We probably walked 150 yards. It felt like a mile.

After radiation, which I mostly slept through, we made our way back to the ward. It wasn't long before I was finished and feeling worn out. We arrived at 8:00 in the morning and left around 3:00. That's all the typing I can stand today. Sorry I can't craft a more artful ending. We'll talk about radiation tomorrow.

Peace,
pennsy

#175: How Can I Help My Friend Who Has Cancer?

"How can I help?" my friend asks me this every time she calls. I love her so much for that, but I really don't know what to tell her. Today I heard such helplessness in her voice. She wants to do something, but doesn't want to do the wrong thing. Again and again she says the loving words I have used myself at funerals and hospital beds.

"If there is anything I can do, please let me know."

I say it because I mean it. I was raised by a man who would drop everything for a friend in need. My dad would have been the man in the parable of the Samaritan who stopped and helped. Also, I was born under the sign of Leo the Lion. I am fiercely protective of the people in my circle. I know that my friend feels the same way about me.

Trouble is, I don't know what the hell to tell her. I can't make decisions these days. Asking me what I want for supper can send me into a rage of tearful frustration. I don't know what I want. All I know is how grateful I am when anyone reaches out to help, no matter what they do. A note, a blog comment, a facebook message, a phone call. Yesterday, someone brought a basket of food that we can prepare later. A friend from college showed up with a gallon of soup. A woman I have known since elementary school had a yard sale and sent us a check. An old acting buddy and five year survivor stopped by to share his own cancer stories. My neighbor, with whom I have probably exchanged 200 words in 10 years mows our lawn every week.

Some of these things are huge. Some are very small. But all of them share one thing in common. They remind me that I am alive. That I matter. That someone cares.

I'm so grateful for that.

What follows is not a wish list. Please, don't take it like that. These are links to resources I have found to help people who want to help. I'm probably not the only person you know who is surviving cancer. I sure won't be the last. Or maybe you and your family have lived through cancer treatment, too. Leave a comment on what helped (or didn't.) Together, maybe we can help the next family.

My Friend Has Cancer. How Can I Help?
Your friend has been diagnosed with cancer but you're the one freaking out: What can I do? How should I act? Is it OK to talk about it? What's "normal" now?

Things You Need to Know About Cancer, But Don't Really Want to Ask.
So just what are people supposed to do or say around people who are in the process of undergoing treatment to battle cancer, or to someone who has recently survived cancer? I certainly can't speak for everyone but here are a few things that people did for me, or things I wish they would have done or said, during treatment and after (in no particular order).

 Helping a Friend Through Cancer- Lori Hope
- "It's okay to say or do the 'wrong' thing."
- "I like to hear success stories, not horror stories."
- "I need to forget and laugh."
- "I need to feel hope."
- "Telling me to think positively can make me feel worse."

My Friend Has Been Diagnosed With Sarcoma - How Can I Help?
Patients and their families often have a hard time answering the question: "What can I do?" If they answer with a specific need, they feel as if they are imposing or asking too much. So take the guilt out of a gift by choosing something yourself. Here are some useful gift ideas that were developed by a group of sarcoma patients and survivors.

How to Talk to a Friend With Cancer
You are confronted with the possibility of death, and you are afraid. And, in a way, you are relieved it's not you. It brings up so many fears.

How to Help a Friend With Cancer
Remember, most of us don't look good in yellow. Lance Armstrong can trigger feelings of inadequacy in the best of us. Even his heroic name, straight from a Dickens novel, can make a girl feel puny and defenseless. Although I enjoyed reading about his ordeal and all those yellow jerseys after my treatment was over, early mentions of him made me wonder if I really had what it took to conquer the beast, or even if I deserved to win.

#174: Lessons From the Theatre

With the exception of my wedding and a few special New Year's Eve celebrations with Mrs P, I have spent the best parts of my life on stage. Acting is the only job I've ever really loved. It is often painful, always rewarding, and on rare occasions, positively mystical.

It occurred to me today that I've spent so many years playing characters who endured trials, I might turn to them to learn how to conduct myself during my own survival journey.

The first time I played Tevye I knew that I wanted to spend my life performing. On opening night, as I stood high atop my little milk wagon taking in the applause after If I Were a Rich Man I was positively drunk with the audience's approval. It was many years later - around thirty I think - that I was able to play the role again, and learned about the heart of this big, beautiful man. For him, family is everything. No matter how hard the world is on him, no matter how far away his children travel, he and Golde remain bound with cords of love that no Tzar or Cossack can sever. The dairyman from Anatevka taught me that love is the source of our strength and our life.

The Tempest is Shakespeare's story of a wronged Duke, Prospero and his revenge on the brother who unjustly banished him and his daughter on a deserted island. He has every right to be angry, and using magic powers he conjurs a storm that maroons the cruel brother and his fellow travellers from Naples. Prospero and the fairies who serve him devise more and more powerful ways to torment the party, but just at the moment when his final vengance is complete, the old magicial changes his mind. He himself is tormented, not by guilt, but by the innocence of his daughter and his sprite, Ariel. Prospero chooses mercy over justice, and because of that choice, he is redeemed.

I also have a lot to be angry about. I've been mistreated by the insurance company, old employers, friends who disappeared when things got tough. I could spend - and to be honest, I have spent - lots of time blaming and fantasizing my own vengence on the people who may not have caused my cancer, but have certainly made it more difficult for me and the people I love. Such thoughts are tempting, and perversely gratifying, I must admit. But they will not help me to redeem my life back from the disease that is trying to lay claim to it. Like Prospero, I have not choice but to forgive the people who torment my nights.

Nick Bottom is a complete jackass. So much so, that he is given a donkey's head in which to woo Titania, the queen of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Bottom has little talent and less craft, but by golly he loves his friends and he loves the theatre. The chance to play makes his heart soar and his enthusiasm lifts his fellow mechanicals to heights beyond their wildest dreams. Bottom loves unconditionally. It's as simple as that. He finds wonder everywhere and ecstasy in the crazy poetry of life. He gives himself away completely, and in doing so, he is glorified.

I lack Bottom's purity of heart, but I know what it means to love what you do. In that, I am a lucky man. I know what it is to love the people around you without reservation. In that, I am a rich man. No matter how much depression and cancer may try to convince me otherwise, I know I have a reason to live. I need to live, because I am not finished loving yet.

In the dark days ahead, I will remember the lessons these teachers have given me. I gave my all to do right by them, and I know they will not abandon me in my hour of need. And when the Dark Angel has passed me over at last, I am determined to return to them. I am not finished learning yet, either.

