That was the Week that Was

Last week it was my birthday.  I turned…flabby.  So I watched some Wimbledon, where there seemed to be a peculiarly unholy gathering of hard bodies concentrated at one time in the cathedral of tennis.  This put me in quite a crappy mood.  I found myself tempted to flip my middle finger at the lot of them and scream accusations of plastic surgery zombies to no one in particular.

But the biggest joy-buster of all was the round of doctors I had appointments with over the course of these past few days.  What’s up with that?  Was I born with some kind of built-in obsolescence?  They sucked out my blood, made me pee in a cup, pounded on my back, and placed bets on whether I had a pulse.  It made me quite weary, and I fought valiantly to stave off depression. 

So I did what every woman does when things look bleak.  I went to lunch with people who are just as flabby as I am.  Of course, we reminisced about the good old days, and recalled a whole dictionary of terms that are obsolete in today’s vernacular. 

We used to buy Yippee Cups and milk nickels from the Good Humor man who came down our street each evening at supper time.  And then we’d  pop tar bubbles in an era when there were so few cars, we could actually sit in the road for hours and not endanger ourselves.

Our Moms cured every ailment with ointments like merthiolate, cod liver oil, and paregoric, and cautioned us of the dangers of sucking on tooth picks soaked in cinnamon oil.

And teenage boys with “dagoed” cars hubristically drove laps around Liberty Park after they’d laboriously scrubbed the white walls and coiffed their hair into elaborate pompadours held in place with the grease extracted right from their own carburetors.

Everything was either “cherry,” “boss,” or “groovy.”

Ah, those were the days…before Facebook, texting and Anthony Weiner. Back then,  people who exposed themselves were perverts.  Now they’re Congressmen. 

But I am not exactly ready for laxatives and conversations about my latest pains. Oh my no!  I have decided to cannibalize my inhibitions, release my emotional liabilities, discard my mode of decorum and associate only with co-narcissists.  On my next visit to the dentist, I plan to get an NBA mouth guard and  become so skilled at twirling it, I’ll make it do a one-and-a-half gainer off my lower lip without dropping so much as a string of drool.  I will be the featured star of “America’s Got Talent,” and await the phone call from “Dancing With the Stars.”  I want to become like those fish that live so deep in the ocean, they must produce their own light. 

Since Dennis has a break from chemo treatments, we are going to visit some sites of true historic significance, starting with Custer’s last stand.  The Battle of the Little Big Horn saw fighting almost as frightening as the thought of Lindsay Lohan being released from house arrest. 

There is so much to learn from history.  Voices from the dust manage to inspire us still.  For instance, an Ogalala Sioux chief rallied his warriors by telling them, “We have everything to fight for.  If we do not fight, we have nothing to live for.”  I find that most applicable to many of the battles we face today.

 

Finally, one of my favorite authors, William Faulkner, once said, “I believe that man will not merely endure, he will prevail.”  That is our game plan:  to produce our own light, to fight and to prevail.  We will not be deterred.

Around the Kingdom in Seven Days

Last week the family went to California.  The entire tribe.  The “Dirty Dozen.”  That fact alone opens our collective mental faculties to serious question. This took guts.  However,  we were not exactly “Profiles in Courage.”  More like “Silhouettes in Cowardice.”  Not sure just what the rationale was there.  Seemed like a good idea at the time. Even when there are six adults and six children, one on one, mano a mano, somehow the big guys  are always out-numbered by the smarter, faster little guys.

The adults were each assigned a kid precinct.  But a blink of an eye and a ninja could vanish from sight.  There were some serious sphincter check moments along the way.  A child would disappear momentarily from our field of vision, and we’d all go into “intercept path” mode.  The Wild Bunch were in perpetual motion, throbbing, rumbling, and pulsing, even at rest.  They were like a collection of live-action cartoons, propelled in different directions.

We took precautions for every possible scenario, best and worst, that might arise.  We all had matching tee shirts.  I even inked my cell phone number across the forehead of each member of our posse.  (I wrote in my best calligraphy, but the numbers ended up looking like some kind of Mormon Mafia gang tatts.) 

