January 31st is a date particularly momentous to our family. It is the two-year anniversary of Dennis’ surgery, The Whipple. We use capitalize letters, not to deify it, but because that procedure is a very proper noun. Our experience in general, and this day in particular, have been our Yale and Harvard.
Ordinarily, we would acknowledge the occasion and allow the day to slip quietly into the past. But it must be duly noted. It was a pivotal moment then, and has gained greater propriety now. This second anniversary presents a statistical shift in the landscape. From this point forward, the numbers become, if not kind, at least less unkind. The chance the cancer will recur drops dramatically. Now, the over-all odds are still arrestingly wretched, but two steps ahead and one step back is still progress.
I can chronicle the events of this episode, but not necessarily capture its soul. It is good to be free of bondage to the ghosts of past adversity. But it is not an easy task to revisit that day, nor re-live it.
However, if history makes men, men can also make history. One must look back before moving forward. So, here goes.
The Whipple operation (or pancreaticoduoemenctomy) is generally regarded as one of the most extreme surgical procedures in medicine. This complex abdominal operation is performed on a limited number of patients with cancers involving the pancreas, duodenum, and bile duct. It is not to be entered into without a great deal of thought. Not doing it is unthinkable.
Strangely, on that morning two years ago, I was not filled with dread or anguish. I was confident Dr. Mulvihill had not only the skill for this exquisitely precise operation, but a fierce determination. He was going to battle, armed and dangerous.
While Dennis was being prepped, Dr. Mulvihill reviewed what was about to take place with lavish and mind-numbing detail. He presented an auspicious inventory of every possible contingency that might arise during the course of the next 9-10 hours, and an equally ponderous list of preparations for every conceivable scenario – including buckets of blood for hemorrhage and “harvesting” body parts should the need arise. If his intention was to ensure we were clear on the concept…mission accomplished!
Dr. Mulvihill did not mitigate the peril, but I found this oddly comforting. Obviously,
neither of us likes surprises. These were the times that tried our souls. We had to confront the realities before we could deal with them. The Whipple was our only hope.
The truth was stark and sobering, but it helped us maintain our equilibrium. There was a curious solidarity within that pre-op huddle.
As Dennis was wheeled into the operation room, we watched an enthusiastic Dr. Mulvihill nearly sprinting, in spite of his cane and broken leg, eager to get this procedure under way.
When those doors closed, I felt a certain peace, assured there were multitudes surrounding us all, buoying us up.
The hours of that day passed, but we had no sense of time. At one point, Dr. Mulvihill came out to report he had achieved three negative margins. However, because the tumor was wrapped around and attached to a vital artery, that final margin was elusive, and he had to proceed with extreme caution. Nicking that vessel would be lethal.
Such a situation would have exceeded the expertise of most surgeons. But Dr. Mulvihill delicately continued to peel away malignant tissue the width of an onion skin, until the lab results returned and revealed no evidence of cancer. He got the final negative margin.
Ancient scripture tells us the world was created in six days. Then came the Sabbath, a day specifically designed for rest from the labors of the prior week, and preparation for the week to come.
And then Monday dawned – the first day of the rest of eternity – a day of promise, opportunity, inspiration, pristine possibility.
January 31st 2008 closed for us with four negative margins…and Dennis in Recovery. The world had not changed…only our perception of it. I don’t know the exact calendar date of that first Monday following The Creation, but I like to think it was February 1st.
Love,
The Clot
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Blueprint for the Decade
The New Year is barely two weeks old. Dennis and I are putting the finishing touches on our blueprint in anticipation of the next dozen months. Our goal is to shape them before they can shape us. (Of course, this may involve thought capability with greater intellect than a TV test pattern, but we’re up for the challenge.)
January is a splendid time for quiet reflection following the high-octane holidays. Extremely excessive mirth-making engenders centrifugal-force fatigue. There is something slightly diabolical about a six-week stretch of gluttony, insomnia and unmitigated jolliness.
So, we are dedicating this drowsy month to ordering the “Yonder, matter unorganized.” I crave a grid on my life. I want right angles in my brain. I need thoughts that intersect with rationale at 90 degrees. I demand cosmic harmony and all the planets in alignment. Is that so wrong?
I suppose this entails making a catalog of resolutions for self-improvement, but honestly, I’m SICK of lists I have to check twice. I don’t care whether, at this point, I’m naughty or nice. Besides, I have rationalized that resolutions are for megalomaniacs, whose whole point in life is the quest for perfection. Tempus fugit. I haven’t got time to wait for perfection. So, I am renouncing narcissism. I no longer want to focus on fixing me. I want to fix the world…a much simpler task.
Where do I begin? Take mass media…please. Talk about the land of the wee-brained, barely conscious nit wits. Gossip is confused with news. Human beings are regarded as entertainment, and megalomaniacal (there’s that word again), ethically-regressing celebrities determine our thoughts, our behavior, our looks. “Celebrity” is an art form with its own toxic karma.
However, I do confess to the guilty pleasure of watching Rod Blagojevich, Simon Cowell, Mark McGuire, Richard Heene, Tiger Woods, and the whole 2008 presidential campaign conducted by celestial intervention…but I have to be in mindless “giant sloth mode.” And sometimes in the tedium of the deep, dark winter months, I particularly miss the awesome presence of Anna Nicole Smith.
Oh, there are things I would like to see happen in 2010. For instance, my extreme hallucination would involve a suspension of the “Alfalfa Prohibition Policy,” so I could join the Mo Tab.
I would like to see Dennis named the “Sexiest Senior Alive” by virtue of his two remaining chest hairs and six natural teeth.
I would like to get so ripped, I become a total-body human stiletto. Actually, as I take inventory of my present contour, I realize I may have over-shot the mark.
In an effort to mine all the possibilities in a year of possibilities, we reject utterly the whole idea of bucket lists. Such lists seem contrived for the sole purpose of promoting a Jack Nicholson movie. “Bucket lists” should be stricken from the American lexicon, along with “menopause” and “mid-life crisis,” as both implicate approaching termination…and that should never be the motivation for action.
That said, however, Necie is quick to remind me that since we can’t be grandmas together because I’ll be dead by then, we better play with the Zhu Zhu pets Santa brought before I kick off. Hey, that works for me. Children speak without filters. Her reasoning is the consequence of seeing me one morning with only half my make-up on. Talk about Lady Gaga meets Lizard Eye. It was then she was forced to face my mortality and realized our time together in mortality is severely limited.
Ah, but I digress. Perhaps the best way to recalibrate our lives is to focus on the lives of those nearest and dearest. I refer to our cherished grandchildren. Each has gifts. Each has disorders. And each of these must be addressed.
And none more so than Asher…our bellicose little Sasquatch.
We have been trying to decode his genome indicators to unravel the mystery of why he views himself as heaven’s avenging angel, whose sole purpose in life is to destroy the planet. His guiding mantra is Johnny Cochranesque in simplicity:
“If it’s in tact,
It gets WHACKED!”
And it is applied to all things, uniformly, and without discretion.
Now this works nicely, until one unleashes him on society.
The problem is, he doesn’t grasp the concept of retalliation. He has a promising future as an extortionist, mafia thumb-breaker, Gitmo interrogator. But he lacks training.
So, since we can’t seem to persuade him from a life of crime and misdemeanors, Dennis and I have compiled the “Bully’s Guide: Rules of Engagement and Decorum”…this in an effort to prevent him from being knocked on his fantail because of gross tactical miscalculation. It is a common sense approach for the “recreational agitator.”
