#225: Friends, Indeed

I've always thought of that old expression the other way. You know, "A friend in need is a friend indeed." I always understood it to mean that when someone needs something from you, they act like a true friend. I have a new way of looking at it. I'm realizing how many true friends I have now that I'm the one who needs something. My friend L came over to hang out today. We laughed. We played Scrabble. I slept. She made an origami box to entertain me. I'm sure she could have found a more pleasant way to spend her afternoon than listening to me wretch and watching me squirt milk shakes into my belly, but she spent it with me.

What led to L's visit was a change in a change in plans. A few days ago I posted on facebook that I needed a pennsy-sitter. Mrs P was planning on going out of town.Several wonderful friends volunteered and we were ready to coordinate the project. Over the weekend I had a couple of rough spells and Mrs P decided that she would stay home. Yesterday was a great day, and we agreed that I could handle her being away if we could get someone to stay with me for the day. I had already told everyone that I wouldn't be needing them, but one phone call to L and I had adult supervision for the whole day.

She showed up at 10:00, loaded down with laptop, Scrabble, even arts and crafts. She reminded me of the occupational therapy director at the nut house. We watched The Daily Show and Colbert Report, then played some games. By that time, I was pretty worn out, so I napped and she fussed around the house, dusting and washing up dishes and things. When I awoke, my meds were ready for me and my lunch was ready to squirt. In the afternoon, I slept some more while she read, then she offered to show me how to make a little paper box. It was silly and fun. Now, we're waiting for Mrs P to return home. L is typing emails and I'm chatting with you. It's been a nice day. A gift from a friend to a friend in need.

Yesterday, I called my friend D with some news. We are both following the progress of a theater that's being renovated here in town. I drive past on my way home from treatment. Yesterday I was excited to see a sign company crane hanging the new marquee, so I called D to tell her the news. She told me that she had been invited to see a dress rehearsal of the next play at SummerFest, Pride and Prejudice. She offered to go with me if I felt up to it. As I said, yesterday was a good one so we made plans. We had a wonderful time together, the play is charming and engaging, and Mrs P got a few more hours off from care giving.

Speaking of which... I just read the chapter in Lance Armstrong's book about how his relationship with his girlfriend ended once his chemo was over. I think I understand a little better now. Care giving is such a total task. The person with cancer is fighting something tangible, something inside them. The caregiver is fighting something more abstract. Something "out there." They are very different perspectives, but both demand great effort and focus. It is very easy for us to wear one another out. This is not uncommon among people who survive treatment together. It is not a path I want to imitate!

So giving my bride a respite from time to time is really important. I want her to be able to get away from this thing now and then. Maybe that means spending time with another friend or figuring out how to juggle all the mechanics of feeding myself. Maybe it means finding a friend indeed who's willing to spend a few hours watching me sleep. Whatever it means, I am so grateful to D and L for giving Mrs P the chance  to rest. And for all the laughter we've shared over the past two days.

I did learn something, though. Yes, I can feed myself quite sufficiently, thanks. I don't need Mrs P resting her hip against mine, watching as the plunger gently pushes nutrition into my stomach. I don't need her to wipe up the spilled drops or to pat my cheek when it's all finished. I don't need that. But I really miss it when it isn't there. All this time, I thought she was giving me dinner. Turns out that was the least of her gifts. I'm glad she got this rest, but I'm glad she's coming home, too.

Peace,
pennsy

#224: Patience, patient...

Waiting and doing and waiting. That's what it takes to kill cancer. There are a handful of things to do. Let them shoot your veins full of poison. Take the pills. Soak up the radiation. But in between, there is a lot of waiting. It isn't easy being a patient patient. That's why I'm always making up little things to do. Like peeing out the cancer. Or sweating it out.

Last night, while reading Lance Armstrong's book, It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life I noticed that he did the same thing. Every trip to the bathroom, every cough became a way for him to shove the cancer out of his body.

When you study acting, they teach you that active choices are better than passive ones. It is better to DO something than to try to BE something. I imagine athletes have a similar mindset. That's why I've started calling myself a hunter. I want an active objective to pursue.

Active goals give you focus. They help you stay single-minded. But they can also make you miss some important stuff. Mrs P had a pretty rough weekend too. Watching the man you love puke his brains out every afternoon can do that to you. She really needed someone to be there for her, and I couldn't do it. Coudn't? Wouldn't? I'm not sure. There are times when it seems to take all I have just to keep my own head afloat. That's just a reality that I have to recognize.

But I also know that the woman I love needed something that she didn't get from me. That is the worst part for me. Worse even than losing my teeth. It's watching how the people who love me suffer because of this disease. I've been thinking a lot about what I'm going to do once this cancer is out of my house. I think I owe the universe something. Maybe it's this - maybe I can help the people who love people with cancer. This life demands so much from them. Maybe I can help when the patient runs out of patience. Maybe that's a way I can help to give some meaning to all this hurting I see in my Mum and Mrs P. I'm not sure.

I learned something else while reading. I skipped a step. One of the stages of grief is "bargaining." Like when you say, "OK God, take away my career, but just let me live," or "All right, I won't act anymore, but let me direct." I haven't really gone there. I decided early that if I was gonna make it, there would have to be a reason for me to live, and for me that reason is acting. I made up my mind that I was going to beat cancer and get back on stage. That's not negotiable. Mrs P has already started scanning the casting notices looking for roles for me. I have my eye on a tasty one, but it's a secret. I'll let you know when it happens.

Had a good meeting with the Radiation doctors today. I asked the obvious question - one I guess I haven't had the nerve to ask before. "Am I getting better?" The doc says he thinks so. Not the most committal answer, but I'll take it. Turns out that my particular treatment path is a little hard to measure midstream. If I hadn't had the surgery first, we'd be watching things shrink and disappear. As it is, the stuff we're after is invisible anyway. We're chasing a cell at a time. If chemo were the core of my treatment, we could watch the blood level numbers and they would tell me if things were working. Instead, chemo is really only there to boost the effects of the radiation. And how do we know that the radiation is working? Well, we don't know directly. Indirectly, we can tell that it's killing parts of me. My throat lining, my salivary glands, my  beard. If it's killing all these, it's also killing the cancer. The doc said this morning that if I weren't exhibiting all these negative effects, that would be cause for concern. The irony did not escape me. They know I'm getting better because I'm getting so much worse.

But don't let's overdramatize. I know I'm getting better because I just know. I realize that doesn't make any sense and might just as easilly be wishful thinking as anything, but I can feel my soul getting stronger. The part of me that the radiation can't burn and the cancer can't crowd out is getting more and more grounded every day. That's the change I've been waiting for.

Peace,
pennsy

#223: Nobody's Victim

Nobody's "Victim"

I'm finally well along into It's Not About the Bike by Lance Armstrong. He's been in my stack for a few weeks, but my attention span has been pretty short. I just decided to bite it off a little bit at a time.

The story is all you probably imagine. Part sports memoir, part cancer survivor tale. It is the story of an unconsidered life brought up short by the disease that can't but get your attention. It is a great read about a man who grows into himself in a thousand ways. I'll have a lot more to say about it as I draw nearer to the end.

For now though, there is a phrase he used that caught my eye. He said that the day he started chemo, he knew his life as a cancer patient had begun. "Cancer Patient." Those just aren't words I've used to think of myself. Nor have I thought of myself as a cancer "victim." Not a chance.

Cancer tries to sneak up on you with a little fatigue, a little swelling, maybe a strange not quite right feeling, but the day you catch it, cancer loses the upper hand. The day we exposed it for what it was, I became a cancer survivor. It would not take me unawares. I would not be a helpless victim. I became a cancer survivor that day in the recovery room after my surgery.

But more than that. Once I survived the sneak attack, I had a choice. Would I be merely a survivor, or would I be a victor? I decided that I would not let this think kill me, that instead, I would kill it. I became a cancer hunter. Mrs P and I read all we could. We watched YouTube videos. We read articles. We learned cancer's character and habits. And we assembled our team.