#173: All Along the Waterfall

Yesterday was a painful one, the first time my depression really inserted itself into this whole cancer situation. I had a restless, sleepless night and after fitfully dozing just before dawn, I woke up in a panic. I felt as if I were in my grave. The stale air conditioned air seemed to suffocate me. Panicked, I begged Mrs P to open the windows. I wanted to hear the birds and smell the earth outside. I wanted to see the sun coming in through the curtains as they billowed, filling the room with the late spring air. I wanted to hear the kids on the way to the bus and the grownups driving off to work. I wanted to be sure I was still alive. She did as I asked, then covered my eyes with a cool cloth and lay beside me till I slept.

Mental illness has been my companion for a long time - maybe all my life. Deep depressions can fall on me without warning. Something in my brain is on a hair trigger, and I never know what it takes to pull it. I have been surprised that the devil has left me alone for so long. It seems like cancer and depression should go hand in hand. Both lead to a longing for any relief, even death. Mercifully, my shadowy friend did not stay long. I don't really have the strength for long visits from anyone these days.

Tonight, I'm listening to the gentle song of the evening birds, so much less busy than their morning cousins. They seem to whistle to themselves as they are tiding up for the night. There is a big storm system to the south, heading for the eastern mountains. No flood warnings in our part of the Bluegrass, only the faint smell of earth and the promise of a cooling weather front bearing rain.

I'm sure it is a cliche to say that the proximity of death heightens one's senses. I do seem to smell more deeply. I hear individual voices among the birds and bugs and critters in my neighborhood. Today, as she changed the dressing on my PEG tube, I gazed at Mrs P, this woman I have loved for almost a quarter of a century. My god, but she is beautiful. In her eyes I saw the compassion and expertise she has developed after years of looking after animals and the people who love them. As she carefully cleaned me and placed the fresh bandage in the morning light, I watched the years melt from her face. The hair was dark again, the skin pale and clear, the lines of worry and laughter and tears faded away and she was the young girl whose devilish smile broke my heart within minutes of meeting her. I never had a chance.

When she had finished, she turned and looked at my moist eyes. She smiled and kissed me. Her face returned to its familiar shape and color. She was not the girl I married, but the woman I have come to love with all my heart. Her hair is not what it once was, but her eyes - Oh those beautiful brown eyes...

Hey where did we go,
Days when the rains came
Down in the hollow,
Playin' a new game,
Laughing and a running hey, hey
Skipping and a jumping
In the misty morning fog with
Our hearts a thumpin' and you
My brown eyed girl,
You my brown eyed girl.

Some things, not even death can change.

If you need me, look in the green grass, behind the stadium...

#172: The End of the Beginning

I can see the mouth of the tunnel from here. We went to the doc to day to check on the PEG tube. It's been a rough week since it was placed. I developed an infection around the site where it pops out of my belly. We wound up on the ER on Saturday morning of Memorial day weekend. They gave me some antibiotics and sent me home. Today the surgeon gave me a clean bill. The infection has cleared up, the tube looks good, and we are all clear to start chemo and radiation on Monday. At last.

It's funny. I'm looking forward to starting what promises to be the worst part of my treatment. I'm not sure though. The waiting has been pretty bad. Anticipating something awful can be worst than the thing itself. Like waiting in the office to see the elementary school principal.

There were horror stories about Miss Grove and the instruments of torture she kept in her small chamber. The most dreaded was the "Electric Paddle." It was said that only the worst of the worst miscreants of our school had ever even seen, let alone felt it. I'm not sure I ever even heard anyone explain what it was. Only that it was the most cruel, painful punishment imaginable. I made a trip or two into that office. I was whacked with a ruler once or twice, and I have a vague recollection of a confiscated paddle-ball paddle, but I never did see the evil machine hidden in her closet.

That's what this feels like, this waiting for treatment to start. All the preliminaries are complete. Tumor cut out. Teeth gone. Tube installed. They have prepared me for the worst, and my imagination has filled in the rest. I have no idea what awaits me in those dark little rooms full of needles and isotopes and whirring machines. I only know that I am exhausted with dreading them. I'm ready to go.

The beginning of my Cancer treatment is over. Time to turn toward the tunnel.

#171: Cancer Geek

Yes it's very sad to have Cancer and life is unfair and blah, blah, blah... but some of the tech gadgets are so cool!

ENDOSCOPE


This tiny camera is mounted on the end of what looks like a plumber's snake. The doc gives you a mild topical anesthetic,sort of like Clorasceptic. Then they lube up the snake and poke it up your nose, make a quick left turn at the fork in the road, and zoom, you're looking at your throat from the inside. This video isn't of my vocal folds, but it looks just like mine did. Since I was a choirboy back in Dormont my voice has been a defining part of me. Actually seeing it work was a real highlight.

PEG FEEDING TUBE

This is just awsome. When they first described the procedure to me, I thought they were joking.


Isn't that amazing? Now what they don't tell you is that this hurts like hell. Imagine what it would feel like to have someone shove a pencil through your belly from the inside. Drugs take the edge off the pain, but only just. If I need it later, I'll attach a bag of formula to the tube and let gravity pull my supper in. Meanwhile I have to flush clear water through the tube every five hours to make sure the plumbing stays clear.

THERMOPLASTIC MASK

This is the procedure that I had done today. What amazes me is that somebody even thought this up.


Once they had molded the mask over my head and shoulders, they ran me through the CT scan. These will be the baseline images that they use when targeting my radiation. They'll also be able to watch and measure changes inside my body as the treatment continues. You might think it's pretty spooky to have your head bolted to a table, but actually I was pretty relaxed. I could easily have fallen asleep, but the platform is kind of narrow and I was afraid I'd roll off.

There are all kinds of miracles happening to us every day as we travel this road together. Love comes out of nowhere. Generosity and kindness take us by surprise every day. All in all there is much more laughter than weeping going on in our house. Technology is not always as heartwarming as a phone call from a friend, but it can be just as miraculous. I am continually amazed by the skills and creativity of the healers who are working so hard to save my life.

#170: Setbacks and Delays

I can't help smiling when I remember that night in the recovery room when I thought that Cancer had been awfully easy to lick. I half-expected them to pat me on the head and send me back to work. No such luck.

Just because the surgeons removed all that they could see doesn't mean that they got it all. There were cells outside of the main tumor, and it had reached the lymph nodes in my neck. I was going to need both radiation and chemotherapy to clean up what they might have missed.

The meeting with the radiotherapy oncologist was pretty jarring. She described the procedure to me, and told me about the side effects I should expect. Loss of taste. Sunburn like burns on my neck. Hair loss. Sores in my throat and mouth. Nausea. Lots of pain. For at least six to eight weeks. We scheduled my first appointment with the medical oncologist (the chemo doctor) and left the clinic on shaky knees.