Here are our suggestions, in no particular order:
1. Select a name that inspires trepidation, when it’s even whispered. “Ashy Pooh-Pooh” is fine when in the bosom of the family, but it won’t cut it in the Big House. “Brutus Maximus” or “Asher The Hun” would strike fear only in victims with a working knowledge of Latin or Roman history. Our personal choice of moniker: Alphonse “The Moist” Dodecahedron. One need have no acquaintance with geometry or the Mafia. It’s the syllables…never underestimate the power of syllables…the verbal equivalent of smart bombs…to confuse and confound the enemy and, like the octopus, erect an oral ink shield that allows escape…so one can live to fight another day.
2. Hasten slowly. Never pick on someone bigger, unless you have a large companion (a big brother, or Grandma) as a body guard. Fact: being the youngest and smallest diminishes one’s “viable victims pool” significantly.
3. Embellish territorial threat displays with decibels. Be loud and proud.
4. Practice the art of the hasty retreat. Velocity counts. However, make sure you’re toilet-trained and continent.
“Runnin’ away while packin’ heat,
Seriously hinders one’s retreat.
(On the positive side, trailing in an odiferous wake may serve to discourage prolonged pursuit…with the notable exception of those with stuffy noses.)
5. Never engage in sustained combat without finishing your sippee. Bullies, like armies, travel on their stomachs.
6. Work the dimples…aka – facial appeasement. This is probably most effective with grandparents.
We’re hoping this credo helps change Asher from an undisciplined, garden-variety hoodlum into a well-oiled, lean, mean, board-certified neighborhood Bully. He will, no doubt, get knocked on his beazer, but at least I’ve done right by him as his Grandma, trainer, and sparring partner.
And so we greet and welcome this year. We have our blueprint. We do not want to stop the clocks. Nor do we delude ourselves that there won’t be issues, challenges, and circumstances we must confront. But engagement is a great purgative for the fears that haunt us. And, inspired by our grandson, we plan to battle for eminent domain this year with the same vigor as “Alphonse, The Moist!”
Love to all,
The Clot
Sunday, January 3, 2010
2010
It is the end of the holidays, the end of the year, and end of the decade…and the end of my wits…an alarmingly short journey, by the way.
I am sitting here in a festered tri-polar stupor amidst the post-Christmas wreckage, eyes cracked and cavernous, staring at motes of dust, mind impenetrable and uncomprehending, skin pale yellow, gift wrapping in a dilapidated arrangement of rubble around my feet, face serenely blank…and looking SPOOOO-KEY!
But that’s not how I began the season. No sirreee. My veins were nearly curdled with the milk of human kindness. I was the Spirit of Christmas incarnate…THE Season Sorceress. That’s why I feel compelled to chronicle the events of the recent celebration before they are lost in the ravings of a Grandma gone lunatic.
I immersed myself in the festivities right after placing any evidence of Halloween on the funeral pyre. Carols gurgled from my throat like an underground stream of spring water. I lit hearth fires and Yule logs like a pyromaniac. I bellowed “Noel! Noel!” to startled strangers and frightened children. I chimed bells and mimed angels in suffocating peals of good will. I honored the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future as if they were the three Wise Men. And I carried Tiny Tim and his little crutch on my back as he monotonously droned “…bless us everyone.”
My White Elephants were whiter and elephantier than all the rest. I was aglow with peace on earth. My good will oozed from every orifice like mucus. I was a virtual hybrid of every adorable Christmas movie heroine from Rosemary Clooney to Judy Garland. I was confection perfection.
And then it happened…The Great Implosion…The COLOSSAL COLLAPSE.
It all began innocently enough. I simply asked Necie what she wanted Santa to bring for Christmas. And she responded with all the aggravated cuteness of Cindy Lou Who in rapid-fire Ralphie-speak, “A Zhu Zhu pet with a wheel, a rolling ball, a car, house and garage.”
Well, I stood all amazed and made a mental note to stop by Toys R Us sometime in the next few weeks and purchase said toy and attachments. No pressure. No hype.
What a no-brainer. This holiday would be like silk – smooth and slick. Christmas morning would be “Joan-ed” and go down with distinction as the “Most Amazing Christmas Extravaganza Ever!” hall of fame. I pictured myself humbly and demurely accepting the crowning accolades from an adoring and ever-grateful family, community, planet.
Now, you have to understand my relationship with Necie. Being our only granddaughter, our hearts are finely attuned to each other. She never forgets that one notable Christmas when she was sitting on my lap opening her gifts and began an unanticipated cookie toss, unparalleled in duration and volume. It was a perfect storm.
However, as a stroke of extreme good fortune, everything landed in my cupped hands, steaming, shiny and visceral, and down my particularly fashionable gay apparel I had just donned for the occasion. The boys’ haul narrowly averted being drenched in primordial slime, and Grandma was hailed by the grateful congregation as a hero, having salvaged and successfully defended Santa’s excessive chimney deposit.
From that moment on, Necie and I have shared a special bond – not necessarily blood sisters – but kindred spirits born through a warming squirt of viscous bodily fluids, nonetheless.
Necie has always considered The Incident an act of unqualified love, a badge of distinction and filial fidelity – that I would take a projectile for her – that I was and always will be, her own adoring emesis basin.
So it was imperative to perpetuate her belief in a magical, chuckling fat man by granting her the only entry on her “Dear Santa” list – a zhu zhu pet, et al.
Oh, the innocence of the old and infirm! That was before I knew the evil alien was impossible to find. It was the “Cabbage Patch” incarnation of the decade…of the entire 21st Century. It was rarer than the prehistoric warty-backed humberdinck, and not to be found in any legitimate store.
I tried to persuade Necie that perhaps Santa ran out of the toy, and maybe she should ask for an alternate selection on the menu. I pleaded my case, but Necie was steadfast in her confidence that Santa could do anything. And she reminded me I had always taught her to “BELIEVE!” (Curse the buttercups!)
Well, obviously I had no choice. After searching for the elusive prize everywhere from the inter net to naked men wearing trench coats in back alleys, I turned to the dark side. I morphed from Grandma Jeckyl to GRANNY HYDE! A macabre creation of a little girl’s with list.
Driven by a mindless force to procure a pet rodent, I went to the mattresses – diabolical and hostile. Forget good will toward men – those men were now competitors in a lottery for the coveted fur ball. I was willing to debase myself by clawing, elbowing, profaning, and inflicting bodily damage in a crazed Zhu Zhu Pet Smack Down; willing to go down in infamy as the anti-elf, an icon of greed and lust in a demonic paganistic buying orgy.
I rationalized that I would seek absolution in January – after I stuffed the hairy varmint in Necie’s stocking in December.
Dennis and I began haunting toy store parking lots like ghouls on a mission at unholy hours of dark, foggy mornings, baggy-eyed, foul-breathed, drooling. We became phantasmic specters of our former selves…not exactly your typical picture of nostalgia on a greeting card. It was rather like good holiday intentions gone terribly wrong in the lethal pursuit of THE TOY. I became a macabre hallucination of Mother Teresa transforming into Lady Macbeth.
It wasn’t pretty. Oh, the humanity! In the immortal words of Kathryn Hepburn, “Good golly! Why didn’t you sell tickets?!”
But then one foggy Christmas Eve, by mere happenstance and pulse pounding, we found and purchased the coveted item, and after paying $9.99, we raised it triumphantly aloft in demonic delight and laughed maniacally as lightning flashed and the heavens hurled down thunderbolts. (So that’s where “Ho Ho Ho!” originates!)
And then we drove home, catatonic and zombie-like.
I suppose at some point I will flagellate myself with the guilt stick for being corrupted by conspicuous and ritualistic lust for the material. But then I’ll salve my wounds with self-administered back-patting, knowing Necie’s belief in Santa will remain unchallenged and unaltered by the present, and narcissistic gluttony is once more preserved and perpetuated in a showcase of flagrant ethical regression.