You don't hunt big game on your own, and cancer is the biggest. We gathered the doctors and the nurses, the nutritionists and scientists, the head shrinker and the heart warmers. We put our team together with one thought in mind. Find this cancer and kill it before it can kill me. And that's just what we're doing.

I have become its assassin. My friend prays for me while she weeds her garden. That's a good thing because it is a big garden and it has been a rainy season. That's a lot of prayers. She imagines as she hoes the weeds and leaves them to whither in the sun that she is pulling the cancer out of me. She is a hunter, too. Every time Mrs P pushes the plunger that fills me with food or picks out the pills that keep me strong enough to fight, she is pushing the cancer out of me. Even the nausea that sends me retching to the bathroom in the afternoons is part of the battle, part of getting the poison out. Every spasm is another victory for me, another defeat for this thing that will not be my master.

So don't call me cancer's patient and don't call me cancer's victim. I am neither. I'm winning the fight every day. This thing that has tried to take my life and body and family will not win us, it will not become me.

I will not will the Tour de France. But I will win this battle. I will defeat this cancer. What are my odds?

100 percent.

Peace,
pennsy.

#222: In Stillness

In stillness
Thoughts are not so lofty
More
Here
More present

Waking with a gentle opening
Not a start
In stillness
As if only a part of me
Wakes

After the storm
The tears
The Cries in the Dark
Comes stillness
Welcome quiet fills the rooms
Home is home again

In stillness, I whispered your name
And you were here beside me
Your eyes moist with sleep and worry
Mine wide with fear and loneliness
Together we held one another in stillness

There is a kind of quiet that transcends a simple hush. When I've had a difficult spell, like the one I had this afternoon, the worst I can remember, the sleep that follows it is beyond sleep. After a few hours, I open my eyes and my body has not moved an inch. Every finger is just where I left it. Mrs P says at times like this she has to watch me to make sure I'm breathing. The snoring is gone with my tonsils, apparently. The tossing and turning are no longer an option, the PEG tube keeps me on my back. Now that I've lost some weight, I can sleep more comfortably so I don't need to move around much. What it comes down to is that things tend to stay where I put them. I don't fidget around much anymore.

Today, I awoke in the quiet after that storm. Mrs P was asleep in the next room. I could hear her breathing, (she swears she does not snore, but she does have tonsils...,) and I lay there in the light of the afternoon. The earlier gray rainlight had passed and the sun was drying the world. Jake had his chin on my foot. It was so very beautiful. When she awoke, Mrs P brought me my "feeding" and we went about the business of nutrition quietly. She has endured so much through all this. Today's nausea was as bad as she's seen me, too. Seeing the tired in her eyes pains me and I wish there were a way I could make it easier for her. For now, the best I can do is give her these quiet moments when they come. And remind her how grateful I am, how very much I love her.

She rolled over in her sleep the other night and asked, "Would you still love me if you didn't need me so much?" Startling question. It made me think of all the celebrity survivors I keep reading about whose wives get them through treatment, then these guys go find some co-ed and throw over the people who gave them everything. I don't get that. Rather, I asked myself, "Could I need you this much if I didn't love you?" Would I even allow you to pay such a cost without my love? The question was a shock, but it was easy to answer.

Yes, my darling. Yes, I love you, no matter what. Because I love you. That's why.

Peace,
pennsy

#221: Little Dignities

When I get out of bed, I try to always put on my shoes. I'm not sure why. Partly it's that Jake is always leaving some sharp, chewed up piece of something or other lying around and I don't want to step on it. But I think it's also got something to do with keeping a little dignity. I don't want to be padding around the house like a sick person. Lacing up the Adidas makes me feel more like I've got somewhere to go, even if it is just to the bathroom and back.

Little dignities. That's something my vanity won't let me quite give up. Like tipping my ridiculous, huge sun hat to a lady. Like tucking my shirt in or tapping my walking cane on the sidewalk as I do my tenth of a mile hike around the block. Or keeping myself shaved. I want the world to know I'm still a man in here. Maybe I want to remind myself.

Beware the pink and blue
bunny people!

Then there are the other times, the silly times. Yesterday, Mrs P couldn't find her blue bandanna. Later when it turned up under my pillow, I didn't want to lose it, so I put it in the one place I knew I wouldn't forget it. This led to one of those arm's length self portrait sessions that I have come to treasure so much. Mrs P is a better photographer than I, even when she can't see what she's doing, so she usually does the snapping. In this case, she also stole a smooch. I was happy to give it up.

We're setting up a field trip for Mrs P this week. She and her sister are going to try to visit Big Brother 1, and we need Pennsy sitters. Generous friends have volunteered and we'll coordinate all that. I am so touched by the easy way people stepped forward to "take a shift." I can't tell you how it feels to be as loved as I am. I honestly had no idea...

After yesterday's blog about how weary I was, I went to bed for a while, as promised, but it wasn't very restful. I decided to try putting my feet in motion and wound up taking a walk in the end of yesterday's rain. It was a beautiful, humid bluegrass afternoon. The rain dripped from my big straw hat as my cane tapped the concrete and I made my way around two short blocks - far as I've walked for a while, I think. I had to stop and lean a couple of times, and I was pretty soaked by the time I finished, but it was a great feeling to be really tired, not just used up. As I made my way to our corner, the grill of the Honda was heading up the street. Mrs P was on her way home from taking Jake in for his nail trim. His behavior was exemplary, she says. Seeing them get out of the car gave me the strength to carry myself through the front door, and a real nap followed, not one of those restless flutterings between awake and asleep that can be so frustrating. It felt like a nap I had actually earned.

Found some old photos of Jake today. He really is an insanely beautiful dog. Also an idiot, but that just helps him to fit in. There is a special quality to Golden Retriever's coat in the autumn that just makes them look like a huntin' dog. Jake might be trainable, he is very smart and has a soft mouth, but neither Mrs P nor I have the knowledge or the inclination to take him out in the woods to shoot birds. Guess he'll just have to settle for being pretty. Just like his papa...

Peace,

pennsy

#220: Wiped Out

They told me that the second round of Chemo would hit a lot harder than the first. I just checked my posts from the first week. It was pretty bad then, too. Today I sat in the bathroom and could barely muster the strength to make anything happen anywhere. The good news is that the nausea is not so bad yet. I'd be happy to skip that part if possible.

The biggest symptom I'm having right now, besides the gummy throat, is fatigue. Like wow, fatigue. Like, let me just stop walking right here for a minute to recover from those ten steps I just took. This morning, I was doing the old man walk, for sure. Shuffling steps. Working hard to keep my head up. It's funny. I don't feel any pressure to put up a front unless I'm in view of someone else who has cancer. That's when I want to look my best. Someone who feels like me doesn't need to see some other schmuck schlepping himself down the hall.

"How do you feel, today," Shug asked. She's one of the radiation techs. She has some unpleasant sounding nickname that thay call her, so I decided she should be "Shug" as in "Sugar."

"I feel one hundred times better, Shug. Of course, I still feel like crap. But a much bette class of crap today."

I try to always shout a joke down the hall when they call my name. It usually gets a laugh in both directions, waiting room and treatment area. We need all the laughs we can get down in those lead lined rooms.

Mrs P and Jake just went out for a ride. He needs to have his nails trimmed, and he's incorrigible about letting her do them. You'd think she was trying to cut off his toes. I know it can be a dicy operation, but she's been grooming animals for many, many years. Jake just won't have any of it from her. We're hoping that Dr D's magic touch will be enough to calm him down. Meantime, I'm staying quietly at home today, too tired to move.

Gonna have to cut this post short. I'm breaking a sweat just typing to you today. Back to bed, I guess.

Peace,
pennsy

#219: Evening Prayers

Lord, you awakened me tonight with a burning heart, not for my own suffering, but to remember those I love and who love me. Thank you for the chance to lift up your children in prayer on this holy evening.