The morning I was to meet the chemo doc for the first time, I got an urgent call from the Cancer center. Blue Cross had determined that my Cancer was a "pre-existing condition." My insurance would not be paying for any radiation or chemo. The lady at Lexington Clinic was very kind and assured me that they would find alternatives for me. Mrs P was working, but Mum was there in the room when I hung up the phone. She wept for my suffering. I wept for my humiliation. After a lifetime of hard work and playing "by the rules" I was being pawned off as a charity case. I blamed the insurance company. I blamed the man who fired me two years ago, costing me my life's savings and my comprehensive medical coverage. I blamed myself for trying to make a career in the arts where poverty was practically guaranteed. And I blamed God in whose image I had been made, reputedly.

Late that afternoon, the Clinic called to let me know that the University of Kentucky's Markey Cancer Center would accept me as a patient. They would be able to help me with the financial aid I needed. Actually, what she said was that they were big enough to absorb the loss of treating me. They had made an appointment for me. My treatment would be set back a week.

At the Markey Center I met Dr. K. He and his team examined me much more thoroughly than they had at the Clinic. They discovered a loose tooth. We would need to see a dentist about that. He also explained to me that because of the damage the therapy would do to my throat, there was a good chance I wouldn't be able to swallow for most of the time I was getting radiation. If that happened, I would need a feeding tube. Rather than interrupt my therapy to put one in, Dr. K recommended that we install the tube before my first treatment. Now I had a dentist appointment and an outpatient surgery to complete before radiation could begin. I still hadn't met a chemo doc.

As we looked at the x-rays together, the dentist was very kind and to the point. I had advanced periodontal disease, a chronic infection of the tissue connecting my teeth to my head. Radiation would destroy my saliva glands and compromise my immune system. The infection in my gums would spread to my teeth, even my bones. I could wind up losing my lower jaw. All of which would interrupt my therapy and give the Cancer a chance to gain a new foothold.

My teeth were shot. They all had to come out. The next day, if possible.

Another office. Another kind administrator explaining that payment would be expected at the time of treatment. Yes she understood that I would die without the procedure. Yes, she was very sorry. If we could pay half up-front, they would bill us for the rest. Mrs P scrambled to find friends and relatives who would lend us the money for the down payment. The next day, all my teeth were gone. And my treatment had been delayed another two weeks while my mouth healed.

I finally got to meet Dr. Arnold, the medical oncologist. She asked why I had waited so long after my surgery to start chemo. I tried to tell her the story without cursing. She and her team examined me. I had developed "Thrush," a fungal infection on my tongue. Mrs P said it was from all the antibiotics I had been taking. They would need to get that under control before starting chemo. We also needed to schedule a morning to have my feeding tube put in. I expected this to take about five hours. I'm not sure why.

Two mornings ago, I reported to the hospital. They sedated me before I knew what was happening. I woke up feeling as if I had been shot in the belly. In theory, the idea of installing a hose through your skin and directly into your stomach is incredibly cool. I even found videos of the procedure on YouTube. In practice, having someone poke a hole through the muscles of your abdomen really, really hurts. You know all those exercises in the gym that are designed to develop your core? They're there because you use the muscles around your middle for almost everything you do from getting out of a chair, to drawing a breath, to using the bathroom. The surgeon poked a hole in my core, and left about 14 inches of rubber hose hanging out of it. Ouch. I spent the night in the hospital, eating Percocets like M&M's.

Today, I got the call from my medical oncologist, Dr Arnold. We're going to have to delay my treatment while I recover from this "minor" procedure. Chemo and radiation were scheduled to start tomorrow, now they will not begin until June 7. Ideally, radiation should start within four weeks of surgery. My operation was six weeks ago.

I'm really scared tonight. I'm afraid of what is happening inside my throat while we figure out which specialist gets the next crack at me, and who's going to pay for it. I'm afraid that the pain I'm feeling now is nothing compared to what I'll be feeling once therapy starts going full bore. I'm afraid that the steady hold I have kept on my emotional health so far could slip at any time turning me into an angry SOB lashing out at the people who love me so much. I'm afraid God has forgotten me and my family. I'm afraid that, as bad as it's been, we "ain't seen nothing yet."

I wish I had a glib little spiritual bonbon to throw in here. Some soothing bumper-sticker theological insight that would make us all feel better. But the truth is, I haven't got a thing. Tonight, I'm just scared. And that's going to have to be enough for me. There aren't any easy answers to be found. So I'll just have to sleep on the hard questions for a little while longer.

#169: Slow Fade

As I write today, I am heavily drugged. I had a feeding tube placed yesterday, and am really loaded up on pain killers. I'm kind of interested to see how this turns out.

As I remember the time around my surgery, I don't really have a linear narrative in my mind. More like a series of loosely connected episodes that fade in and out.

Arrive at the hospital, suitcase in hand. A very kind lady talks to us about how to get financial aid.

Ride the elevator to a large atrium/waiting area.

Follow a nurse through many, many doors after giving Mrs P my wedding ring.

Paper robe. Gurney.

Tim, our priest pops in to my pre-op cubicle. We don't really know one another very well, but I am very grateful for his company. He sits with me for a long time.

Doctors and nurses with clipboards ask me questions. They stick me with needles.

Groups of loved ones stick their heads through the curtain like farm hands welcoming Dorothy back from Oz. We laugh and pray. Mrs P is being brave.

I am in the operating room. There are lots of tables and instruments laid out along the walls. I remember thinking that these people are planning to be here for a while. I scoot off the gurney onto the operating table.

Mrs P is smiling at me. "You're finished." She tells me I was in surgery for six hours.

In a new room. Bigger. Dr Colin in scrubs. "Was it Cancer?" Yes, but they were able to get everything visible or palpable. He asks me to pucker my lips. The muscles around my mouth still work.

Holy cow! I am peeing through a catheter!

I am in Intensive Care. Big room. Glass doors. Just like Princeton Plainsboro. A nurse removes an IV line from an artery in my hand. It takes a long time to get the bleeding to stop.

I fall asleep with a cup of ice water resting on my chest and spill it on my lap. I am awake.

Two voices are discussing my incision. Dr. Colin does such beautiful work.

Am I in pain? Yes, very much. Morphine into the IV line, chased by a little anti-nausea medicine. POOF! Pain's gone.

A hazy, angelic presence enters the room, approaches the bed, and very gently pulls about fifteen feet of rubber hose out of my privates.

Dr Colin is standing above me. It is early in the morning.

I eat a hearty breakfast of Jello, Cream of Wheat, and Ensure. The phone rings, and it is Mum. Yes, it was Cancer. They got it all. It's going to be OK. My voice sounds good. She'll be here in two days.

Mrs P brings me a book and my Rosary. She looks very tired and very beautiful.