I confess I am a little chagrined to think I began the holidays with holly in my heart and ended them as a tarnished and consciousless radical with no scruples or redeeming moral basis.
However, now Christmas ’09 belongs to the ages. Cosmic harmony has been restored. Our efforts at collective hallucination were successful. Gift opening rapidly degenerated from civil combat to total war in a blizzard of paper and ribbon so profuse, we very nearly had to impose instrument flight rule. And for once, even my culinary efforts kept gastric juices effervescing – at any rate, no one hurled.
As the final gift was gutted, all the adults took on the look of electrically shocked Chia Pets.
We had a splendid little Christmas, in spite of excessive celebration in our end zone.
Pulling off the holidays is the highest form of human endeavor, being held hostage to tradation, expectation, Norman Rockwell, and Necie…definitely not for the faint of heart.
We are declaring a holiday sabbatical for the next 11 months, when we’ll begin all over again. We pledge not to go “postal.”
But it’s the winter solstice, and more light is grafted onto each day. We are beginning a new year, a new decade, a new life. We have a blueprint for 2010. Our past will inspire but not haunt us.
So, Happy New Year to all our loved ones.
Love,
The Clot
I am sitting here in a festered tri-polar stupor amidst the post-Christmas wreckage, eyes cracked and cavernous, staring at motes of dust, mind impenetrable and uncomprehending, skin pale yellow, gift wrapping in a dilapidated arrangement of rubble around my feet, face serenely blank…and looking SPOOOO-KEY!
But that’s not how I began the season. No sirreee. My veins were nearly curdled with the milk of human kindness. I was the Spirit of Christmas incarnate…THE Season Sorceress. That’s why I feel compelled to chronicle the events of the recent celebration before they are lost in the ravings of a Grandma gone lunatic.
I immersed myself in the festivities right after placing any evidence of Halloween on the funeral pyre. Carols gurgled from my throat like an underground stream of spring water. I lit hearth fires and Yule logs like a pyromaniac. I bellowed “Noel! Noel!” to startled strangers and frightened children. I chimed bells and mimed angels in suffocating peals of good will. I honored the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future as if they were the three Wise Men. And I carried Tiny Tim and his little crutch on my back as he monotonously droned “…bless us everyone.”
My White Elephants were whiter and elephantier than all the rest. I was aglow with peace on earth. My good will oozed from every orifice like mucus. I was a virtual hybrid of every adorable Christmas movie heroine from Rosemary Clooney to Judy Garland. I was confection perfection.
And then it happened…The Great Implosion…The COLOSSAL COLLAPSE.
It all began innocently enough. I simply asked Necie what she wanted Santa to bring for Christmas. And she responded with all the aggravated cuteness of Cindy Lou Who in rapid-fire Ralphie-speak, “A Zhu Zhu pet with a wheel, a rolling ball, a car, house and garage.”
Well, I stood all amazed and made a mental note to stop by Toys R Us sometime in the next few weeks and purchase said toy and attachments. No pressure. No hype.
What a no-brainer. This holiday would be like silk – smooth and slick. Christmas morning would be “Joan-ed” and go down with distinction as the “Most Amazing Christmas Extravaganza Ever!” hall of fame. I pictured myself humbly and demurely accepting the crowning accolades from an adoring and ever-grateful family, community, planet.
Now, you have to understand my relationship with Necie. Being our only granddaughter, our hearts are finely attuned to each other. She never forgets that one notable Christmas when she was sitting on my lap opening her gifts and began an unanticipated cookie toss, unparalleled in duration and volume. It was a perfect storm.
However, as a stroke of extreme good fortune, everything landed in my cupped hands, steaming, shiny and visceral, and down my particularly fashionable gay apparel I had just donned for the occasion. The boys’ haul narrowly averted being drenched in primordial slime, and Grandma was hailed by the grateful congregation as a hero, having salvaged and successfully defended Santa’s excessive chimney deposit.
From that moment on, Necie and I have shared a special bond – not necessarily blood sisters – but kindred spirits born through a warming squirt of viscous bodily fluids, nonetheless.
Necie has always considered The Incident an act of unqualified love, a badge of distinction and filial fidelity – that I would take a projectile for her – that I was and always will be, her own adoring emesis basin.
So it was imperative to perpetuate her belief in a magical, chuckling fat man by granting her the only entry on her “Dear Santa” list – a zhu zhu pet, et al.
Oh, the innocence of the old and infirm! That was before I knew the evil alien was impossible to find. It was the “Cabbage Patch” incarnation of the decade…of the entire 21st Century. It was rarer than the prehistoric warty-backed humberdinck, and not to be found in any legitimate store.
I tried to persuade Necie that perhaps Santa ran out of the toy, and maybe she should ask for an alternate selection on the menu. I pleaded my case, but Necie was steadfast in her confidence that Santa could do anything. And she reminded me I had always taught her to “BELIEVE!” (Curse the buttercups!)
Well, obviously I had no choice. After searching for the elusive prize everywhere from the inter net to naked men wearing trench coats in back alleys, I turned to the dark side. I morphed from Grandma Jeckyl to GRANNY HYDE! A macabre creation of a little girl’s with list.
Driven by a mindless force to procure a pet rodent, I went to the mattresses – diabolical and hostile. Forget good will toward men – those men were now competitors in a lottery for the coveted fur ball. I was willing to debase myself by clawing, elbowing, profaning, and inflicting bodily damage in a crazed Zhu Zhu Pet Smack Down; willing to go down in infamy as the anti-elf, an icon of greed and lust in a demonic paganistic buying orgy.
I rationalized that I would seek absolution in January – after I stuffed the hairy varmint in Necie’s stocking in December.
Dennis and I began haunting toy store parking lots like ghouls on a mission at unholy hours of dark, foggy mornings, baggy-eyed, foul-breathed, drooling. We became phantasmic specters of our former selves…not exactly your typical picture of nostalgia on a greeting card. It was rather like good holiday intentions gone terribly wrong in the lethal pursuit of THE TOY. I became a macabre hallucination of Mother Teresa transforming into Lady Macbeth.
It wasn’t pretty. Oh, the humanity! In the immortal words of Kathryn Hepburn, “Good golly! Why didn’t you sell tickets?!”
But then one foggy Christmas Eve, by mere happenstance and pulse pounding, we found and purchased the coveted item, and after paying $9.99, we raised it triumphantly aloft in demonic delight and laughed maniacally as lightning flashed and the heavens hurled down thunderbolts. (So that’s where “Ho Ho Ho!” originates!)
And then we drove home, catatonic and zombie-like.
I suppose at some point I will flagellate myself with the guilt stick for being corrupted by conspicuous and ritualistic lust for the material. But then I’ll salve my wounds with self-administered back-patting, knowing Necie’s belief in Santa will remain unchallenged and unaltered by the present, and narcissistic gluttony is once more preserved and perpetuated in a showcase of flagrant ethical regression.
I confess I am a little chagrined to think I began the holidays with holly in my heart and ended them as a tarnished and consciousless radical with no scruples or redeeming moral basis.
However, now Christmas ’09 belongs to the ages. Cosmic harmony has been restored. Our efforts at collective hallucination were successful. Gift opening rapidly degenerated from civil combat to total war in a blizzard of paper and ribbon so profuse, we very nearly had to impose instrument flight rule. And for once, even my culinary efforts kept gastric juices effervescing – at any rate, no one hurled.
As the final gift was gutted, all the adults took on the look of electrically shocked Chia Pets.
We had a splendid little Christmas, in spite of excessive celebration in our end zone.