Bless my wife M tonight. Her sleep is so deep and restful, yet she stirrs at a sigh from one of her family, caring for us though barely awake herself. Grant her your peace and strength as she continues to hold us together. Help me to minister to her, even as she blesses me each moment.

Be with Mum tonight. These are difficult nights for a mother, unsure of her son's fate. Even as your own blessed Mother suffered with you, she suffers. Grant her your comfort and peace tonight. We know that our every moment is in your hands. Help us to trust one another to your care and grant us peaceful rest.

Bless D, BJ, C, T, A, M, C, M, T, and all in my family who sleep with cancer in their beds tonight. keep them safe from the anxieties of the night that would rob them of their rest, and shake their hope in your salvation. Lord, the night is long, but your love is longer.

Merciful God, do not forget those who are seeking the help of your doctors and healers. Guide our judgement and grant us good counsel so that you might be glorified through our continued lives. Be with us when we meet, grant us strength to lift one another up in laughter and in prayer. Nurture our hope. Feed our faith.

It's a lot to ask, God. I don't usually like to be so demanding when we talk like this, but there's a lot to be done, and I have made promises. Bless R and J and P as they struggle under burdens that are so unfair and seem so cruel. I don't know if this is your fault or not, but I know that your blessings are sure and your mercy is sufficient to give comfort to us, even when it feels as if all creation is against us. Please keep their hope alive.

Be with "Fadda T' as he ministers to your children. We are an unruly bunch, often difficult to manage or understand. bless him with your wisdom as he seeks to be our good priest.

There are others on my heart tonight, Lord. Names I know and names I've forgotten. For C who is afraid tonight. For K who is so angry. For D who doesn't know what's going to happen to her husband, or to her if she loses him. For R who, for all I know is awake and praying for me right now. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised. You know what they need, God, though I don't. Cover them with your protection to give them peace tonight. Tomorrow's troubles can wait for tomorrow.

For myself? I'm not sure what to pray for myself. Help me to live. Keep me faithful. Let me act again. Guide my steps so that my life as a survivor will be more full of meaning, of purpose, of LIFE than the one I have been living. Make me a good husband, son, friend. Lord, continue the mighty work you are doing in my life. I want to be your man. In your time and by your grace, I beg you to make it so.

Thank you for all the blessings of this life, and most especially for your love. Teach us to love as you love us.

And finally, I ask a special blessing on all who share these words tonight. We come together in fellowship here, drawn by things we may not understand. But whatever brings us, we have the opportunity to love and know one another better in this place, and in so doing, we come to love and you. Be present here with us, Lord, and when we part, go with us that we might take the light you give us out into the world.

I ask a lot, but I ask in the name of the one who gave all, my savior Jesus Christ.

Amen

Peace,
pennsy

#218: "I Prayed for You This Morning."

That's how he greeted me, the tall, handsome preacher with whom we share our early morning radiation appointment. He and I were both awake early this morning. Difference was, I was thinking of myself. He was thinking of me. Mrs P and I have come to know several folks in the morning.

There's the couple who are only two days away from their last treatment. He goes back, she smiles and chats about their farm and how long they've been married and how much she loves him.

There's the fellow who comes by himself. He has an ugly looking open sore place on the back of his head. It looks painful, but he is always laughing and joking.

Then there's the lovely lady whose oral cancer was so bad that they had to remove most of her gums. She had her chemo changed yesterday because the side affects were hurting her so much.She felt much better today, and I was relieved to hear it. She always follows right after me to the treatment room, and one morning she gave me a high five on her way past. It was the highlight of my day.

I don't know most of these people's names - the man with one ear, the man whose jaw is missing, the lady who sits quietly waiting for her momma every day.  We don't know one another's names, but we know our stories.

Those stories are what binds us. Always, always it is our stories that bind us.

And this morning, he prayed for me. That is his story. His pain leads him to the sufferings of those he loves, though he barely knows them. Today, I'm praying for him, the handsome preacher and his beautiful wife. We share a diagnosis and are on very similar treatment plans. He and I began and will finish at nearly the same time. Our side effects seem to run parallel, and our good and bad days even coincide sometimes.God bless him. We are walking a dark road, but we are walking together.

That's our story.

Peace,

pennsy

#217: Breakfast in Bed for Pennsy

Tuesday in the Park
with Pennsy

Blogging in the early morning. Well, relatively speaking. I've been awake off and on since about 3:00 today. The Weather channel says it's 71 degrees in the Bluegrass, predicting a high of 94. Seems like a good day to get things accomplished early.

My sleep is a little out of whack, what with staying up 'till midnight on Tuesday to watch Merchant rehearsal. I don't regret a second of it, but it has thrown my routine off a little.

I've been trying to remember what exactly keeps me awake when I'm lying there in the night. Tonight it was hiccups. I start getting these hiccups that lead to nasty heartburn, really uncomfortable. It isn't something I can take a pain pill for because it isn't a chronic thing. It only happens when my stomach spasms which only happens when I move, or breathe, or sip water, or swallow. Antacids don't help because it isn't really acid reflux, I don't think. It's just more like belly trying to turn itself inside out. Hard to describe. Not nausea, not really. But very uncomfortable and not something you can just go back to sleep through.

Another thing is this nasty taste. Not really a taste in my mouth. It's actually the taste of my mouth. The doc explained that the white coating all over my tongue isn't thrush any more (great news, by the way) but it is dried saliva. It's like when you exercise out doors and your mouth starts to dry out and get sticky inside. There isn't enough water in my mouth to thin the mucus, so it just sort of coats everything in this slippery film. That's good and bad. Good because it protects all those tissues that might otherwise dry out. Bad because it tastes just really bad. This is all credited to the radiation, the only really consistent side effect that bothers me now that the magic swish 'n' swizzel is doing it's numbing thing on my throat.

I finally got up and fed myself today. That's kind of a pathetic milestone, I guess, but it felt like quite an accomplishment at the time. Here's how I eat breakfast. First I get a large clear carafe looking thing that we got from the doc and fill it with two cans of Ensure. Then I get half a glass of clear water and a 60 mm syringe. That's a big one with a plastic tip, no needles for me, thanks. Now I take the whole kit to the bedroom because I have to be lying at about a 30 degree angle. Too flat and the food washes up in to my esophagus and maybe even my lungs. Too steep and back-pressure builds up in the tube and stuff gushes back out. Yuch, on both counts.

Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy
(PEG) tube

 So I get myself propped up in an appropriate posture and roll up my shirt, exposing my still healthy belly and the mysterious PEG tube. It's about 10 inches of 1/4 inch clear plastic tube with a round bolster that looks like a big rubber washer to hold it in place on my stomach, a clamp to squeeze it shut, and a little hub at the end with a small hole and a large hole. Each hole has a rubber stopper that flips up so you can put food or meds inside. When I eat, I put a paper towel over the washer to catch drips. Then I draw food up into the syringe, open the stopper, put the syringe into the tube, open the clip, and verrrry sloooowly inject food. I take my time doing this so that I don't spill any. It's not cheap, and it's very sticky. When the first syringe is empty, I hold the tube straight up, pull out the plunger, let the fluid run past the clamp,and close it all up. Then refill and repeat. It takes me a lot longer by myself than when Mrs P helps since I only have two hands, but I have plenty of time, so no problem there. Besides, it feels good to take care of a few things for myself. And getting something in my belly always helps the hiccups.

When I'm done, I rinse a couple of syringe-fulls of clear water through the tube to keep it clean. I'm pretty conscientious about this, what with it being a little hose running directly into my innerds and all. I've put enough weird stuff into my stomach in the usual way over the years. No use letting anything sneak in through the side door.

I don't do the pills on my own. Not when we've got all the chemo/nausea/steroid/phych meds going at once. Mrs P and Mum's trusty chart keep me on track with that. Besides, there are a couple of liquids that need to be mixed and my hands are too shaky for compounding concoctions with little cups and spoons. So, the morning ablutions are now complete, just a little clean up left to do, then it's off to the clinic for some more radiation and a new day. Hope yours is good. Mine will be...