In order to confirm that my kidneys are functioning, I have to pee in a bottle and call a nurse to contemplate it. They are pumping IV fluids into me. I have to pee a lot.

I am sitting in the chair, reading a book. Is this really all there is to Cancer? A couple of days in the hospital? What's the big deal?

I am in a wheelchair moving from ICU to a regular room. The person moving me says, "Well, at least now you'll have a male nurse." I try to think of a single way in which this is an advantage.

Is it easier to ask a man to help you empty your urinal? No.

Mrs P brings me my phone. I call the family and a couple of friends. I kind of wish there were room for two on this bed.

Restless night as I take stock. Voice? Check. Tonsil? Hideous scar, hurts like the devil. Neck? Huge incision from my ear to the middle of my throat where it meets my chest. Numb from my jaw to my collarbone. I have no sensation in my right ear. I can hear with it, I just can't feel it. There is a little rubber bottle attached to a hose in my neck. Fluid drains out of the incision site into this bottle and someone empties it every few hours. I doze from time to time, but am awake more than asleep. Can't quite figure out where to put my head.

Dr Colin comes in before the sun is up. I'm going home today, as soon as the little drain is removed. I call and get Mrs P out of bed.

One last pee in the bottle.

Wheelchair ride. Into the car. Back to the house. Into my own bed.

No bed ever felt so good.

#168: This is Happening to Us

The days between the PET scan and our next meeting with Dr. Colin were distracted. The nights were filled with unblinking stares at the blackness above our bed. Long fearful silences. "Denial" is as good a word as any.

Kammy was the first to notice at work. She is a young woman at work (nearly everyone is young at work) who pretends to be a silly girl to hide her intuitive compassion.

"You aren't as cheerful as usual today," she observed in that musical Congolese dialect of hers. "What's wrong?"

My candor took me by surprise. "I've been having some tests. The Doctor thinks I might have Cancer." It was the first time I'd said it out loud. Her response was honest and startling.

"I hope you don't. I don't want you to die."

And there it was, out in the air. Together, we had given my silent fear a voice. It was the first of many times I would realize how much I share my condition with the people who know and love me.

The day the Doctor gave us his opinion, Mrs P took it harder than I.

"I can't say for certain that it's Cancer, but if it walks like a duck... There is no time to lose with this. If you delay..."

I finished his thought, bad habit. "It will just keep growing."

The Doc corrected me sternly, "It will take your life." This was not a joke.

He described the surgery and the risks. Nerve Damage. Muscle removed. Loss of taste. Loss of hearing. We thanked him and moved across the hall to schedule the surgery, three days later. The treatment coordinator had strange news for us. My insurance was a strange, bare bones plan. Great for physician visits and prescriptions, but it did not cover inpatient procedures. Blue Cross would not be paying for my surgery.

It was a lot to take in. We rode the elevator down to the lobby and left. In the car, Mrs P started to cry. I was angry about the insurance. She was frightened about the diagnosis.

"I just don't understand why God is letting all this happen to you.."

I would deal with God later. "This isn't happening to me. This is happening to us."

What Kammy had taught me, what I wanted Mrs P to know was that I knew this was a burden we would share. I would not have the luxury of playing the victim. This was going to hurt everyone who cared about me, starting with her. We stopped by work. I picked up a prescription and told my supervisor that I probably had Cancer and would be missing a couple of weeks work after my surgery. I noticed his Livestrong bracelet.

"I may need to get myself one of these." I reached out and touched it, and he smiled sadly. I wondered why he wore one.

Mrs P and I walked out into the sunshine. It was a beautiful April Kentucky afternoon.

I wondered why God was letting this happen to my family.

#167: PET friendly

Getting a PET scan is an intense experience. The facility is in a separate building from the rest of the hospital. They use a lot of radioactive whachamacallits in there. I sat with a nurse and recited my medical history one more time. This is sort of the hospital version of "What's your major?" They have your history in the computer, but they ask you all the same questions over and over so they can get to know you. It's OK. I love talking about myself.

A lady in scrubs with a clipboard came into the room and told me it was time to go to the scanner. Mrs. P asked if she could come along, but they told her "No". Radiation.. Scrub Lady led me out the front door and around the building to a large trailer that was parked in the lot. We stepped onto a lift gate, like the one on a delivery truck, and were raised up to a rolling steel door. I was starting to feel like Maxwell Smart.

A second tech was inside. She answered our buzz by raising the door and letting us in. The door rumbled back down behind us. The place was lovely. Carefully designed lighting fixtures. Well crafted cabinets and molding. A small side room with a comfortable recliner for me to sit in.

While Scrub Lady put an IV in my arm, the second tech put on a face shield and gloves - sort of like Homer Simpson's opening credits outfit. She opened a small metal canister and removed a vial. I was relieved to see that it did not glow. Smiling, she injected the mystery isotope into my IV line and they shut me in my cubical. I noticed that the steel door was about three inches thick with a small heavy glass window.I could have been in any medical office in the world. Or a CIA interrogation room.

I had to wait for about half an hour in the silent glow of the MR-16 lamps hanging from the ceiling. I breathed slowly, trying to relax. When I closed my eyes, I could hear muffled conversation through the door. From my chair, I could see the door of the treatment room at the other end of the trailer. After a few minutes, both techs rose and went into that room. I saw a young woman coming out. She had a red bandanna on her head, and her face was gray and tired. She smiled and laughed for a moment with the attendants, then Scrub Lady pushed the button and the great steel door rolled up. The two of them left gingerly.

The second tech opened my door and said it was time. We walked through the windowless work area into the treatment room. A PET scan looks a lot like a CT scan. It's a big white donut with a table that slides you through the hole. I had to remove my watch, my metal ID necklace and belt, then my jeans (rivets, you know). She had me lie down on the table and covered me with a sheet. I found a comfortable position and she told me to lie still for the next twenty minutes. The donut started whirring and the table started sliding. I thought about the woman in the bandanna. Would that be me in a few weeks? How long had she been sick? Was she going to live? Her cheerful spirit was evident, but so was the toll that the disease had taken on her body. What the hell was going to happen if they found out that I have Cancer?

I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

When Scrub Lady led me back to the main building, I saw Mrs P in an earnest conversation with another woman in the lobby. I asked to use the rest room and they led me to a special toilet in the corner of the facility. You can't go just anywhere when your pee is radioactive. I turned out the lights to check, but it didn't glow either. When I was ready to leave, Mrs P hugged her new friend and they exchanged phone numbers. That's just the kind of woman she is.

"She was nice," I said, once we were outside.

"Her husband is terminal."

I took her hand, and we walked wordlessly back to the car.