Pulling off the holidays is the highest form of human endeavor, being held hostage to tradation, expectation, Norman Rockwell, and Necie…definitely not for the faint of heart.
We are declaring a holiday sabbatical for the next 11 months, when we’ll begin all over again. We pledge not to go “postal.”
But it’s the winter solstice, and more light is grafted onto each day. We are beginning a new year, a new decade, a new life. We have a blueprint for 2010. Our past will inspire but not haunt us.
So, Happy New Year to all our loved ones.
Love,
The Clot
Monday, December 21, 2009
Christmas Day
Today is Christmas.
I know this seems at odds with the date. This calendar confusion is due, no doubt, to atmospheric irregularities and astronomical anomalies appropriate to this season. And it arrived this morning without warning or even expectation at, of all places, the Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Dennis had his blood drawn yesterday in preparation for his quarterly consult with his doctors. Phlebotomy can be tricky, and we await the results of these tests with the anticipation and dread of the condemned awaiting the verdict of a jury that is still out.
Waiting has not gotten easier, no matter how many times we have been through the drill. It is interesting how a number or two can determine the direction of one’s future.
But today, there were glad tidings. Dennis’ lab results showed a substantial drop in the Cancer Antigen-Gi (Ca 19-9). The actual number is 31…well within the parameters of normal (anything below 37 is considered normal). And the Carcinoembryonic Ag (CEA) has fallen from 3.1 to 2.6. I don’t have a clue as to the chemistry involved in these tumor markers. I only know these are indicators that there doesn’t appear to be any evidence of recurrence at this time.
We are overwhelmed. Being stunned and light-headed prevented me from singing “boopita boopita.” Dennis was relieved for that, but he was as brain-tased as I was.
Without functioning neurotransmitters, we were unable to string two consecutive meaningful words together. I personally wished that a thought bubble would appear above my hair expressing intelligible expressions of gratitude. But alas, nothing danced in my head…not even sugar plums. (I thought this a good sign.)
Both Dr. Mulvihill and Dr. Jones were as euphoric as we are with the news. Dennis called it “controlled giddiness.” But I didn’t see much control. Dr. Mulvihill said, “Dennis is cancer-free, as far as we can tell.” And Dr. Jones said that even though we are six weeks shy of January 31st, we have officially reached the 2-year anniversary of the Whipple. This represents a major shift in the statistical specter.
In a flagrant departure from clinical decorum, there were embraces and celebration and hearty exchanges of “Merry Christmas!”…and tender hearts.
We can scarce wrap our minds around the moment, but our hearts embrace it. This is the season of miracles, not necessarily guarantees. But we ask for nothing more.
There is no irony in the timing. It is, after all, Christmas. Perhaps the miracle in Bethlehem two millennia ago neutralizes the odds and levels the playing field. Perhaps the angels that stood guard then watch over us still. I will take it.
I want to ignite hearth fires wherever there is darkness, and sing Noel in Alfalfa decibels, radiantly bellowing good tidings to all, without the least degree of harmony. I will “Gloria” and “Hallelujah” with every choir, hark with each herald angel, eat porridge and carol and go “a-wassailing” at all the thresholds in all the world. And then I will collapse in sweet exhaustion and rest with “ye merry gentlemen.”
Adversity is enlightening. To “be still and know” brings wisdom and healing – two essential by-products of tribulation.
We are survivors.
Merry Christmas to our angels and loved ones.
Love,
The Clot
I know this seems at odds with the date. This calendar confusion is due, no doubt, to atmospheric irregularities and astronomical anomalies appropriate to this season. And it arrived this morning without warning or even expectation at, of all places, the Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Dennis had his blood drawn yesterday in preparation for his quarterly consult with his doctors. Phlebotomy can be tricky, and we await the results of these tests with the anticipation and dread of the condemned awaiting the verdict of a jury that is still out.
Waiting has not gotten easier, no matter how many times we have been through the drill. It is interesting how a number or two can determine the direction of one’s future.
But today, there were glad tidings. Dennis’ lab results showed a substantial drop in the Cancer Antigen-Gi (Ca 19-9). The actual number is 31…well within the parameters of normal (anything below 37 is considered normal). And the Carcinoembryonic Ag (CEA) has fallen from 3.1 to 2.6. I don’t have a clue as to the chemistry involved in these tumor markers. I only know these are indicators that there doesn’t appear to be any evidence of recurrence at this time.
We are overwhelmed. Being stunned and light-headed prevented me from singing “boopita boopita.” Dennis was relieved for that, but he was as brain-tased as I was.
Without functioning neurotransmitters, we were unable to string two consecutive meaningful words together. I personally wished that a thought bubble would appear above my hair expressing intelligible expressions of gratitude. But alas, nothing danced in my head…not even sugar plums. (I thought this a good sign.)
Both Dr. Mulvihill and Dr. Jones were as euphoric as we are with the news. Dennis called it “controlled giddiness.” But I didn’t see much control. Dr. Mulvihill said, “Dennis is cancer-free, as far as we can tell.” And Dr. Jones said that even though we are six weeks shy of January 31st, we have officially reached the 2-year anniversary of the Whipple. This represents a major shift in the statistical specter.
In a flagrant departure from clinical decorum, there were embraces and celebration and hearty exchanges of “Merry Christmas!”…and tender hearts.
We can scarce wrap our minds around the moment, but our hearts embrace it. This is the season of miracles, not necessarily guarantees. But we ask for nothing more.
There is no irony in the timing. It is, after all, Christmas. Perhaps the miracle in Bethlehem two millennia ago neutralizes the odds and levels the playing field. Perhaps the angels that stood guard then watch over us still. I will take it.
I want to ignite hearth fires wherever there is darkness, and sing Noel in Alfalfa decibels, radiantly bellowing good tidings to all, without the least degree of harmony. I will “Gloria” and “Hallelujah” with every choir, hark with each herald angel, eat porridge and carol and go “a-wassailing” at all the thresholds in all the world. And then I will collapse in sweet exhaustion and rest with “ye merry gentlemen.”
Adversity is enlightening. To “be still and know” brings wisdom and healing – two essential by-products of tribulation.
We are survivors.
Merry Christmas to our angels and loved ones.
Love,
The Clot
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Making a Check and Listing it Twice
Well, Christmas is crushing in upon us, and we are on our annual collision course with St. Nick. The impact should just about obliterate the jolly old elf…and our bank account. Oh, the carnage! We are maxed out with merriment, partying, The Twelve (hundred) Days of Christmas, silver bells, tinsel, and gluttony. I’ve sung more carols than is constitutionally legal. I’m emotionally lobotomized. My eyes are more glazed than the cakes I’ve consumed, and the bags underneath the eyes are bigger than Santa’s. I’ve long ago lost my capacity for abstract thought, and I can’t look one more sugar plum in the face. I am a member emeritus of the glucose-induced, dazed and vacuous.
And speaking of sugarplums, I haven’t been near the kitchen since Thanksgiving to bake the little concoctions to dance in the kids’ heads. I’m wondering if animated M&M’s with cartoon faces would work just as well. As I walk by the oven door and gaze at the carbonized remains still evident from “turkeys past,” I just can’t make myself fire up the old stove again.
I hate when my inner “Ebeneezer” over-rides my “Tiny Tim,” but this year we may have to make Christmas happen with holiday heartburn and synchronized belching alone. And that’s OK. Personally, I find choreographed little sucrose fruits somewhat suspect. Just what are sugar plums anyway? Does anybody know? Does anybody care? I refuse to commit culinary suicide reproducing a confection straight out of a book whose central plot involves a living nutcracker in obscenely revealing tights doing battle with a rodent king of primitive intelligence and his army of creepy, plague-infested rat colonies. Where’s my Physician’s Desk Reference?! Humbug! (Boy Howdy! That was cathartic!)