Peace,
pennsy

#216: The Merchant of Venice

A difficult play done well is a joy to see. They don't come much tougher than Shakespeare's tale of revenge, race hatred, and love doubted, The Merchant of Venice. This post will be neither a review - which would be premature, since the play opens tonight - nor an explication of the texts, which I have no intention of working hard enough to write. Instead, I want to share some observations on the difficulties of bringing this complex and in many ways deeply unsatisfying script to the stage.

First, and most obvious is the problem of Shylock, the Jew. To our 21st century minds, the money lender's treatment is beyond horrific. While Shakespeare almost certainly intended the role to carry much of the villain's burden, the epithets and antisemitism of Venice make it very difficult to root against him. We don't want to see him win his bond, but at the same time, we hate to see him lose when the odds are so stacked against him from the start. It is hard to say how I would approach this matter as a Director. The Actor's job is a little easier. Still, making this powerful character believable in a world that renders him so very powerless is a daunting task.

Then there is the matter of Portia, another character of great energy and force whose circumstances compel her to play the weak woman. Portia's story comes in three chapters. First the contest of the caskets and her subsequent marriage. Then comes her courtroom scene, one of Shakespeare's most masterful "trousers roles." Finally, there is a reconciliation of sorts when the couples are reunited in Venice and the mystery of the rings is revealed. Like Shylock, Portia is trapped by the role in which life has cast her. Her father's chattel. Her gender's prisoner. But finally, her husband's master. The manipulation she uses to persuade Basanio to break his vow to keep her ring is hard, but not irresistible. That he is persuaded by his friends to do so reflects poorly on him, but doesn't really make Portia particularly lovable, either. Again, the Director has a mountain of a choice to make. Do we look for the comedy in the role reversals at the heart of Portia's story, or do we play her as a powerful woman struggling to keep some element of control of her world? The choice that is made may not be as important as the fact that a choice be made, and the audience not left to wonder.

Lastly there is the Merchant himself. Antonio is a melancholic fellow driven near distraction by his financial ruin and the weight of the bond he so recklessly makes with Shylock. Again, the antisemitism of the play becomes a major obstacle. We want to root for Antonio, but his treatment of the Jew is so repugnant, cursing him to his face, pulling his beard, spitting on his clothes. It is impossible to want to see this arrogant man be victorious. But Antonio is ultimately redeemed by his love for Bassanio. In his willingness to sacrifice his life for his friend, he wins just enough of our hearts to make us want to see him keep that pound of flesh that he has promised to give away.

In the end, no one really gets what they want out of The Merchant of Venice. Shylock loses his fortune and his daughter. Portia gains a husband, but loses her faith in him. And Antonio, who should come out smelling like a rose, is left with a strangely unsatisfying victory. He has saved his life and regained his treasure, but lost something that is harder to pin down. His honor? His manhood? His faith? Again, choices that are left to the Actor and Director. Shakespeare chooses to leave the audience hanging, just as his characters seem to be. Not even we are allowed the easy resolution we might hope for in a less challenging play.

I watched the final dress rehearsal of Merchant last night with Mrs P and our friend Tami. It was lovely to be in the park and just wonderful to be among "my people." There really are no people like show people. It was a joyful reunion for me. One I hope to repeat again and again as I get back up on my feet. In the meantime, if you're on your feet in Lexington this week, I encourage you to move them to the Arboretum to have a crack at a fine production of a play you are not likely to see played this well anytime soon.

Peace,
pennsy

#215: Navigating the Tropics of Cancer

Looking ahead is always a little tricky. The seas change pretty quickly when you're sailing through cancer treatment. Of course, that's really true no matter where you're sailing.

We have big plans for this evening. We're dragging out to the park to see some Shakespeare. I would prefer to be there opening night, but I think it would be prudent to avoid the really big crowds. We'll both be up much later than we're used to, but it will be worth it. Besides, the doc warned me today that the second chemo treatment I had on Saturday is likely to hit much harder than the first one did. I don't want to miss the show by putting it off.

Did have a kink in a longer range hope today, though. My teeth are not gonna be back anytime soon. Well, they're not actually coming back at all, but my store-bought choppers are going to have to wait for at least a couple of months after radiation. I was hoping for ribs at Labor Day. This news bumps things back to tacos for Thanksgiving. It also delays any hopes I may have for returning to the stage this year. My diction is, shall we say, not as crisp as I might prefer it to be. Still, there is hope out there, and I could always pick up a directing gig if one comes along.

Got some great news today. St Joseph's Hospital where I had my surgery has offered me a very generous financial aid package to help with my medical costs. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but the care I received there was just superior. No one ever made me feel like a charity patient. I couldn't have been treated better if I were the bishop. Now I'm just an AFLAC check away from paying off a really big chunk of my expenses. Next stop, the medicaid office to see what they can do with my chemo/radiation treatments at the Markey Center.

So, it's supposed to be the hottest day in the world, today. I'm hoping we're past the worst by the time we pack up to go to the park. Only 83 degrees right now at 11:00 AM, but tomorrow may be a record-breaker for us. I won't be complaining to Mrs P about the air conditioner today. But I do want to get a little walking in before the weather gets much more brutal.

Tomorrow, I'm hoping to have a preview/review of The Merchant of Venice for you. Till then, stay cool and be at

Peace,
pennsy

#214: Walking Away From Cancer

Like I been rode hard and put up wet. That's what cancer tired feels like. Worned out without getting a chance to cool down. Like all the energy has just been sucked out of you. I woke up in time to go back to sleep this morning. When I opened my eyes again, it was noon-thirty and my head appeared to be swiveling around on someone else's body. I wanted to move, I think, but my legs and arms seemed to be disconnected. Not paralyzed or numb, just not open for business.

Fatigue is the universal symptom of cancer, so they tell me. You may not feel sick when you have cancer, but you will feel tired. Your body is working so hard to deal with this alien that's growing inside you that you don't have the juice that you need to live the rest of your life. I started feeling tired immediately after I went back to work in November. Naturally I assumed it was the change from from 15 months of job hunting to 40 hour weeks that was wearing me out. But I never did get my wind back. I believe that my body was already at war, I just didn't know it yet.

Once the battle was joined, I had surgeries to recover from, radiation to absorb, and chemo therapies to process. There are steroids, anti fungal drugs, antibiotics, pain meds, and my psych meds. I'm a big boy, but that's a lot for me to carry. It wears a man out.

In Cancer Fitness: Exercise Programs for Patients and Survivors, Anna L. Schwartz proposes the remarkable idea that the best solution for cancer fatigue is exercise. It makes sense. When you're healthy, a brisk walk gives you energy. A really tough workout can leave me wiped out and sore, but I always feel better the next morning. So I've been taking Schwartz' advice. When I feel tired, it's up and around the block for me. It's not a long walk, it's not a fast walk, but it does get my heart rate up and lets me break a little sweat. I always feel more energized when I've finished.

Now there are a couple of caveats here. Number one: I don't walk when I'm feeling pukish. I don't want to be barfing all over the neighborhood. Someone is likely to call the rescue squad on me. Number two: I don't walk when I'm feeling really shaky, weak, and off balance. A fall outside with the accompanying scrapes, cuts, and potential infections would be a disaster for me in the middle of my treatment. And finally, number three: I don't walk farther than I comfortably can. When it's 86 degrees out like today, I go easy and keep it short. On cooler evenings when the sun is lower in the sky, I might pick up the pace and hike the long block.

This helps me in a lot of ways. It keeps my circulation up. Too much sitting around is a bad plan, especially for a fat man. It increases my water intake. When I drink more, my kidneys work harder getting all that nasty stuff out that the chemo pumps into me. I get hungry. When I eat more, I keep weight on, very important in battling cancer. And finally, it helps me to maintain muscle mass, a chronic problem with survivors who receiving treatment.

Maybe more important than what it does for my body is what exercise does for my head. It's a normal thing I can do. I can't go to work or sit out in the sun or take a long drive, but I can walk around the block. And soon I'll be jogging it. Not long after that, I'll be running miles again. Exercise reminds me that there's another chapter coming. I won't be running toward it today, or tomorrow. But by God, I can walk there.