I hemorrhaged instructions, warnings, taboos, and prohibitions, aspiring to perfect symmetry as we negotiated the sprawling kingdom, until I was threatened with eternal confinement to the “It’s a Small World” ride for dense, stupefying, irrational saturation paranoia infliction. What a horrifying thought.  Could anything be worse than forced incarceration with a collection of preposterous diminutive mutants? It’s enough to drive a sane person to justifiable character assassination.  But hey, I’m a Grandma.  What can I say?  I’m hard-wired to protect. Like Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

For the most part, things went smoothly, including meals.  Our motto was “No French fry left behind.”  And we honored that commitment by rescuing any morsels that fell on the ground and consuming them in toto, impurities and all.  So much for E-coli! 

There was one minor incident, however, that, in spite of everything, left me feeling like blood was going to explode from my face.  My cell phone rang with a number that I didn’t recognize.  When I answered, I heard an unfamiliar voice ask if I was missing some grandchildren.  Of course, I answered no. How absurd.  I had each kid on my radar. I could account for every Sasquatch in the tribe.  The lady then said a little boy named Carter asked her to call his Grandma because he was lost.  I shrieked, “Yes!! He’s mine!  Where are you?”  I was dizzy, weak-kneed, and my mind went blank, which wasn’t that far a journey.

We retrieved him from a darling young mother, and thanked her profusely.  Carter had done just what he’d been instructed.  And he had kept his little brother, Beckham, beside him with a death grip.  A dozen matching navy tee shirts swarmed in a clot, and there was a sea of blue as we celebrated the reunion.  Grandmas are the ultimate first-responders.  It’s what we do best. 

Carter is fearless and incredibly unique.  He once explained to me that if you don’t eat good food, you become strongless.  I felt as if some vampire had drained me of energy after that knee buckling episode, and so, feeling strongless, I opted out of riding on  “California Screamin’” a roller coaster conceived in the mind of a mad scientist with a perverted metabolism.  This particular obscenity propels from absolute stand-still to full throttle acceleration in 1.2 seconds, forcing the contents of one’s nose out of the back of one’s head and directly into the faces of adjacent passengers.  People exit this ride like a slinky going down stairs.

 There is nothing in this world that could compel me to climb aboard that contraption.

No, I want to get off the roller coaster altogether.  I’ve had enough of jerk thrust rides.  Speaking of which, we went to Houston just prior to embarking for California.  We received some good news there.  Dennis’ scans revealed further shrinkage of the nodules, a circumstance which continues to baffle the doctors.  Nevertheless, there is some stress associated with the process.  There is no ride in any theme park to match it. 

In between hurling and “Oh Crap!” moments, we have pledged ourselves to spending this summer in ritualistic, narcissistic, hubristic self-indulgence. It is our sworn duty to vanquish any sense of responsibility or decorum.  I will personally endeavor to ascend to the apex social pyramid by playing mindless games with my grandchildren and appearing at the swimming pool in various degrees of undress, ensuring mass evacuation of other inhabitants.  I will answer every request for more root beer with an added scoop of ice cream, and I will never deny a sleep-over.  I plan to perfect my kickflips on my skateboard, and allow my hair to return to its natural color – platinum.   

All these things will aid in avoiding the toxicity of becoming “strongless.”  We are invincible and unafraid.  We will do this.  In the meantime, we are five months and counting until the October Rapture.  Can’t wait.     

Rapture

Doomsday dawned like an epiphany, with particular luminosity.  Sunlight radiated across grassy fields without malice, and the whole morning was dappled and symmetrically constructed, as if following the blueprint of perfect architecture.

Nature without flaw.  There seemed to be no perception of looming menace.  All was right with the world.  So we were persuaded by a pristine sky of indescribable hue to venture forth from our home, albeit with caution, and attend our grandkids’ soccer games. 

It was a leap of faith.  But we proceeded forward ready to retreat to safety at the slightest inaudible ripple of soft plosives in the air…or an Elvis sighting, whichever came first.  Both would be authentic harbingers of bad karma.  We resembled criminals on a “perp” walk, furtive, evasive, covert.  We tested the atmosphere by flicking our tongues, snakelike, for signs of impending catastrophe. 