Besides, December is bloated with bills, obligations, taxes, and doctors’ appointments. We recently went to the dentist for our 6-month check-up, and he set about the routine exam with the maniacal enthusiasm of a mad archaeologist excavating for relics from the Ming Dynasty. Unfortunately for Dennis, several were discovered, and he is undergoing the jackhammer as we speak.
One of the privileges of being really old is that there is perpetually diminishing tooth surface to even attract a cavity. It’s all been drilled, filled, extracted, bridged, re-rooted, re-routed or implanted years ago. So I regard Dennis’ cavity as a badge of orifice prowess, a justifiable excuse for oral hubris. But, I do not envy him. Our dentist is Dennis’ brother, Ron. He knows the “drill,” so to speak. Through the years, he has learned to slap the nitrous oxide over my nose as soon as I pull into the parking lot. He’s even been known to attach the tubing to my exhaust pipe for especially extensive work.
Ron never exceeds the bounds of propriety by asking personal questions when I’m in my altered state of consciousness…at least, not that I remember. Besides, unbridled tongue/lip coordination regurges more sensitive information than is ethically advisable when I’m fully conscious.
I’m not an easy patient, and Ron has been known to take a few whiffs of the coping gas just to endure the ordeal. We both dread the 6-month expiration date that will compel me to return and insert my body into the recliner of horrors. And no one cheers louder than the staff of dental assistants and mental health volunteers when Ron proclaims, “No Cavities!” and I can drive home without Angelina Jolie lips.
But this is the time of year when we take great pains to produce a Christmas worthy of Norman Rockwell. Dennis snaps a plethora of pictures to capture the moments that will all too soon be memories. We got back the copies of the ones he took from Thanksgiving, and I was aghast. Utter fatigue and sleep deprivation united in an unholy alliance to make me look like Lady Gaga…in drag…and Betty Boop on lash-enhancing drugs. Not to mention my hair. The re-growth alone qualified me as Cruella DeVille’s evil twin.
I issued an immediate and irrevocable edict that there were to be no more pictures of me without prior written consent. Anyone flashing me without said consent would be penalized…with me flashing them. (Think about it.) No kidding! Some of my photos could stop Santa in the flue.
Our grandkids, the Ashton “6-pack,” are out of control – trying to impress the Jolly One with petitions and character references. A couple of them will require a full pardon before Santa agrees to hazard the chimney soot on their behalf.
However, Asher, our “rebel without a clue,” is a particular favorite of the North Pole. He has been granted “favored kid” status, and may be awarded a congressional waiver for past naughties. The remainder of the half-dozen bear perpetual witness to having been good to the point of sainthood. (Of course, that depends on what the meaning of “good” is.)
However, I have it on the best authority that Santa plans to drop his load down Grandma’s chimney this year in a most generous and humanitarian gesture of forbearance and forgiveness…and Grandma may have to be committed to rehab for debt addiction.
Since it is the season for making lists, I decided to include an inventory of the best rock ‘n roll classics to listen to while dashing to shopping malls. When feeling “drive-impaired,” these selections are like musical caffeine, and it is possible to frenetically accelerate from sale to sale sans coke, open windows, or exiting on the “Drowsy Drivers” off-ramp.
This music, however, demands French fries. French fries are affirmation from heaven that man was indeed meant to have joy. Best places? Hires and Spin Café in Heber.
Anyway, here they are, in no particular order.
1. Eli’s Comin’ – Three Dog Night
2. Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel
3. Satisfaction – Rolling Stones
4. I Heard It Through the Grapevine – Marvin Gaye
5. What A Day For A Daydream – Lovin’ Spoonful
6. Honkey Cat – Elton John
7. And When I Die – Blood, Sweat and Tears
8. That’s What You Get For Lovin’ Me – Peter, Paul and Mary
9. I Wanna Hold Your Hand – Beatles
10. Blackbird – Beatles
Blessed sensory overload!
The Christmas holidays are most efficient for accomplishing Obama’s 3-fold defense plan in Afghanistan – Disrupt, Dismantle, and Defeat! I am happy to report, however, that at this point in the “Axis of Merriment,” I’m disrupted and dismantled, but not defeated. I am bloodied, but not bowed. I shop on, in spite of vows of restraint.
And speaking of blood, we are looking forward to Thursday’s appointment with Dennis’ phlebotomist without the least degree of glee.
But as the current weather whisks away all traces of body heat, we cocoon ourselves in our mummy bags and make lists of those who continually bless our lives. We’ll be in these bags counting for quite a long while.
Love,
The Clot
And speaking of sugarplums, I haven’t been near the kitchen since Thanksgiving to bake the little concoctions to dance in the kids’ heads. I’m wondering if animated M&M’s with cartoon faces would work just as well. As I walk by the oven door and gaze at the carbonized remains still evident from “turkeys past,” I just can’t make myself fire up the old stove again.
I hate when my inner “Ebeneezer” over-rides my “Tiny Tim,” but this year we may have to make Christmas happen with holiday heartburn and synchronized belching alone. And that’s OK. Personally, I find choreographed little sucrose fruits somewhat suspect. Just what are sugar plums anyway? Does anybody know? Does anybody care? I refuse to commit culinary suicide reproducing a confection straight out of a book whose central plot involves a living nutcracker in obscenely revealing tights doing battle with a rodent king of primitive intelligence and his army of creepy, plague-infested rat colonies. Where’s my Physician’s Desk Reference?! Humbug! (Boy Howdy! That was cathartic!)
Besides, December is bloated with bills, obligations, taxes, and doctors’ appointments. We recently went to the dentist for our 6-month check-up, and he set about the routine exam with the maniacal enthusiasm of a mad archaeologist excavating for relics from the Ming Dynasty. Unfortunately for Dennis, several were discovered, and he is undergoing the jackhammer as we speak.
One of the privileges of being really old is that there is perpetually diminishing tooth surface to even attract a cavity. It’s all been drilled, filled, extracted, bridged, re-rooted, re-routed or implanted years ago. So I regard Dennis’ cavity as a badge of orifice prowess, a justifiable excuse for oral hubris. But, I do not envy him. Our dentist is Dennis’ brother, Ron. He knows the “drill,” so to speak. Through the years, he has learned to slap the nitrous oxide over my nose as soon as I pull into the parking lot. He’s even been known to attach the tubing to my exhaust pipe for especially extensive work.
Ron never exceeds the bounds of propriety by asking personal questions when I’m in my altered state of consciousness…at least, not that I remember. Besides, unbridled tongue/lip coordination regurges more sensitive information than is ethically advisable when I’m fully conscious.
I’m not an easy patient, and Ron has been known to take a few whiffs of the coping gas just to endure the ordeal. We both dread the 6-month expiration date that will compel me to return and insert my body into the recliner of horrors. And no one cheers louder than the staff of dental assistants and mental health volunteers when Ron proclaims, “No Cavities!” and I can drive home without Angelina Jolie lips.
But this is the time of year when we take great pains to produce a Christmas worthy of Norman Rockwell. Dennis snaps a plethora of pictures to capture the moments that will all too soon be memories. We got back the copies of the ones he took from Thanksgiving, and I was aghast. Utter fatigue and sleep deprivation united in an unholy alliance to make me look like Lady Gaga…in drag…and Betty Boop on lash-enhancing drugs. Not to mention my hair. The re-growth alone qualified me as Cruella DeVille’s evil twin.
I issued an immediate and irrevocable edict that there were to be no more pictures of me without prior written consent. Anyone flashing me without said consent would be penalized…with me flashing them. (Think about it.) No kidding! Some of my photos could stop Santa in the flue.