Peace,
bob

#213: Side Effects

Shakes. That's what I've got today. One of the drugs that comes with my chemo treatments is a steroid that tastes like peaches. I think that's the one, anyway. It really hypes me up. This is a good thing. One of my friends warned me that the steroids turned him into a real jerk. They just make me annoying. I finally wore Mrs P out with my fidgeting and chatter so she put herself down for a nap. I'm typing, but my hands are really shaking. Don't think I could handle a teaspoon full of soup right now.

I've been very lucky with side effects. I appear to have a sunburn from my cheeks down to the middle of my chest. That's from the radiation. Also the mucosa thingy I've described. Nothing earth shattering. Fungal and other biotic infections that are pretty quickly killed off. Oh, and everything tastes like dog butt.

My chemo drug is called Cisplatin. It's a pretty old drug, but still effective. The list of side effects is daunting. I've had only the highlighted ones.

•Nephrotoxicity - causes damage to the kidneys

•Neurotoxicity - causes damage to the nerves
•Nausea and vomiting - one of the most likely to cause severe nausea and vomiting
•Ototoxicity - hearing loss which is currently not treatable
•Alopecia - hair loss, not a common side effect
•Electrolyte imbalance - causes various problems with cell operation
•Decrease of blood cells in bone marrow
•Thrombocytopenia (low blood platelet count)
•Leucopenia (low white blood cell count)
•Myelosuppression (decrease in bone marrow effectiveness)
•Changes in how food tastes
•Frequent diarrhea
•Numbness in the extremeties
•Extreme fatigue
 
Today I went back into the infusion center to get a shot of something whose name I didn't catch. Grace, who only called me "Hon," today - I was a little disappointed - told me the name then mentioned that the syringe full she was about to give me cost $6800. I kind of blacked out after that. The drug is intended to boost the functioning of my bone marrow and to get my white blood cells back in business. Grace really is a good nurse and an artist with a needle. I fled absolutely nothing as she stuck me in the left triceps and injected the mystery drug. Some people tolerate it pretty well. Others develop flu-like symptoms including aches that may be severe enough to require breaking out the Percocet. I don't want to be sick tomorrow. I want to go to the park to see The Merchant of Venice tomorrow night. That's the final dress rehearsal and I'm trying to avoid the really big crowds later in the week. Cancer is all about adjusting. And watching Shakespeare stoned isn't the worst thing in the world. I can think of several productions I've seen that would have been greatly improved by a few pain killers.

We took a trip to the Wal-Mart today. I prefer Meijer, but didn't feel up to the cross-town drive. Since we needed both groceries and medical supplies, we sort of walked cross-town instead. Water was in one corner of the store. Isopropyl alcohol and Ensure was in the opposite corner. Naturally there is no path "as the crow flies" from one end of the store to the other so we went arooooound. Twice. By the time we hit the check out line, I was pretty beat. We had a coupon for Ensure which our cashier forgot to scan. She looked pretty lost when we pointed it out, so we volunteered to go over to the customer service desk. Since that's my station at Meijer, I spent the whole time critiquing the disorder and the cool behavior of the person behind the desk. I would have treated us much better. Just sayin'.

Back home then, a two can tube feeding, and here to chat with you for a while. Someone posted a great scripture on the Motley Fool today. I loved it so much that I put it in my bio on this blog. I'll close with it.

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair. - 2 Corinthians 4:8

AMEN!
Peace,
pennsy

#212: Stream of Chemo Conscousness

A little experiment today. I was at the chemotherapy infusion center for 8 hours, so I'm a little goofy. Consequently, my usually tightly organized, incisive insights may be a bit disjointed. But I'm to the point where a day without writing is a day unfilled, so here goes nothing.

Started the day with vitals, weight, pressure, temp all acceptable. Then the receiving nurse drew yet another vial of blood. My arms are starting to look like props for Sid and Nancy.

Met Grace, my chemo nurse for the day. She was sweet and very country. She kept calling me "Punkin'" which I found slightly grating for no good reason. We had to wait for the hapless Saturday morning on a holiday weekend lab techs to run the analysis on my blood before starting the long process of dripping.

Tried to start reading It's Not About the Bike by Lance Armstrong. Got a few pages in, but ran out of steam so I turned on the History Channel and watched some programs about the American Revolution while Mrs P and I worked on the crosswords. She pretends not to know some of the answers so I can feel smart about spouting them off. It's pretty generous of her, actually.

Grace returns to tell us that my @%$!* white count is still too low. She'll call the doc and see what she wants to do. This sends me in to a funk from which I never really recover.

Grace comes back to tell me that she's texted the doctor. If she calls me "Punkin'" one more time I'm fixin' to bust my Redwing off in her "how-do-you-do."

Mrs P and I chat about how cancer treatment is about how you deal with setbacks. I am dealing poorly with them at the moment.

Grace pokes her head back in to tell me that the doc called and talked to somebody else, that's why it's taken so long to get word to me that we're going to reduce my dose by 20% and go ahead with treatment. She'll be right back to start my fluids, Punkin'. I mind her much less than I did a few moments ago.

I learn that Ben Franklin had a terrible rift with his son (William?) who was the Royal Governor of New Jersey. Ben's boy was a faithful Tory. I wonder how I got to be nearly fifty years old and a fairly well educated man, without ever having heard this story before.

Grace returns (getting a theme here?) and pokes me painlessly in the back of my hand. I am in love with her. Then the vein blows out and she has to stick me again in my forearm. Another good stick, but I now have three bandages on my arms and the morning's just getting started. She apologizes for the extra needle hole. I tell her, "Honey, I have cancer. I don't give a damn about a couple of needle pricks." She laughs, "You call me if you need anything, Punkin'." I really am tired of being called that by a stranger.

I learn that the battle of Bunker Hill didn't happen on Bunker Hill, but on the hill next door whose name I failed to write down. Also that Ethan Alen and Benedict Arnold were bitter rivals because Arnold was a consummate professional and Alen was a hillbilly knucklehead from Vermont whose Green Mountain Boys would only take orders from him. Alen also took full credit for the taking of Fort Ticonderoga which he should rightly have shared with Arnold. What any of this has to do with furniture or eggs, I did not learn.

I looked out the window for a while. I saw a couple of blue jays playing in the cedars. A ridiculously large dragon fly hovered outside for a while, then scooted away, presumably to find a body of water. I watched what appeared to be a hawk circling over the asphalt roof of the building across the street. The guard at the gate escorted a shapely brunette across the parking lot exhibiting what seemed to me to be much more than just professional interest.

The man next door peed himself. This is pretty easy to do because they are pumping you full of fluids to protect your kidneys and if you don't answer nature's first call, you are likely to learn that there's no snooze button on your bladder. Grace found him a pair of dry paper pants but did not to my recollection, refer to him as a member of the gourd family.

George Washington was compelled to put an end to the recruitment of Free African-Americans into the Continental Army because the south didn't want a bunch of gun-toting Negros roaming the Carolina hills, no matter what color their uniforms were. In response, the Red Coats announced that all slaves who enlisted in the British army would be freed at once. How did I never hear all this stuff?

Grace dropped of my bag of toxic, bio-hazard, poisonous chemo brew about half an hour early. She told us an uninteresting story about being under staffed, and wandered off, leaving this deadly packet on my rolling tray. I made a mental note that I hadn't peed yet, and resolved to be extra vigilant.

My chemo bag is orange, like a punkin'.

Some English General led an army of white men dressed in red through Brooklyn during the battle for New York. I would not suggest any general try such a route today.

Grace returned in her haz-mat regalia and we did the old what's your name, what does his armband say, what does the bag say, what does the chart say confirmation cross-check drill. Everything checked out, so she hooked me up and Mrs P went off to let the dog out and grab some lunch.