With each tentative step, we were emboldened, until, with nostrils flared, we drove our car to the soccer field, determined that if we were going to be destroyed, we’d go down cheering!

Actually, we did experience the anticipated Rapture.  All our grandkids won their soccer games.  We were euphoric…and ready for translation.

What could possibly have gone wrong?  This apocalyptic prediction had been forecast for months.

Who didn’t get the memo?

Who was the Great Skeptic?

After all, this prophecy was based on sound Biblical calculation.  But the earth did not move under my feet, and the sky did not come tumbling down.  There was no perceptible shift in the planet’s tectonic plates.  I don’t get it. 

I do not want to appear doubtful, but could there have been the slightest mathematical mistake?  Perhaps a misapplication of the Pythagorean Principle, or faulty logarithms, causing the sum from the abacus to be shy a couple of foot pounds of pressure per second per second?  Or could it have been a simple misinterpretation of Nostradamus’ final quatrain? I hate when that happens.

Go figure.  But maybe we’d all be well advised to pay less heed to broadcasters with questionable credentials and more attention to other numbers…numbers we can rely on.

For example, some of our favorite calculations are the lab values that allow the Huntsman techs to hang a bulging bag of Gemcitabene like a bloated bladder from a metal tree to penetrate Dennis’ port directly into his lungs.  Now we’re talkin’ Rapture.

Unlike Oprah’s 283 favorite things, my favorite thing of the week was the number 35 – Dennis’ tumor marker.  For those more accustomed to basketball statistics than CA 19-9 calculations, that is well within the realm of normal.

I have decided I really don’t have time for the world to end right now.  There are too many important appointments on my day planner agenda.  Next week we go to Houston to consult with Dr. Wolff at M. D. Anderson.  Dennis will have more scans done.  Then our family will spend a week in California on the beaches and at Disneyland, where “It’s A Small World After All” is relentlessly, mercilessly, sadistically, piped to the furthest corner of the Magic Kingdom. In a perfect world, it would be blasted without interruption into the “Camping” ground of whoever “Herolded” this absurd rumor.

In addition, my schedule calls for completion of my correspondence course in quantum physics, and I simply must finish my thesis on the String Theory of the Universe.  I’m just too dang busy to be obliterated at the moment.

We did, however, receive the glorious news that there was an “invisible judgment,” lest any of us succumb to the temptation to doubt.  But the REAL date for the REAL apocalypse has been pushed back to October 21^st.  Good.  That ought to give me time to complete my tasks.  I can’t wait. 

I LOVE DOOMSDAY!      

Luck Be a Lady Tonight

Last week, as we were clapping our hands because we were happy and we knew it, we blew it. Dennis developed a fever. Now, it’s policy that whenever this event occurs, we are to proceed directly to the ER…STAT!
Of course, we were reluctant because we were still clapping our hands and singing deranged ditties. But as his temperature was rising, he was obviously having a heat wave.