#166: Don't Tell Mama

What should we tell Mum? How much truth is too much? I made a quick decision. "We'll tell her the facts we know. We will not mention the word 'Cancer' until we know for sure."

Two qualities define my family more than any other. We are Worriers and we are Fixers. Problems at work or at church used to eat at my Dad, and he was always looking for ways to help make them better. Mum is the same way with her kids and my sisters and I inherited the Don Quixote gene from both of them. None of us seem to be able to leave bad enough alone.

So I knew that if we told Mum that I might have Cancer, two things would happen. First she would stop sleeping. Then she would haul her septuagenarian self out to the car and drive alone for the nine hours that it takes to get from her neck of the Pennsyltucky woods to mine. I didn't want her doing either of those things if all I had was a benign bulge.

We followed that strategy right up until my surgery. My first groggy question in the recovery room was, "Is it Cancer?" Up until then, every time we spoke I would tell Mum what the Doc had found and what they intended to do next. I could hear the fear in her voice, and I'm sure she could hear it in mine. We learned later that she thought we had known all along, but kept the truth from her. She called me in the ICU the morning after my surgery and I told her what they found. She was in Kentucky the next afternoon. I'm not sure how Mrs P and I could have made it through the days since then without her.

Mum has been with us for every doctor appointment since then. She was in the exam room for that horrible meeting when, Dr. K told us about what my radiation would be like. She was in the waiting room when I went in to the treatment room expecting to lose a loose tooth and came out with an appointment to have them all extracted. She was even sitting next to me the morning the hospital called to tell me that our insurance company had decided that my Cancer was a pre-existing condition and that they would not pay for my radiation and chemo.

She is stronger than I will ever be, and I spent three weeks "protecting" her from the truth. Maybe I wanted to be in control of at least a small part of my situation. Or maybe I was protecting both of us from having to face the possibility. "It isn't real if you don't say it out loud." What actually happened was that I gave her all that time to worry. Helplessly. I realize now how cruel my kindness had been. I gave her no opportunity to help, so all she could do was fear and pray. The people who love us deserve better than that.

So now Mum is in the Bluegrass for the duration. She can't cure Cancer, but she can puree a mean bowl of chicken chowder. Mrs P comes home to a clean house every day. I have company when I want it and a silent companion when I need one. And when the sun is shining, you can find us out on the porch reading, laughing, and playing with Jake the seventy-pound-puppy.

Don't tell Mama, but I'd be lost without her. On second thought, go on and tell her. Mum always knows anyway.

#165: In Which Pennsy Learns Something Might Be Wrong

Early in March, I trimmed my beard. It had gotten pretty shaggy, and Spring comes early to the Bluegrass. I had noticed a swelling in my neck, but figured it was just an inflamed lymph node caused by a cold or my lousy gums. They ache from time to time, but the pain always gets better eventually. Once my beard was cropped though, I looked in the mirror and was pretty surprised at just how big this swelling was. I was used to feeling them. I was not used to seeing them. Mrs. P confirmed that something was certainly out of order and we made an appointment to see the family doc.

I was expecting penicillin and the usual spiel about how I need to lose weight. Instead, Dr. Hall ordered a CT scan and a consultation with the Ear, Nose, and Throat surgeon. She also ordered a fine needle biopsy.

A few days later I had the scan before work, then waited a week to get in to see the ENT surgeon, Dr. Colin. His RN took a long medical history from us and read my vital signs. Pretty standard stuff. Dr. Colin came in and the room turned into a tech lover's paradise. First he looked in my ears, nose, and mouth using one of those little flashlights that they all have. Then he screwed this optical cable gizmo together and shoved a camera up my nose, through the sinuses, and down my throat. The weirdness of this sensation was far outweighed by the coolness of the experience of seeing my innards on a big color screen. He even showed me my vocal folds and let me see my voice-box working. We saw my pharynx, my tonsils, all the little parts I had studied in school as an actor and singer. It was awe inspiring. I expected him to withdraw the endoscope and show me where I had Mono or Strep Throat. Instead, he turned to the computer monitor and brought up the images from my CT scan.

As he scrolled through the pictures that represented my head and neck had I been shoved through a deli slicer, his cursor came to rest on a large bulging mass on the right side of my neck. It looked like a balloon with a rubber band wrapped around the middle. I had never seen a CT scan before, but Mrs P had. She spent a year working as a social worker with Hospice and had helped lots of patients through meetings like this. I heard her catch her breath. She was seeing something I didn't.

Dr. Colin showed me how the mass was not just a lump on my neck, but actually extended all the way in to my throat. My jugular vein and carotid arteries were being pinched in toward my spine and my windpipe was deflected severely to the left. He told me that it seemed to have originated in my Tonsil. We would need the PET scan to be more certain, but there was a real concern that this might be "cancerous." Mrs. P asked some questions I didn't understand, and we thanked the doctor for his time.

The ladies at the reception desk were very nice about setting up the PET scan and a follow-up visit. They also cancelled my biopsy. No time for needle pricks. We left with the distinct impression that time was becoming precious.

#164: Nixon Gave Me Cancer

Why did this happen?

After I had lived with the idea of having Cancer for a while, I started wondering where it came from. My cell phone? The cigarettes I smoked in my twenties? Flouridated water? The Illuminati?

The truth is, it doesn't make much difference. Explaining doesn't help me much. I'm in the "staying alive" business now.

Turns out that Squamous Cell Carcinoma in the mouth and throat are usually related to smoking, alcohol, dental irritation, and the HPV virus. I really didn't smoke very much or for very long, and I haven't had 10 drinks in the last two years. I do (or did) have severe periodontal disease which can cause systemic infections and heart disease, though I haven't seen anything connecting it to Cancer. I don't chew Skoal or betel nuts. I haven't been tested for HPV, but my "partner" for the last 25 years doesn't have it.

So we're not sure what caused my Cancer.

Until a better explanation comes along, as I do with all unexplained evil, I'm blaming Nixon.

#163 What we might be...

A few weeks ago (seems like a lifetime) I discovered a strange swelling on the right side of my neck. After a few tests we learned that it was Cancer and that it was pretty bad. There have been struggles and adventures that I intend to write about in the coming days, but I want to start with this.

Since I became ill, I have experienced mercy, compassion, and generosity in the most remarkable way. People have poured out their hearts, their hours, and their pocketbooks to Mrs P and me in a demonstration of gratuitous love that leaves me awestruck. It occurred to me last night that this is who me might be.

If we choose, we might be a people who share one another's burdens.

Who build one another up and encourage one another to succeed.

We might be a people who treasure and shelter one another from life's unfairness and cruelty.

Had we the will, we might be companions who make one another feel stronger, more capable, more known.

We might create places where our neighbors could bring their fears and find solace and comfort. Maybe not always understanding, but always acceptance.