Oh first Mrs P gave me what she has begun referring to as "a feeding." This involves sucking a protein shake up into a large syringe and squirting it into my PEG tube. We do this three or four times a day, providing me with about 2500 calories, give or take. I'm gonna be a little under today.

Soon as my wife left, I had to pee. Grace saw me wheeling my IV pole across the corridor and asked if I needed any help. I was at a loss, so she turned on the light for me. I didn't want to make her feel bad, but the rest of the job was basically plumbing which is almost always men's work in my family.

No, that isn't right either. The toilet has been getting quite a workout this summer, and Mrs P has replaced all sorts of floats and flappers and things with no male assistance whatsoever. Still, she has never had to assist me in actually using the toilet.

"Chemotherapy patients: please remember to flush twice after using." Nothing about employees washing their hands, though. Hmmm...

Exhausted with learning what seems to be very rudimentary information about my own country's history, I switch to a futbol match on the pitch between sides representing Paraguay and Espanya. I know that's wrong, but I am too tired to figure out how to do the tilde thing over the N. I am please to say that I learn nothing more about the American Revolution.

Many handsome, dark haired men live in Paraguay and Espanya. The Paraguaymians are short, barrel-chested Andean mountain men who are utterly tireless. They wear red and white striped uniforms that make them look a little clownish. The Espaniards are tall and graceful in their dark blue uniforms. The Paraguayians appeared to be quite over matched against the tournament favorites, but also appeared to be unaware of this fact and were running around like maniacs, kicking big tall Espanish asses until the last minutes when two Espaniards had point-blank shots on goal. The first hit the left post and bounced out. The second hit the right post, then the left post, then bounced into the net. The Espaniardish striker ran to the corner and did a belly flop, then a bunch of other Espaniardians slid after him and began rolling on top of him giving him kisses. The Espanish side emerged victorious by the score of one-nil. It was a profoundly unsatisfying hour-and-a half. This by the way, is the most popular sport on earth.

During the game, Mrs P came back, gave me another "feeding," and Punkin' girl returned to start the last bags of saline when my chemo was finished. "Are they still playing these games?" she wondered. For once, I felt like we were on the exact same page.

Another trip to what Grace insisted on calling "the potty," and I was just about finished. Mrs P and I watched the little clock counter run down to 00:00 and it started beeping. We had been here for eight hours. My backwoods nightingale was on me in seconds. She removed the tape from my arm where the needle was being held in place.

OK, God forbid you should ever get Chemo but if you do, SHAVE YOUR ARMS! Because of the toxic nature of the chemicals, they really don't want them leaking all over the place so they cover the needle with a two-by-two-inch patch of clear tape that would keep tiles from flying off the space shuttle. Grace removed this tape as compassionately as she could. To her, this meant grimacing and saying "I'm so sorry, Punkin'," as she peeled away layers of my epidermis a millimeter at a time.

We finally left the building, drove home, carefully avoiding the Independence Day festivities. I no longer felt worthy to celebrate the day anyway. Heck, I didn't ever know that Washington was broke until he married Martha Custis. Apparently, she loved a man in uniform.

So now, I'm home. Tired, but not sleepy. We are fighting the impulse to shut the windows and turn on the AC, but the battle is not likely to last much longer.

Might as well try to march a bunch of guys from Oxford down Bedford Avenue.

Peace,
pennsy

#211: Happy Dormont Day

It's a sleepy day in Pennsyltucky. The only sound in the house is the oscillating fan. The neighbors across the street are playing cornhole in the yard. (Don't be alarmed. It's a beanbag toss game played by rednecks and tailgaters.) The air is mercifully free of the sound of small engines. It's been a rainless week, so the lawns are in pretty good shape, ready for hundreds of amateur pyrotechnic wizards to start setting fire to the trees. Temperatures are hovering around a perfect 80 degrees, and the bunting and flags are out and fluttering. It's Independence Day weekend in the Bluegrass.

I'll miss the hot dogs and pie this year. I'm postponing that menu till Labor Day. Chemo tomorrow, so there's not going to be any parade or barbecue for me either. That's OK. I have other priorities this year. So naturally, my mind is travelling backwards instead.

Fourth of July was "Dormont Day" in the town where I grew up. Dormont was our borough, a suburb in name only. We were for all intents and purposes part of the city of Pittsburgh, but formed sort of a buffer between the city and the nicer neighborhoods outside. The other school districts called us "greasers" and we called them "cake eaters." We joked that we usually lost the game, but alway won the fight afterwards.

Dormont Day always started with a trip to Dormont Park where you would pick up a bag filled with candy, peanuts in the shell, and a toy of some kind, usually a paddle ball that turned into a weapon as soon as the elastic string broke. If you hadn't gotten one yet, you could also get your raffle ticket for a chance to win the big Cadillac that the Volunteer Fire Department gave away every year. Then you'd go home, eat the whole bag, or at least eat till you were sick, and get ready for the parade.

The streets were lined with American Flags, some of them still had 48 stars in those days, though Alaska and Hawaii had entered the union long before. Bands, the VFW, boy scouts and fire departments. I loved all the fire trucks, Especially the big red American Lafrance that carried the Dormont Volunteer Firemen. They were heroes in our town. Brave dads who used to jump up when the big alarm over the borough building sounded and race through the streets to help whoever was in trouble. I marched a couple of times. Even got to carry the Troop 23 flag once. We would strut down West Liberty Avenue, then race home to get ready to go to the pool.

Thanks to Judi for this photo

Dormont has a great pool, the size of a small lake, or so it seemed, and we would gather at this urban oasis all summer long. The grown ups would sit tanning in the grass, the kids would play on the slides or the diving boards, and the teenagers spent their time studying anatomy out in the deep water where the little kids weren't allowed to swim. The lifeguards would whistle down at any misbehavior and the PA announcer would call your name when you failed to meet your parents at the front gate at the appointed time. Everybody looked after everybody else's kids. Dormont pool was a great place to grow up.

Then it was up the hill to the park for cook outs, lawn darts (the most horrifying and fun game in the world,) and pony league baseball where young men played like pros and little kids watched in awe behind the screen while the bad boys smoked under the bleachers along the first base line. You could walk down to the tennis courts on Memorial Drive, where the flagpole honoring World War I vets was, or you could go to the shady horse shoe pits where the old men tossed and cheered and cursed mildly (often in strange, Mediterranean tongues,) as their horse shoes arched through the air and landed in the soft clay or clanged on the stakes.

When the sun went down, the whole town seemed to gather on the big hill to watch the fireworks being shot from the pool parking lot. There were amazing aerials that went off right over your head, and ground displays that spun and crackled. It's a miracle that no one was ever killed. Then after the Grand Finale, everyone would gather up their blankets and walk back up the hill, (everyplace in Dormont was uphill,) laughing, greeting neighbors, and talking about how much better things had been the year before.

I'm sure it wasn't as beautiful as I remember it, but it was pretty darned nice.

There have been other Fourths. Summer nights on Lake Chautauqua. Drinking Rainier beer on Pismo Beach while the fire pit blazed and the rockets shot off into the Pacific night sky. Standing on Spike and Noah's roof on the Lower East Side watching the fireworks between the Twin Towers on my first summer in New York. Leaning back in my seat at the ball park, holding Mrs P close as young men with big dreams cracked homers over the left field bleachers. Beautiful nights.

But my Dormont Day memories are special. Probably as close to Norman Rockwell as a Pennsyltucky boy was ever likely to get. I sure am glad I got to be there.

Peace,
pennsy

#210: A Good Day to be Pennsy

Waffle Man and his radioactive forehead... What my
gorgeous wife sees in him, I will never understand.

Oh, how I love a new day. Last night was the worst nausea I have had since starting treatment. Just awful. Lost a whole can of Ensure. Blech. This morning, I feel like a million bucks. I got up, fed myself through the tube, Mrs P ground up my pills into a slurry and shot them into the hose as well, then I went in and fixed my own magic swizzle, (thanks Kim B for that wonderful name.) Radiation was a breeze. I even got a great new Waffle Man picture after my treatment. The doc has cleared me for chemo on Saturday. All systems are go.