I, myself, was having a hot flash. Together we had a meltdown. So we went into commando mode and headed to the hospital.
Once there, we were sequestered in a small cubicle with no windows and no doors for six long, reaaallly long hours.
The nurses ran numerous tests on every quadrant of Dennis’ body trying to discover why he had the hots. He was poked, prodded, tested, invaded, x-rayed, and generally humiliated. It was a little like getting a mammogram and pap smear simultaneously.
He bore it stoically – up until they asked him to pee into a cup. PROBLEMO: There was no cup, and the restroom door was locked. He was sorely tempted to follow the example of our 5 grandsons and spray the specimen on the walls. But we were trying desperately to maintain a sense of decorum in spite of the circumstances, so he graciously opted to wait for the nurse to provide a suitable receptacle.
Ultimately, everything checked out OK. So, in spite of promises that the doctor would be in to see us shortly (he was a no-show), we gathered the shreds of our dignity and came home. Dennis is always grace under fire. He did not utter one expletive. Actually, he couldn’t get a cuss word in edgewise because I dominated the conversation with really creative harsh language. (I learned it at my mother’s knee.)
I can tell when Dennis is especially annoyed because he goes all Harpo Marx – without the air horn. When he’s feeling good, he’s more like the sphinx. Only someone who has lived with him this long can detect the varying degree of loquaciousness between the two.
Eventually, the fever passed, and he became his usually chatty self – like Harpo Marx WITH the air horn – but without the hair.
But hair is highly overrated. Take Donald Trump…please. He does not have a comb-over. More’s the pity. No, what he has is a severe comb-forward thrust, starting from the middle of his back, over the medulla oblongata, past the cerebellum, and down to the tip of his nose. Then he abruptly and inexplicably jerks the momentum of both strands 180 degrees in reverse with a savage switchback, making him look like a cross between Elvis Presley and Ace Ventura Pet Detective with male-pattern baldness impairment. The mane stays the same on the plain in the rain. I doubt it would shift even if he stood directly beneath a hovercraft. I wouldn’t exactly call him a “carnival barker,” but he does seem totally hostile to his own body. This hair ninja has been crowned “The Donald” – a noun of renown. Well, whatever works.
Dennis, on the other hand, is not defined by hair. And anointing him “The Dennis” just doesn’t seem right. What’s in a name anyway? Think of “Frodo,” “Quasimodo,” or “The Bieb.” I think of Dennis more as a verb than a noun – more action and being than object. I could totally advise someone to “Dennis up” in times of trial. He’s definitely qualified to be part of the elite Seal Team 6.
Today is Friday the 13th, and in spite of it all, I think I am the luckiest person in the world. The other day, my grandson, Josh, said I was cuter than baby ducks. WOW! Make room on the magazine cover, J Lo! Here comes Gram Ash. Cuter than baby ducks. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Postscript: We have had our will revised. We’re leaving the entire kingdom to Josh.


I confess I have been influenced by President Obama when he offed bin Laden. He announced that they “had enough intelligence to take action.” I, too, found enough intelligence to pronounce that Dennis’ fever was due to the cancer being blown up by powerful chemo drugs. Heat was released in the explosion. After careful research by Brodi, turns out I was right.
I have heard it said that the harder you work, the luckier you get. I agree. Perhaps luck is as much a gentleman as a lady.

If You're Happy and You Know It...

Today is Saturday – one day away from May, and one day away from THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY.  I’m equally joyous about each. It will take a while to extract all the royal fluff from my ears and get back to things of much less global consequence – namely, life.

Thursday was rather significant for us in spite of the fact that all our preparations had nothing to do with nuptials.  But the anticipation was, if we may be presumptuous, nearly as compelling. 

We traveled, not by horse-drawn carriage, but by horse-powered, really, really old Toyota SUV to the Huntsman in hopes of receiving an infusion of gemcitabene.  Now this may not be the equivalent of dainty cucumber tea sandwiches without crusts and Windsor soup, but it’s royal jelly to us.  We didn’t have to bow to the Queen.  We only genuflect to the porcelain “throne” when no emesis basin is handy.

Our festivities centered around those capricious lab numbers.  Unless all the stars align and the hematology gods smile upon us, Dennis does not get the infusion of chemo so critical in eradicating this disease.

That’s where I come in. 

I have a certain exercise protocol that I swear can influence the phlebotomists in our favor and can boost those numbers to an elevation that is dang near astronomical.  It is simple and effective.  It involves hauling Dennis’ cookies out of the sack at 4:30 a.m. by singing with lusty discordance, “It you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!”  Of course, this is accompanied by clapping resembling thunderous applause.

On this particular morning, he was not happy at all, and only wanted to clap his hands – around my throat.  I was really testing his a. q. (aggravation quotient)!  But this worked in our favor, because it not only got him out of bed, it also raised his heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen in-take. 

I was not to be deterred by empty oaths…his or mine.  The regimen then called for us to wander the lone and dreary streets at an hour only fit for voyeurs and the lowest members of the subculture…those who still drag their knuckles on the ground as they walk.