Our grandkids, the Ashton “6-pack,” are out of control – trying to impress the Jolly One with petitions and character references. A couple of them will require a full pardon before Santa agrees to hazard the chimney soot on their behalf.
However, Asher, our “rebel without a clue,” is a particular favorite of the North Pole. He has been granted “favored kid” status, and may be awarded a congressional waiver for past naughties. The remainder of the half-dozen bear perpetual witness to having been good to the point of sainthood. (Of course, that depends on what the meaning of “good” is.)
However, I have it on the best authority that Santa plans to drop his load down Grandma’s chimney this year in a most generous and humanitarian gesture of forbearance and forgiveness…and Grandma may have to be committed to rehab for debt addiction.
Since it is the season for making lists, I decided to include an inventory of the best rock ‘n roll classics to listen to while dashing to shopping malls. When feeling “drive-impaired,” these selections are like musical caffeine, and it is possible to frenetically accelerate from sale to sale sans coke, open windows, or exiting on the “Drowsy Drivers” off-ramp.
This music, however, demands French fries. French fries are affirmation from heaven that man was indeed meant to have joy. Best places? Hires and Spin Café in Heber.
Anyway, here they are, in no particular order.
1. Eli’s Comin’ – Three Dog Night
2. Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel
3. Satisfaction – Rolling Stones
4. I Heard It Through the Grapevine – Marvin Gaye
5. What A Day For A Daydream – Lovin’ Spoonful
6. Honkey Cat – Elton John
7. And When I Die – Blood, Sweat and Tears
8. That’s What You Get For Lovin’ Me – Peter, Paul and Mary
9. I Wanna Hold Your Hand – Beatles
10. Blackbird – Beatles
Blessed sensory overload!
The Christmas holidays are most efficient for accomplishing Obama’s 3-fold defense plan in Afghanistan – Disrupt, Dismantle, and Defeat! I am happy to report, however, that at this point in the “Axis of Merriment,” I’m disrupted and dismantled, but not defeated. I am bloodied, but not bowed. I shop on, in spite of vows of restraint.
And speaking of blood, we are looking forward to Thursday’s appointment with Dennis’ phlebotomist without the least degree of glee.
But as the current weather whisks away all traces of body heat, we cocoon ourselves in our mummy bags and make lists of those who continually bless our lives. We’ll be in these bags counting for quite a long while.
Love,
The Clot
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Going Rouge
We’ve been counting our blessings this Thanksgiving weekend, and we’ve come up with some pretty significant numbers. Now, you know how much I detest the numbers game – it’s such a racket. Most things in the world can be proven or disproven by mathematical manipulation.
Numbers are so capricious. For instance, the Y beat the U in football by 3 teeny weeny little points…nothing more than your basic field goal…yeah, like anyone even remembered that score 5 minutes after the game ended. Obama defeated McCain by a few measly votes…as if THAT’S going to change history.
No, what I’m talkin’ about here are radical numbers that will profoundly resonate through the universe. ARE YOU ALL READY FOR THIS???!!! Dennis gained two (2) pounds!!! WAY! And what’s more, he’s owned all 32 ounces for over two (2) weeks now. They are permanently grafted onto his body. Each little molecule of fat has joined the family and found a permanent relationship with all who enter our home. We find ourselves looking for excuses to “hug up” simply for the sheer pleasure of proximity to the new heft.
I can actually see and identify them. They reside just beneath the midsection in between his Whipple grin and the hernia repair scar on the right side. He is no longer the masterpiece of faulty construction. He now has form and function.
Oh, the joy in Clotville! We have all been dancing and singing, “Hey! Wall-a – Wall-a – Wall-a! Boopita! Boopita! Boopita!” Our enthusiasm alone warrants an invitation to the next White House State Function.
Now we realize this doesn’t exactly qualify as a fair dinkum “hunka.” But his enlarged chest dimension is more than a moussed-up comb-over of the hair on his sternum. Yessssssirreee. The chub is adhered to his torso like hair sticks to Vaseline. Those pounds there are a conspicuous, massive accumulation of arrogant, hubristic bloat…rosey, pink quivering flesh the color of Sarah Palin’s rouge.
I wish I could credit this stunning metamorphosis to my holiday culinary prowess. As you know, this is the season of my annual transformation into the “turkey mumbler,” reciting ancient incantations to channel my inner Butterball in an effort to persuade the little gobbler to cook to golden perfection. It’s a bit tricky to bake a turkey correctly. It must be long enough that in a fit of reckless negligence, friends and family aren’t stricken with E-coli, but not so long it becomes vulcanized rubber. I have a dread fear of toxic shock, and have been known to immolate the bird to the point of vaporization. There have been years when we prayed the turkey would rise from the ashes like some kind of stuffed phoenix.
As hostess, I have to own that bird, and my reputation as the baster master lives or dies on my giblets.
But with all due modesty, this year I SCORED! The turkey was tender and juicy…convection perfection…browned, but not seared. And all the guests stripped the entire carcass in a hedonistic feeding frenzy…and then collapsed in a tryptophan stupor, light-headed and disoriented, barely able to consume the last bite of the third piece of pumpkin pie. Talk about gut glut! And no one had to be rushed to the ER. It was a consummate triumph, though not necessarily a picture out of Currier and Ives.
We can hardly wait to see if this latest event of conspicuous consumption will yield another few ounces on the scale. We are optimistic and hoping HE – COULD – GO- ALL - THE – WAY…to 135. We’ve all got our heads in the game, but I’m content for the moment just to hoard the bulk currently volumizing Dennis’ torso. We must not become greedy.
No holiday would be complete without some entertainment. And we certainly had our share. Dave, our son-in-law and father of 4 of the 6 most adorable grandchildren ever conceived, decided Thanksgiving Day would be a perfect time to toilet train Asher. We’re talkin’ ASHER…AAAASSSSHHHHEEEERRRR! And, the man had a game plan. Sooooo, Dave removed Asher’s diaper and issued simple instructions to inform him when he had to go potty. (The boy can barely pronounce “potty.”)
But Asher knows his alphabet. So Dave explained that when he felt the urge, he was to just say, “I-P-P.” Sounds reasonable, huh?
Well, Asher tore through the house as if on intravenous feedings of pure caffeine, sans diaper and half naked, sitting on the laps of every guest at every table in the entire neighborhood. And after he had moistened territory on all three stories of the house, he announced with glee, “I-P-P!”
I suggested to Dave that perhaps he should first explain to Asher the difference between present and PAST tense BEFORE removing the loin cloth. Of course, at that point, the horses had stampeded out the barn door long ago.
Then Beckham saw the joy and freedom of the Full Monty, and promptly removed the lower half of his clothing. The two little boys were like colts – matching halves of a stark naked Rorschach ink blot gone berserk. It gave new meaning to the term “pissing contest.”
However, working in teams, we were finally able to take down the tiny felons and swaddle their nether regions with the speed and agility of steer wrestlers at a rodeo event, and restore some degree of order. We all breathed easier knowing we got ‘em covered. Besides, since the day our first grandchild was born, we have had Utah Disaster Clean-Up on speed dial.
When all the guests departed, Dennis and I got out the carpet cleaner and a multitude of large, absorbent towels, and began counting our blessings as we removed yellow territorial puddles. And this time the numbers were in our favor…there were more blessings than spots! Sometimes numbers are a good thing – did I mention Dennis gained two (2) pounds?
Love to all,
The Clot
Numbers are so capricious. For instance, the Y beat the U in football by 3 teeny weeny little points…nothing more than your basic field goal…yeah, like anyone even remembered that score 5 minutes after the game ended. Obama defeated McCain by a few measly votes…as if THAT’S going to change history.