The world might be such a place. Or the church. Or our heart.

We might be these things, but we prefer things as they are somehow.

We blame God for the fall of Babel, but the truth is that we choose babble. Consistantly. Tragically.

Cancer is teaching me what beautiful, holy people we might be... what a world we might share...

Peace,
pennsy

#162 Not Another "I Hated '09" Post

So '09 sucked for you. Grow up. The year was hard in Pennsyltucky too. Some life lessons come hard.

Don't sell your love to the highest bidder.
People say "I love you." as easily as they say "Pass the salt." Don't believe in Easy Love. Just because someone cares about the things you can do for them, that doesn't mean they care about you. They'll stop caring as soon as they stop profiting.

The other shoe always drops.
When you see the headlight at the other end of the tunnel, for God's sake, get off the tracks.

Genuine loyalty is given, not earned.
There are people out there who will stick with you through thick and thin - but they may not be the ones you expected.

Blood really is thicker than water.
When times are the hardest - when worse actally does come to worst - you find out that your family cares the most.

A drowning sage does not second guess the lifeboat.
It ain't the boat that got you here, and it ain't the boat you would choose, but sometimes you just have to climb in and start rowing.

Never argue with someone who buys their own bullshit.
There is nothing in the world as powerful as self-deception. You think you're helping them to see things as they are. You're not. Let life teach them what they need to know.

You do as you feel, but you feel as you think.
Actions are reflexive responses to emotion. Emotions are logical responses to thoughts. If I think you are dangerous, I'll be afraid. If I think you are fascinating, I'll be curious. If I think I'm a loser, I'll despair. If I think I'm a student, I'll move on to my next lesson.

You have no idea how much people care for you.
There are people willing to help, to stand beside you. To be there. There are people who think better of you than you think of yourself. Whether you are at your lowest or at your best, there are people who suffer and rejoice right along side you. No matter what. Love these people with all your heart. They are your friends.

Wishing you peace and prosperity in 2010...

Pennsy

#161 Hot Hammies

OK, not in the sense of "hottie" hot, but hot in the sense of burning up. That's what lunges left me feeling. My hamstrings were on fire. It was good to find such a simple way to work them, but it took me by surprise. The lunge is supposed to work my quads, isn't it? Yes, but the beauty of the lunge is that it is a compound movement. Both the hip and the knee are working at the same time.

Here's a video from a homey at Pittsburgh Boot Camp that does a goodjob talking about the best form for the lunge. If you don't know the joy of this movement. Be prepared. It hurts so good.



That's a movement that works both the front and the back of the leg at once. Nice. Efficient. Hot.

Exercise	Sets	Reps	Wt
Lunge	3	7	0
Bench Press	3	7	145
Lat Pulldown	3	7	150
Woodchoppers	3	7	110

After a five minute warmup on the treadmill, I hit the weight room intending to increase the resistance and the intensity. I added 10 lbs. to each exercise and reduced the rest period between. I want a simple, serious workout. A fast workout - one that wrings me out when I'm finished. The purpose here is two-fold. First, I want to build muscle mass as quickly as I can. That comes from lifting heavy weights - as heavy as you can safely handle. Second, I want to build as much cardio work into my weight training as I can - the way to do that is to keep moving, just like on the treadmill.

Peace,
Pennsy

#160 John Izzo and Working Up to the Lunge

This is John Izzo showing you how to teach your body the lunge.



John's Blog is called IzzoStrengthTraining.com and it's one I've been following and reading for a while. I recommend it to you if you are at all interested in personal training either as a pass time or as a career.

I like John because he has built a career and reputation without having to look like a Greek God. I promise you, that's a compliment. (No offense intended to Greek Gods.) He talks straight about his job, his victories, his challenges, and his professional ethics. And he makes sense.

Lunges are particularly difficult for me because they are about lifting most of your body weight with one leg. That's not always easy for me. Watching me get up off the floor can be pretty comical. So here's how John says to get started:

1.) Prepare by lowering your body unto the floor. Maintain an erect torso while on your knees. Eyes should be facing directly at a path in front of you and arms should be relaxed to your sides. At this point, the glutes and abdominals should be rigid or braced.

2.) With control, bring one leg forward. The knee of the other leg should still be touching the ground. This position resembles a “genuflect”. Eyes are still facing forward and shoulders are squared. The glute of the front leg should be contracted for the next phase.

3.) The front leg (which was forward) propels the body forward. With abs tight and glutes contracted, the trainee returns to the starting position with a “genuflect” and finally a kneel. The exercise is repeated on the other side.

What's good about Izzo's approach is that you start out in balance. If you start from a standing position, you have to execute the move without tipping over as you drop down. The difference may be mostly mental, but it makes sense to me to start out down on the floor. It isn't as far to fall.

I was never very good at this movement, but I'm hoping John's good counsel will help me to get better. I want to see those big old quads pop. And better lunges will make everything from my squats to my vertical leap bigger, too. to say nothing of the tight bootay that drives Mrs P wild.

Peace,
Pennsy

#159: Just a Little More

Cardio	Distance	Time	MPH	Pace	Heart Rate	Intervals
Treadmill	0.8	12:00	4.0	15	138	12 x 1

Good morning workout today. Nearly a mile and at a much more pleasing pace. I wonder why we look at numbers as thresholds. I'd rather run at 4.0 than at 3.9. I'd rather lift 200 lbs than 195. I guess that's what achievement is. The accumulated value of all those "just a little mores" that we press for each day.

People have started coming up to me asking, "Where have you been?" They're all very kind not to mention how much weight I've gained back. I tell them I've been sick for a while. It's good to be well again. Good to be running.

FAT MAN OF THE WEEK

This is Terrence Cody. On Saturday, he blocked two kicks to help Alabama squeak by Tennessee. He is one big dude. According to Pat Forde in ESPN.com:

His given name is Terrence Cody, but around here everyone calls him Mount Cody. See him up close and you know why -- at 6-foot-5 and 354 pounds, he is among the largest free-standing structures in the entire state.
And at a time when Alabama acutely needed someone to step up big, its biggest player broke through.

Mr. Cody (I'm thinking that's what I would probably call him) has maximized his talent and he's still getting better. He not only beat his blocker, he managed to get all those pounds up in the air and in front of two field goals in a game that the Tide won by 2 points. It's an easy thing to miss: blocking a kick. He did it twice by reaching, pushing, jumping just a little bit more than his opponent. He will soon be a very rich man and may be a great ballplayer, someday. Meanwhile, he's a very big man on campus and Tuscaloosa's favorite Fat Man. Roll On, Mr. C., Roll On.