The only fly in the ointment today was my weight. I've dropped another four pounds since Monday morning. That's not good, and the docs are sure to give me hell for it. The thing is, I feel so great right now, I'm not really worried about it. I just keep eating as much as I can shove through the PEG tube. That's the only option right now. I can still swallow fluids with a tolerable amount of pain, but everything I drink is creamy and coats my throat. That triggers the choking that leads to gagging that leads to... well, you know.

Bet you can't stay mad...

Jake pulled a neat trick today. He came in from his morning constitution smelling like sewage. When he turned his head, I could see he was wearing something nasty like war paint on his left cheek. He had rolled in something and rubbed it all up and down the side of his face. Mrs P mercifully took him out on the back porch to scrub him off. If I had a pressure washer, I would have blasted him with it. Good thing he's so cute. That smile gets him out of a lot of trouble. He may have learned that trick from his papa.

I started reading Around the World in Eighty Days last night. Actually, Jim Dale was reading. I was listening. I've never done books on CD before, but this was a gift from a friend. Reading isn't always easy for me right now. I have trouble staying focused on the page and my hands are shaking a little bit from the muscle/nerve damage the surgery did, I think. Listening to a good story is a great solution and Jim Dale is a wonderful actor. We saw him many years ago at the old Roundabout Theatre on 17th street in a very silly English musical called Privates on Parade. It was about a bunch of guys in the army, but the title also referred to a shower scene featuring naked actors parading their privates around. It was no Barnum, but great fun nonetheless. And you don't pass up a chance to see one of the great Broadway musical performers, no matter what the material.

My dear friend Mary called me yesterday on a break between rehearsal and performance. She and I played Higgins and Eliza a couple of years ago. She is still gorgeous. Easy to see which of us is the ham bone and which was headed for a career on Broadway. She has made a real acting career for herself. She's playing in Phantom, raising a beautiful little girl, and is married to a criminally handsome dancer. We talked for the first time in twenty years and it was as if no time had passed at all. What a pleasure to reconnect with a friend who is living the dream. I have such respect and admiration for her. I'm a afraid I may have gushed a bit. So what. She's earned it.

Note the fake sideburns.
Couldn't grow my own yet.

And speaking of beautiful actors, my friend Cynthia posted some ancient photos of us in all our high school glory. She has also remained unforgivably gorgeous in spite of the years. Back when she was Cindy, we played Arthur and Guinevere in Camelot. We also played together in Fiddler, Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar, and I can still hear her in Hair singing "Good Morning Starshine." Hard to believe people are still dragging these old war horses out and thinking they're on the cutting edge. We were doing them back at Keystone Oaks High School back in 19 something-something. And none of us was better this fair queen.

But of all the leading ladies I've been blessed to know, there's none compares to Mrs P. Last night when I was so sick, she brought me a cool drink, wiped my forehead, gave me my medicine, and stayed beside me until I could rest and sleep. Mum insisted on taking this picture the night before they took my teeth out. I may never have that smile again, but I will always smile when I thank God for my beautiful bride.

So it's a good day to be Pennsy. Good morning. Good memories. A dog who doesn't stink anymore. Nice all around. What a fool I was to wait for cancer to realize how much I love these wonderful people, and how much they love me.

Don't you make the same mistake.

Peace,

pennsy

#209: Halfway Through My Treatment!

OK, three weeks down, three weeks to go! I've made it to the turn. I had a great morning, though I admit I'm slowing down a little right now. It's a great day.

I have deliberately been avoiding looking too far ahead or back. I don't want to lose track of where I am. I can't really afford to get lost right now. Mrs P does the weeping and worrying for both of us right now. Today, I am definitely looking forward. Three weeks. I can't imagine anything I can't take for three weeks. Of course, there may be things coming that I haven't imagined. Hope may be a virtue best practiced in moderation right now. I still don't know what that second Chemo treatment has in store for me. Still, I see promise in July.

July is always a good month for me. The sun moves out of the sign of Cancer in July, and into my birth sign, the Lion. Mum and I both have birthdays this month. Deb S and I even share a birthday. This year, that will be a week after my last radiation treatment, even more to celebrate. Summerfest, the outdoor theatre festival I have loved so long will open soon and I don't want to miss a show. Summertime in Kentucky is at it's best. The rains of June have passed, and the dry brown of August hasn't yet come. We'll drive through the Bluegrass and shout "moo" to the cows and whisper "ahh" at the horses and sneeze at the goldenrod - inexplicably our state flower.

When I imagine the time to come, I imagine hours spent in rehearsal, doing what I love. I imagine travelling to see our family in Pennsylvania and Kentucky and Carolina and Colorado. I imagine visiting the people who have loved me so in Washington and Baltimore, New York, Chicago and LA, Ohio, Missouri, Tennessee and Texas. I am such a rich man, rich in marriage, rich in family and friends, rich in life. I want to spend the rest of my days loving my treasures. I treasure you, even though we may never have met, may never meet.

The struggle isn't over. I'm not stupid. This July may be only the beginning. Cancer can be a slippery adversary. But we'll let tomorrow's troubles wait for tomorrow. Today I feel great. The AC is off, the windows are open, and life is good.

Three weeks down, three to go.

Peace,
pennsy

#208: My Visitors

I dreamed you came to visit me last night. I knew you at once, though you were not what I expected at all. Handsome and tall with an expensive looking suit. More like a fashion model than an undertaker. There you stood in my door, in all your GQ glory. Cancer. Smiling.

"I caught you, you bastard," I hissed. "You tried to sneak up on me, but the doctors found you, and now you are going to die."

"One of us surely will," you said, smoothly. Such confidence in your eyes. "I think you will die first."

"I'll die killing you," I spat, wondering where the courage was coming from. This was a cold killer. He had taken so many of my family. "You don't decide when I die. I decide."

"No," came a voice that made your face go pale and my skin prickle with goose flesh. "I will decide."

There behind you he stood. Unlike you, Death looked exactly as I expected. Dark, deep eyes in a face of papery skin. Cold fingers. Just as Dickens painted him. "I will decide when you will come. But both of you will come."

You gathered your courage. "Dark one, I have cheated you many times. If you take me from this one, my kind will just spring up for a thousand thousand others. Kill me in his head, I will be in his guts. Kill me there, I will take his lungs or his blood. Simple answers are best, yes? Take him and let me continue elsewhere."

"Death," I whispered. "You will come for me one day, but not today. Not while I lay in my bed. Come when I am running or playing on a stage. Come when I am holding my sweet wife in my arms or driving down a beautiful country road. This thing, this Cancer is unworthy of either of us. Come when my death might bring glory to god or peace to another soul. Don't let this liar do your work for you. He creeps in and devours life in secret. You are ancient and honorable. You come with your fearful face revealed, your bony hand outstretched. He is a thief without honor. You are the servant of God."

In silence, Death turned to Cancer to hear his response. He brushed a bit of lint from his lapel. His smile was no longer arrogant, but cold and sharp. "How old are you?"

"I'll be 50 in July."

"And what do you weigh?"

"I weighed 359.9 lbs this morning."

"And a healthy weight for a man your height and age would be?"

"Maybe 210, 220 lbs."

"Now you have lost quite a bit of weight since I first called on you. Isn't that true?"

"40 lbs."

"40? Why that's the weight of a small child! Isn't it? You have lost the weight of a small child and still exceed your own healthy size by the weight of a grown man. Isn't that true?"

"Yes."

"You smoked?"

"Years ago. From the time I was 20 until my 36, 37th birthday."

"Your father smoked. Your uncle smoked. Your grandfathers smoked. All were dead before they could retire. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"You drink?"

"Very little."

"But you drink. You have drunk."

"Yes. There was a time in my life when I was drunk quite a lot."