No, what I’m talkin’ about here are radical numbers that will profoundly resonate through the universe. ARE YOU ALL READY FOR THIS???!!! Dennis gained two (2) pounds!!! WAY! And what’s more, he’s owned all 32 ounces for over two (2) weeks now. They are permanently grafted onto his body. Each little molecule of fat has joined the family and found a permanent relationship with all who enter our home. We find ourselves looking for excuses to “hug up” simply for the sheer pleasure of proximity to the new heft.
I can actually see and identify them. They reside just beneath the midsection in between his Whipple grin and the hernia repair scar on the right side. He is no longer the masterpiece of faulty construction. He now has form and function.
Oh, the joy in Clotville! We have all been dancing and singing, “Hey! Wall-a – Wall-a – Wall-a! Boopita! Boopita! Boopita!” Our enthusiasm alone warrants an invitation to the next White House State Function.
Now we realize this doesn’t exactly qualify as a fair dinkum “hunka.” But his enlarged chest dimension is more than a moussed-up comb-over of the hair on his sternum. Yessssssirreee. The chub is adhered to his torso like hair sticks to Vaseline. Those pounds there are a conspicuous, massive accumulation of arrogant, hubristic bloat…rosey, pink quivering flesh the color of Sarah Palin’s rouge.
I wish I could credit this stunning metamorphosis to my holiday culinary prowess. As you know, this is the season of my annual transformation into the “turkey mumbler,” reciting ancient incantations to channel my inner Butterball in an effort to persuade the little gobbler to cook to golden perfection. It’s a bit tricky to bake a turkey correctly. It must be long enough that in a fit of reckless negligence, friends and family aren’t stricken with E-coli, but not so long it becomes vulcanized rubber. I have a dread fear of toxic shock, and have been known to immolate the bird to the point of vaporization. There have been years when we prayed the turkey would rise from the ashes like some kind of stuffed phoenix.
As hostess, I have to own that bird, and my reputation as the baster master lives or dies on my giblets.
But with all due modesty, this year I SCORED! The turkey was tender and juicy…convection perfection…browned, but not seared. And all the guests stripped the entire carcass in a hedonistic feeding frenzy…and then collapsed in a tryptophan stupor, light-headed and disoriented, barely able to consume the last bite of the third piece of pumpkin pie. Talk about gut glut! And no one had to be rushed to the ER. It was a consummate triumph, though not necessarily a picture out of Currier and Ives.
We can hardly wait to see if this latest event of conspicuous consumption will yield another few ounces on the scale. We are optimistic and hoping HE – COULD – GO- ALL - THE – WAY…to 135. We’ve all got our heads in the game, but I’m content for the moment just to hoard the bulk currently volumizing Dennis’ torso. We must not become greedy.
No holiday would be complete without some entertainment. And we certainly had our share. Dave, our son-in-law and father of 4 of the 6 most adorable grandchildren ever conceived, decided Thanksgiving Day would be a perfect time to toilet train Asher. We’re talkin’ ASHER…AAAASSSSHHHHEEEERRRR! And, the man had a game plan. Sooooo, Dave removed Asher’s diaper and issued simple instructions to inform him when he had to go potty. (The boy can barely pronounce “potty.”)
But Asher knows his alphabet. So Dave explained that when he felt the urge, he was to just say, “I-P-P.” Sounds reasonable, huh?
Well, Asher tore through the house as if on intravenous feedings of pure caffeine, sans diaper and half naked, sitting on the laps of every guest at every table in the entire neighborhood. And after he had moistened territory on all three stories of the house, he announced with glee, “I-P-P!”
I suggested to Dave that perhaps he should first explain to Asher the difference between present and PAST tense BEFORE removing the loin cloth. Of course, at that point, the horses had stampeded out the barn door long ago.
Then Beckham saw the joy and freedom of the Full Monty, and promptly removed the lower half of his clothing. The two little boys were like colts – matching halves of a stark naked Rorschach ink blot gone berserk. It gave new meaning to the term “pissing contest.”
However, working in teams, we were finally able to take down the tiny felons and swaddle their nether regions with the speed and agility of steer wrestlers at a rodeo event, and restore some degree of order. We all breathed easier knowing we got ‘em covered. Besides, since the day our first grandchild was born, we have had Utah Disaster Clean-Up on speed dial.
When all the guests departed, Dennis and I got out the carpet cleaner and a multitude of large, absorbent towels, and began counting our blessings as we removed yellow territorial puddles. And this time the numbers were in our favor…there were more blessings than spots! Sometimes numbers are a good thing – did I mention Dennis gained two (2) pounds?
Love to all,
The Clot
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Picture Perfect... and This Too Shall Pass
Every weekend since the dawn of creation our family has persistently declared its intention to get Family Photos taken…and every weekend we have been inundated with aggressive opposition. We have all been mugged by chronic Life Interruption.
Our mission is to capture our particular Nikon moments for posterity, but so far, posterity has been SOL.
How does life become so congested it is nearly impossible to assemble in one place at one time a dozen of the finest people I know?
Where do I begin?
Here is a comprehensive inventory of all the distractions that have thwarted our attempts on behalf of said posterity:
1. Soccer games
2. More soccer games.
3. Weight – either too much or too little.
4. Cleavage – either too much or too little.
5. A preponderance of root re-growth and insufficient platinum to cover.
6. Tantrums – by tired children.
7. More tantrums – by tired adults.
8. Post-menopausal facial hair growth.
9. Pre-menopausal pimples.
10. Diapers loaded with primeval muck.
11. Nasal glut resembling Metazoic ooze.
12. Recreational appendectomy.
13. Multiple hernia repairs.
14. Utah’s 3-season weather: it’s either just been too cold, or it’s going to be too cold, or it is too cold.
15. Inability to get on plastic surgeon’s schedule in spite of tantrum (see # 7) after years of full-throttle uglying up.
But Saturday, in spite of adversarial efforts by the Dark Side, The Twelve assembled at Grandma’s house. And so began the process of preserving the moments that will all too soon become memories.
With dangerous simple-mindedness, I am ashamed to admit we stooped to bribing the children with chocolate and candy to remove fingers from nostrils and sit still until the shutter clicked. We wondered if we would regret letting them out of their cages. Behind our smiles, pleas and empty threats were mumbled out the side of our mouths through clenched teeth.
Meanwhile, the adults were desperately mainlining caffeinated beverages through central venous catheters in an heroic effort to survive the exasperation of kids clashing with cameras. (The punctured-air clicks of opening Coke cans were nearly as rapid-fire as the staccato clicks of the photographer.) Eventually, inevitably, the sugar and the caffeine collided, with moments so hysterical, they were snort-cola-out-your-nose funny.
Beckham and Asher, however, soon became clear on the concept, and began to mug and pose for their close-ups like tiny divas. We could almost hear them singing “…if you want my body, and you think I’m sexy…”
But with yellow roses blooming in November, leaves drifting through the air like balsa wood gliders, and backlighting from the early morning autumn sun, we actually captured those elusive moments…in spite of diversions and distractions.
Time slips so easily into the past…and the future.
Posterity, whoever that eventually entails, will be given the photographic evidence of one brief shining exquisite hour on an early Saturday morning in autumn, when a dozen of the finest people I know gathered together at Grandma’s house for Family Photos.
It is November, the month of Thanksgiving and counting blessings for harvests and abundance. But did you know that November is also Pancreatic Cancer Awareness month? Of course, for the past two years, there has never been a moment when we were NOT aware of pancreas cancer. But perhaps this is a good time to profile the little fellow whose existence is so unobtrusive, and yet can create such havoc.