Peace,
Pennsy

#158 Getting Up to the Bottom of a New Workout

Exercise	Sets	Reps	Wt
Squat	3	7	135
Bench Press	3	7	135
Lat Pulldown	3	7	140
Woodchoppers	3	7	100

Cardio	Distance	Time	MPH	Pace	Heartrate	Intervals
138	0.65	10:00	3.9	15.4	138	10x1

 

These first few days are about finding the starting place. At 49, I think I'm past the age where I can afford to be arbitrary about these things. My recovery time is still pretty long. I can work an area hard about every third day. I don't want to over do and put anything out of commission. So I'm working my way up to the bottom.

 

Now the cardio is interesting to me. Just two days ago, I ran 30 minutes at run/walk intervals of 2 minutes for the first 20, then 1 minute for the last 10. Today I turned the speed up a notch from 3.7 to 3.9 mph and had to work hard to finish 10 one minute intervals. Next I'll try to stretch out my time at that speed. I'd like to do that on Sunday, but it will depend on how the legs recover from today.

 

In the weight room, I'm still feeling my way. Squats today for my big lift. I'm going to rotate Squats, Deadlift, and Lunges for my whole body lifts. The push, pull, twist exercises will stay the same for a while. Those last three reps were a bear. I also increased the weight on the Woodchoppers a little. 100 may still be too light.135 lbs feels good for the Bench and Lat. Pulldowns for  now. Next time I'll do the dreaded Lunges. I will not need the 45 lb plates for those for a while.

 

Otherwise I'm feeling well. I've been writing in the mornings, trying to get up early and keep my routine intact. Nutrition is still pretty up and down. Once my performance in the gym gets in a groove, my eating should improve considerably. 

 

 

#157: Undefeated

Exercise	Sets	Reps	Wt
Dead Lift	3	7	135
Bench Press	3	7	135
Lat Pulldown	3	7	140
Woodchoppers	3	7	90

Our greatest glory is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall. ~ Confucius

Today I returned to one of my favorite places in the world. I didn't lift too heavy or too long, but I pulled on the gloves, loaded up the bar, and moved me some iron. I tried to run after lifting, but could only do about 10 minutes on the treadmill and about 3 on the elliptical. No real cardio benefit, I'm betting. I might have gone harder, but I didn't want to injure anything. I feel really good now that it's done. Came home and had some beans and rice. Tomorrow I'm going to run by my supplement regimen past the Docs to make sure my vitamins and fish oil won't interact with my meds. Meantime. Here's something that's occurred to me.

When you find yourself in the biggest mess of your life and you ask, "How did I wind up here?" take a minute. Think. You didn't wind up here. "Here" is just a step on the way to the next place, and the next. If you never give up, you'll never be defeated.

Peace,
Pennsy

#156 The Church: Christ's Broken Body

Forgiving the church. It isn't easy. She's a wreck, broken. Her solution seems to be to keep breaking the pieces. It grieves me. I'm not sure how God feels about it. Does it matter if the church we invented to imitate God's son grinds itself into powder? Maybe not. There does seem to be something inevitable about it. We destroyed Jesus: at least for a time. How could we expect to treat the church any better?

Maybe we should let her die. Maybe the tower of Babel should come down. In the end, only the cornerstone will be left. The church will be broken apart and the children of god will finally know the lonely cost of serving the Creator: the loneliness of the cross. Without classes and meetings and projects and programs, we will have to seek other forms of fellowship. We will have to choose discipleship to the living God, or bondage to a dead institution.

Perhaps the cross does not deliver us from sin, but from death. Suffering alone on the cross, Christ showed us the way. We have to die to live.

This is a mystery to me, one that I can not comprehend, only imitate. The church may be doing just that. Like Jesus, the church may finally be delivered into life through her death, or maybe her death will make salvation possible for each of us.

I write all this because I feel the need to forgive the church. I asked too much of her once. I expected her to be better than the humans who made her up, and was disapointed. That is not fair, but that is what I feel. Like a child discovering there is no Santa Claus, my heart was broken. I don't know if I can ever love the church again, but in order to heal myself, I have to forgive her for the hurt I felt. Ultimately, it was my choice to feel it. Maybe today I can choose differently. Maybe that's what forgiveness is: God's choice to think differently about us.

Peace, Y'all.
Pennsy

#155 A Mother's Work is Never Done

Three score and ten. Sounds impossible to me. I can't believe that my Mum is that old. I can't believe I've been around for most of that time. And I can't believe that she does the things she does while bearing the weight of all those years on her shoulders with such grace and generosity.

Pennsyltuckians are volunteers. In my family that means working for the church, the scouts, the community, the schools. Dad and Mom taught us that there are important things outside of our own skins, and that we ought to give them some attention. So Mom goes to quilting and Eastern Star and choir and school concerts and even sits through the occasional ball game if the weather isn't too bad. She has broken her leg, torn up her knee, had half of her thyroid removed, buried her parents and husband, and raised me and in spite of all the scars those ordeals have left, she keeps on going. Mum looks for the place in the world where she can do the most good, and she goes there. She is no isolated little old lady.

Three weeks ago, Mrs P called Mum to tell her that I had been admitted to the hospital. That was Friday afternoon. On Saturday morning my 70 year old mother packed her bags loaded up the car, and drove the eight hours from Pennsy' to 'Tucky to be with my wife and me. She was at every visiting hour. She drove to pick me up when I was discharged. Mom drove me to most of my outpatient treatments. She stayed with us for three weeks. This morning we kissed her goodbye and sent her back up North where the grandkids are pining for her and my sisters are wondering if she's ever coming home. She's coming home today, you guys.

And I am going to miss her. Mrs P and her clan are some of the weepingest folks you are apt to encounter. So this morning she wept. Mom got a little misty too, but we Northerners are used to a colder climate where moisture on the face can cause little frostbitten streaks down the side of the nose if the wind is right. We hold our tears pretty tightly. But Mom and I shared a few today. They were joyful tears.

There are moments shared with the ones you love that you will remember your whole life. A first kiss. Learning to cast a fishing lure. The day you finally let the clutch out without stalling the car. The broken heart that sent you crying in your mother's arms while she held you and couldn't think of anything to say except, "Oh, Honey. I'm so sorry."

The last three weeks just became one of those times for me. I'll never forget what Mum did for us here in the cold Kentucky rain. She saw where she was needed, and she came. I was raised by a great, great woman. I thank God that I lived long enough to realize it.

I love you, Mom. Thanks for always being there.

bob

#154 Returning to the Gym After a Loooong Hiatus

Weight	Body Fat	BP
394	42.8%	148 / 95

I'm not all the way back to where I was before I started working out in 2008. Just most of the way. I'm not really discouraged because I'm not really surprised. I knew I wasn't getting the exercise I needed, and I watched every bite of food as it went in. The truth is, I was so depressed most of the time that I didn't care if I gained weight and lost strength or not. Well I've spent some quality time with the headshrinkers and it turns out that yes, I do care. I lived healthy once, and saw the results of that change. I can do it again.