You took a step back then, raising your hands as if to question me more would be cruelty. Turning to Death, you said, "Dark One, from his own mouth, with his own life he has convicted himself." Then to me, the coup de grace, "You have been inviting me to kill you since you were a child, isn't that true? Every step of the way, you chose that path that led to me. Now you call me a trickster and a sneak. That is unjust, sir. No generation has had better warnings than yours, yet you continue to flock to my kind with your headphones in your ears and your noses in your cellular telephones. I did not seek you out. You sought me, knowing what I was, and now you blame me for your own disregard for your life."

Your voice never rose above a whisper, like you were accustomed to winning. Death turned to me, expressionless. What could I answer? "Death," I began, "I am not perfect. No man is perfect. I have done stupid, cruel, destructive things with parts of my life. But I have also tried to do Godly things. To help the poor, visit the sick and imprisoned. I have shared what I have and gathered up precious little treasure on this earth. I am a sinner, wicked as any who have brought corruption to God's creation. But I am also a creature, made in God's own image. I have spent my days learning what it means to live as a child of God. Let me learn what it is to die as a child of God. Wait for me a little longer, until I know what my Creator wants from the end of my life, so I can serve him right up until the moment of my death. This Cancer does not delight in God's creatures, but only in their destruction and perversion. He twists life into death so we must practically kill ourselves to be rid of him. He does not serve our God in heaven. He is nothing but a disease."

At this, death turned his empty eye at you, but you did not speak. Your confidence was gone, your clothes faded. The smile became a sneer on your red, pock-marked face. I watched in silence as you showed  your true self. A giant tumor all bloody and viscous. Then Death spoke.

"It is well said that this man has invited Cancer into his body by a long pattern of behavior. It is also well said that Cancer is not part of God's plan, but rather a disordered corruption of creation. The truth is, neither of you deserves to live. Still, it is God's nature to temper justice with mercy. No one will die tonight. But one of you will surely die. You both face a great trial. Fire. Chemicals. The sword. The first to cry "Yield." will come with me."

Then Death turned to Cancer and an icy wind seemed to fill the room. "But you, Cancer. You will die in any case. If you kill this man, you will die with him. If he kills you, you will be cast into oblivion. Your fellow demons may torment humankind, but you will not be among them."

 "In that case," the hideous tumor growled, "I have nothing to lose. But you," he cast a gnarled eye in my direction, "You will be my final victory. I will kill you."

At this, Death left us for a time. You left me too, though I can feel your presence always. You choke me awake at night. I laugh you to shame in the daytime. My doctors are filling me with the poison that will kill you before you can beat me down.

Death was right. We will both die, one way or another. But you Cancer, you're going first.

Pennsy

#207: Not an Easy Morning

Not an easy morning, this one. Woke up at 3:00 determined not to go back to sleep. My mind rushed from one thing to another as if I had forgotten my Ambien. That little wonder-drug usually helps me get past those kinds of nights, but not this time. Not even a football match between Holland and some other country in white shirts was enough to put me to sleep. This in spite of the riveting action of two scores in an hour and a half. Soccer makes me feel like such a dolt. I'm obviously missing something. It is impressive that they always seem to kick the ball just where they want it to go. I couldn't do that.

After I turned off the TV, I went back to bed and let my brains race some more. I went over old jobs. Projects I had worked on years before. A letter to the editor. A political screed I wanted to post on one of my favorite message boards. Pure craziness. The sun finally came up and Mrs P started giving me medicine. I started with the new "swish and swallow" brew that numbs every part of my mouth except the places that hurt. Then I tried to take some pills. I couldn't tell if I had swallowed them or not. Kind of a foolish position to be in, actually. I kept drinking water and swallowing, but the numbing stuff left me sort of senseless back there. I knew something was uncomfortable, but couldn't tell what. As a result, Mrs P decided to crush the remaining pills - one of which is the size of a new-born's foot - and mix them up in some water so they could squirt through my PEG tube. That's how I'll be taking pills for a while. No more swallowing anything solid. Finally we did the little half teaspoon of thrush potion. The giant antibiotic pill should be firing up the thrush on my tongue again any minute.

So that's how the day started. We drove to the vet first, to drop Mo off for an ultra-sound. He has something queer going on in his tummy and the doc wanted to rule out the really bad stuff. Then we went to radiation. I managed to throw up during the short wait for my treatment. I can't even express how glad I was to do that before they bolted the mask on. Funny thing when you throw up around a bunch of radiation patients. Everyone just sort of takes it in stride. We've all "been there/done that." When I returned from the restroom with that pale, cold sweaty look, everyone just smiled and nodded. The lady next to me asked "Y' ok?" "M' ok." I answered, and we all went back to our magazines. You've got to be pretty bad off to get a room full of cancer patients excited.

I keep snapping at Mrs. P, which I hate. She's not much of a fan, either. I get so frustrated sometimes and I take it out on the stupidest things. A missed turn in the car. A glass in the living room. Nothing important. I know that this is part of the disease and all that, but I hate that she bears the brunt of it. When I think about it I can stop myself, but when I'm not thinking it just comes out of me. So unfair to her. As if life wasn't screwing her enough already.

Back home at last. I laid down and she gave me my 10:00 feeding. Sounds like a baby. I have to take a can of Ensure every two hours or else I'm going to start losing weight again. Lost a pound since yesterday morning which is very bad. They will put me in the hospital and start pumping bacon grease into me if I can't keep my weight up. This is the craziest thing. I am now down to the weight I was when I was running 5K races. Maybe I can use that as a head start when I start running again in the fall. For now the walk across campus at the cancer center has me soaked with sweat.

After my can of nutrition, I closed my eyes and Mrs P curled up next to me for a nap. These are the best parts of the day. She held me until I fell asleep, then crept out of bed to do some cleaning up. She is my angel.

I'm hoping the day stays pretty ordinary from here on out. I'm gonna shave my head. Take a shower. Maybe read a little. It's only 82 degrees out. Maybe I'll go sit in the shade later and make some phone calls. To be honest, I'm a little bored with myself today. Can't imagine reading about it is much better than living it. We'll talk again tomorrow.

Peace,
pennsy

#206: Change in the Treatment Plan

I saw more doctors today than I did all of last year, I think. One of the things I didn't know about cancer treatement is they you don't actually have a doctor, you have a team. There's the surgery team, the radiation team, and the chemo team. Before I started at Markey Cancer Center the surgeon was the lead, along with nurses, nurse practicioners, radiology techs, my family doctor. Once the surgery was finished, it was off to the big leagues with a medical oncologist, oncological nurses, med students, nutritionist, pharmacologist, on the chemo team. Then on the radiation side there's the radiological oncologist, physicists, nuclear medical technologists, associates, residents, med students, and the nurses and nurses assistants who weigh me, draw my blood, check my history, and generally make me feel better. I think I was touched by 15 different medical professionals today. They palpated my neck, drew blood, shined lights down my throat, I don't know what all else. Mostly, they encouraged me. We're almost half-way through, and I'm doing great.

The bad/good news is that my white blood cell count is a little down. That combined with the chills I've been experiencing had them concerned enough to postpone my chemo until Saturday. They were concerned that this might disrupt my independence day celebrations. Screw that. I'll celebrate when I can eat brats again. Meanwhile, it's back to the radiation table. The good news part of this equation is that they are eliminating my last chemo course. I'll be having only this one on Saturday, then the radioactive team will bring it on home.

I learned a few things about my throat today. What I have is called "mucosal denudation." Mucosa is the slippery skin inside your mouth. Well inside most of you, actually. Denudation means what it sounds like: stripping away. What's happening to my throat is that the skin is cooking away because of the radiation. It's as if I had sunburn on the inside. That's why my throat only hurts when I use it. Swallowing is like rubbing two sunburned arms together. They gave me some analgesic mouth rinse to use, and also some more antibiotics to try to get my blood counts back in order. I think that's all the new meds. It's a little hard to keep track. I'd be lost without Mrs P.

Someone from Tennessee sent me a lovely gift today, a CD that I'm enjoying right now. Trouble is, I don't recognize the address or the signature. I'd love to thank you personally, but if you'd rather not, I'm thanking you here.