The pancreas is a pear-shaped gland located between the stomach and spine. When functioning properly, it is programmed to secrete digestive enzymes and make insulin and other hormones that regulate metabolism. And, if not trifled with, nobody gets hurt.
Its very efficiency causes us to take it for granted.
However, the pancreas lies hidden behind other organs, and doctors cannot see or feel any tumors or irregularities during routine exams. Thus, this cancer is particularly deadly because early detection is difficult. There are no reliable screening tests, such as a colonoscopy, to indicate the presence of cancer before symptoms are manifest.
The symptoms themselves can be deceiving, because they are subtle and routinely misdiagnosed. Abdominal pain, fatigue, and weight loss are associated with many other maladies, and do not necessarily indicate specific problems in the pancreas.
So here is an inventory of symptoms and signs to take seriously:
1. Jaundice, with or without itching, dark urine, light stool.
2. General symptoms: back pain, fatigue or weakness.
3. Other illnesses: pancreatitis, diabetes.
4. Digestive problems: unexplained weight loss, loss of appetite, malnutrition, nausea or vomiting, abdominal pain.
Cancer is a soulless demon, and a diagnosis disrupts the choreography of our lives, altering the body, the mind, the universe.
But there is so much that can be done to treat this plague. Dr. Mulvihill and the people at the Huntsman Center are leading a crusade to obliterate the obscenity that is cancer. And we have been inducted in the army who battle this disease. We are committed in the quest to eradicate this black evil.
Recently, Dennis and I were walking along the Jordan River Parkway, in companionable silence, when we looked up and saw a little piece of serendipity in the form of a 300-pound biker barreling straight at us – NO helmet, NO hands on the handlebars, pedaling DOWNHILL with the sun directly in his eyes, iPod in his ears, TXTNG! NO KIDDING!
There was absolutely no way to avoid blunt force trauma should his bike veer the width of a single hair in our direction. It reminded us of Indiana Jones and that infamous rolling boulder looking for road kill.
Through immense good fortune and a protective magic amulet, colossal catastrophe was averted. It would have required “jaws of death” just to extricate our mangled bodies from his bike.
But that biker was a literal vision of how adversity can strike with stealth and silence. It seems when you least fathom a crisis, that’s when it occurs. Be aware and prepare. This is a good thing.
November is a glorious season for family photos, awareness, and gratitude. I heard Christmas carols on the radio this morning…it is not too soon at all.
Happy Thanksgiving and love to all,
The Clot
Our mission is to capture our particular Nikon moments for posterity, but so far, posterity has been SOL.
How does life become so congested it is nearly impossible to assemble in one place at one time a dozen of the finest people I know?
Where do I begin?
Here is a comprehensive inventory of all the distractions that have thwarted our attempts on behalf of said posterity:
1. Soccer games
2. More soccer games.
3. Weight – either too much or too little.
4. Cleavage – either too much or too little.
5. A preponderance of root re-growth and insufficient platinum to cover.
6. Tantrums – by tired children.
7. More tantrums – by tired adults.
8. Post-menopausal facial hair growth.
9. Pre-menopausal pimples.
10. Diapers loaded with primeval muck.
11. Nasal glut resembling Metazoic ooze.
12. Recreational appendectomy.
13. Multiple hernia repairs.
14. Utah’s 3-season weather: it’s either just been too cold, or it’s going to be too cold, or it is too cold.
15. Inability to get on plastic surgeon’s schedule in spite of tantrum (see # 7) after years of full-throttle uglying up.
But Saturday, in spite of adversarial efforts by the Dark Side, The Twelve assembled at Grandma’s house. And so began the process of preserving the moments that will all too soon become memories.
With dangerous simple-mindedness, I am ashamed to admit we stooped to bribing the children with chocolate and candy to remove fingers from nostrils and sit still until the shutter clicked. We wondered if we would regret letting them out of their cages. Behind our smiles, pleas and empty threats were mumbled out the side of our mouths through clenched teeth.
Meanwhile, the adults were desperately mainlining caffeinated beverages through central venous catheters in an heroic effort to survive the exasperation of kids clashing with cameras. (The punctured-air clicks of opening Coke cans were nearly as rapid-fire as the staccato clicks of the photographer.) Eventually, inevitably, the sugar and the caffeine collided, with moments so hysterical, they were snort-cola-out-your-nose funny.
Beckham and Asher, however, soon became clear on the concept, and began to mug and pose for their close-ups like tiny divas. We could almost hear them singing “…if you want my body, and you think I’m sexy…”
But with yellow roses blooming in November, leaves drifting through the air like balsa wood gliders, and backlighting from the early morning autumn sun, we actually captured those elusive moments…in spite of diversions and distractions. Time slips so easily into the past…and the future.
Posterity, whoever that eventually entails, will be given the photographic evidence of one brief shining exquisite hour on an early Saturday morning in autumn, when a dozen of the finest people I know gathered together at Grandma’s house for Family Photos.
It is November, the month of Thanksgiving and counting blessings for harvests and abundance. But did you know that November is also Pancreatic Cancer Awareness month? Of course, for the past two years, there has never been a moment when we were NOT aware of pancreas cancer. But perhaps this is a good time to profile the little fellow whose existence is so unobtrusive, and yet can create such havoc.
The pancreas is a pear-shaped gland located between the stomach and spine. When functioning properly, it is programmed to secrete digestive enzymes and make insulin and other hormones that regulate metabolism. And, if not trifled with, nobody gets hurt.
Its very efficiency causes us to take it for granted.
However, the pancreas lies hidden behind other organs, and doctors cannot see or feel any tumors or irregularities during routine exams. Thus, this cancer is particularly deadly because early detection is difficult. There are no reliable screening tests, such as a colonoscopy, to indicate the presence of cancer before symptoms are manifest.
The symptoms themselves can be deceiving, because they are subtle and routinely misdiagnosed. Abdominal pain, fatigue, and weight loss are associated with many other maladies, and do not necessarily indicate specific problems in the pancreas.
So here is an inventory of symptoms and signs to take seriously:
1. Jaundice, with or without itching, dark urine, light stool.
2. General symptoms: back pain, fatigue or weakness.
3. Other illnesses: pancreatitis, diabetes.
4. Digestive problems: unexplained weight loss, loss of appetite, malnutrition, nausea or vomiting, abdominal pain.
Cancer is a soulless demon, and a diagnosis disrupts the choreography of our lives, altering the body, the mind, the universe.
But there is so much that can be done to treat this plague. Dr. Mulvihill and the people at the Huntsman Center are leading a crusade to obliterate the obscenity that is cancer. And we have been inducted in the army who battle this disease. We are committed in the quest to eradicate this black evil.
Recently, Dennis and I were walking along the Jordan River Parkway, in companionable silence, when we looked up and saw a little piece of serendipity in the form of a 300-pound biker barreling straight at us – NO helmet, NO hands on the handlebars, pedaling DOWNHILL with the sun directly in his eyes, iPod in his ears, TXTNG! NO KIDDING!
There was absolutely no way to avoid blunt force trauma should his bike veer the width of a single hair in our direction. It reminded us of Indiana Jones and that infamous rolling boulder looking for road kill.
Through immense good fortune and a protective magic amulet, colossal catastrophe was averted. It would have required “jaws of death” just to extricate our mangled bodies from his bike.
But that biker was a literal vision of how adversity can strike with stealth and silence. It seems when you least fathom a crisis, that’s when it occurs. Be aware and prepare. This is a good thing.
November is a glorious season for family photos, awareness, and gratitude. I heard Christmas carols on the radio this morning…it is not too soon at all.
Happy Thanksgiving and love to all,
The Clot
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