I am making some changes in my approach. this time. I will be keeping my workouts much simpler and more intense. I want to burn off some of this fat in a hurry, and the way to do that is through frequency, intensity, and nutrition.

I am not going to get as involved in all those numbers that I love so well. Less time crunching data and more time crunching abs. I'll still update the "Tale of the Tape" periodically, but mostly I'll be tracking the three metrics above. Weight is easy to understand and to measure. Body Fat Percentage is also easy, and I think it's an important qualifier for body weight. Lots of athletes are classified obese even though they have very low body fat. Clearly that is not the case with me right now. But one day...

The last and scariest number is the one I've not tracked in the past: Blood Pressure. That's become important since my recent career struggles. I have taken a stab at several jobs, even tried to start my own business, but have not seen a steady paycheck for 14 months now. The combined stress of unemployement and poor job matches left me very depressed and hypertensive for the first time in my life. We are controlling it with medication for the time being, but I would rather do so with aerobic exercise if I can. I'll be hitting the cardio hard, but with care to be sure I am improving without having a stroke on the step climber.

My initial workouts are very gentle and low impact. The biggest difference I've noticed, besides my weight, is the weakness in my legs and butt. Squats are a real effort, and a lunge is not a realistic possibility. I'll be building leg strength in some other ways until the weight and joints are ready for those big lifts again. More on lower body later.

My cardio workout is 30 minutes on the treadmill in a very strict run/walk rhythm. I set the belt at what feels like a comfortably brisk walk to me, then alternate walking and jogging every 60 seconds, changing my gait without changing speeds. That allows me to get my heart rate up and a good sweat going, more than I could have with a faster walk. I am also able to go much farther than if I had been running or walking full speed the entire time.

Resistance training is also light; just upper body work with a blue band clipped to the wall. Push/Pull/Twist - Standing Chest Press, Standing Row, Woodchopper Right, Wood chopper Left. 50 reps each without rest between. That keeps my heart rate up and got a real burn started in my arms and obliques.

I'm also doing some things at home to work on the lower body strength. We've been moving furniture and boxes from the second floor to the basement. That's a lot of trips up and down stairs. I am being very deliberate in the way I lift and carry things. I don't want to hurt my back, and I want to practice my form so my body remembers how to lift heavy iron as well as liquor boxes full of old paperbacks.

All in all, it's good to be Pennsy today. My mental health is as good as it has ever been, I'm turning my body back in the right direction, and career prospects seem just over the horizon. I just have to keep working in the right directions.

Peace,
Pennsy

#153 Fat Man Changing

Been a long time since fitness was on my agenda. This photo was from my last organized 5K, back in the Summer of 2008. Since then, unemployment, Major Depression and the Great Recession conspired to put me on my back and ultimately in the hospital for a few days. That sort of thing gets a 49 year old's attention. Not to mention a blood pressure reading that looked like a pretty decent bowling score.

So I'm making some changes.

I've decided to change the name of the blog back to its original Fat Man Running. It isn't a comment on my self-esteem, I just like the way it sounds. So the Fat Man is back on the road, running for his life. I'm back on the treadmill, walking till I get my legs back under me. Bye-bye caffeine. Hello regular sleep hours. So long salt shaker. Hello to the small army of family and friends, therapists, pharmacists, and headshrinkers who will be helping me along the road.

And hello to Pennsy, too. I haven't felt like myself for a long, long time. The past year has taught me a lot about other kinds of fitness - fitness that you don't get under the bar or over the elliptical. In the past few months, I've been as beaten down as I ever have in my life, but by the grace of God and the love of Mrs Pennsy, I'm off the canvas and back in the fight again.

Finally, I'm merging my two blogs. Pennsyltuckian was fun to work on, but I am no longer convinced that spirituality ought to be separate from physical health. The two are more intimately linked than I ever suspected and I'll be treating them accordingly here.

So hey, y'all. The times are changing. The Steelers are playing. And the Fat Man runs again.

Peace,
pennsy

#152 Hi, this is God. Please leave a message...

Hi, this is God. I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message after the tone.

There have been good times and hard times when God has been quick to call back. Even if it’s only to leave a message, I’m here. I’m working on it. Don’t worry, I’ll get back to you.

Lately when my phone rings, it’s always someone else.

Elie Wiesel wrote about God’s silence in the night of the Nazi Genocide. My sense of proportion isn’t that far out of whack. I know that losing my job and savings isn’t the same as dying at Auchwitz. I don’t know anything about that kind of suffering.

But I do know about the silence of God. Run a Google search on that phrase and count the clichés and platitudes. For centuries people have tried to speak for this speechless Father, this unmoved Creator. But there’s the trouble. No creature can say anything to compensate for the sense that the God’s back is turned.

After the self-pity, after the unrequited love has passed, there is a choice to be made. If God is not calling back – if God is indifferent to my life – how do I set my own course? How to keep believing in myself when if seems God has given up on me?

When God abandoned Jesus, he gave up the ghost. I don’t have that luxury. My suffering is real, but far from biblical. The great models of perseverance and faithfulness in the scriptures aren’t much help. I’m no Jesus, no Job, not even Jonah. The sufferings of Pennsy aren’t going to matter to anyone in 50 years.

So if God isn’t going to pitch in, what do I have to rely on?

Will. First, I have to choose to go on, and so I do. I choose to keep living.

Love. God does not return my calls, but Mrs P does. My mom does. My sisters, my oldest friend, even our animals. They believe in me and their faith gives me strength.

Wisdom. Betrayal is a great teacher. Not every one who acts loving actually loves. Not everyone who receives feels gratitude. There is a part of a man that he can’t afford to give away, not if hw wants to go on living, working, fighting for the people he loves.

Honor. That old fashioned word that means the value of a name. The shine has been dulled over the years, the finish dented and scratched, but in the end, my only real treasure is the value of my name, the value of my word.

Jesus told the story of a man who held a feast. The fine people he invited chose not to attend, so the man opened his doors and welcomed in the folks he could trust. The common people of the street who may not have been as highly regarded as their “betters”, but who were faithful to the host who offered his hospitality and himself.

God is welcome in my life, and may choose to return someday, but for now I have to go on without the voice I have grown so accustomed to. If God chooses not to walk with me, so be it. I will continue to walk. I will walk as God taught me. I will continue to pray into the silence and to work through the darkness.

I have waited long enough for God to speak. It is time to face the silence with the people who love me enough to call back.

Peace,
pennsy