With my best Princeton rowing megaphone and rhythmic commands, I told him to breathe in and breathe out.  I felt like a demented birthing coach.  Dennis agreed.  However, being diminished by nausea and weight loss, he was prevented from offending me by audibly expressing “inaudibles,” and was thus reduced to muttering incoherently into his beard.  Again, this worked for both of us.

Our reward for my efforts came later that morning at HCH when the Phlebotomist Superior posted his pathology leader board.  Most of the chemistry panels were sterling.  But the most vital and essential granulocyte result was – (drum roll, please) TA DAA – 3.6!  Read ‘em and weep! This was nearly double the number of last week’s counts.  BOO YAH!

I asked the nurse if that meant Dennis could have 2 bags of gemcitabene.  She just smiled indulgently and tried to discreetly signal security that there was a member of the lunatic fringe loose on the premises.  Dennis donned a disguise of glasses with big eyebrows and large nose and tried to enter the witness protection program on the spot. I was unfazed.  Actually, I was too busy excessively celebrating in the end zone.  But the entire clinic joined in the festivities.

I tried not to gloat.  Actually, I’m at my best when being scoffed at. This is an admirable and personal favorite vice. My standard of decorum DID prevent me from chanting, “I told you so!” repetitively in Dennis’ ear  as the techs were attaching a draught of Huntsman’s finest vintage through “The Great Chemo Umbilical” to his port.  His reluctance to ACKNOWLEDGE my decorum prompted multiple declarations from me that expressions of undying gratitude and a vow of abject subservience were unnecessary.  He agreed – a decision that will come back to haunt him come next Thursday at freakin’ 4:00 a.m.!

We walked this morning in a storm that thrummed a backbeat on our umbrellas.  There was the ultimate oxymoron – robins in a blizzard harvesting anything that slithered on the road and returning to their nests for breakfast.  I’m sure such ornithological gastric delights were not featured on the menu of Kate and William’s bridal cuisine.  Pity, really, because the whole scene seemed curiously optimistic.  Spring is here, in spite of blossoms encased in snow like some frosty sarcophagus.  They were lovelier by far than all the lace in London.

We will not quit this race.  We will go the distance.  And when you lean your ear close to Dennis’ beard, you’ll no doubt hear the faint refrain, “If you’re happy and you know it…”

Pieces of April

It is infinitely easier to record miracles than to comprehend them, even if one is an eye witness.  But it’s April – the season of lilacs and Easter – a time when history chronicles that some rather profound miracles occurred.

Last week we migrated south to Houston for further testing and CT scans at MD Anderson. Both Dr. Wolff and Dr. Jones wanted to gauge the efficacy of the current rounds of chemo.  Needless to say, a lot is riding on numbers and results.  We tried not to think about that until tomorrow, but tomorrow bore down upon us, and demanded to be thought about immediately.  It can be stressful.  A little like waiting for the foreman of a jury to return a verdict.  Fortunately, I was able to convert my expletives into rhymed couplets, which diverted Dennis’ attention from angst to complete and utter chagrin.

MD Anderson

MD Anderson is daunting to negotiate.  It is a labyrinth of corridors, hallways and passageways that honeycomb this massive complex.  There is a plethora of waiting rooms populated by those with varying degrees of illness, disfigurement, scars, staples and hair deprivation, not to mention the ubiquitous emesis basins strategically located and readily available should the need arise.

These open areas are also distinguished by something else – waiting room camaraderie.  There is an easy affability among the brotherhood of affliction, comfortable and congenial.  One begins to realize that the mystery of true beauty does not lie in cosmetics, dimensions or surgical enhancement. Recognizing that beauty is an acquired taste. In fact, my selections for most beautiful people are neither rich, famous nor notorious, which is why I’m not on the selection committee of People magazine.

We observed that not one patient was alone.  Each was attended by one or more companions in compassion, as were we.  It was both touching and inspiring.  People placement – “body guards” – can cushion blows and radiate tender energy.  It is the errand of angels.  One’s well-being is greater than the sum of all the numbers and images.  Those who are courageous may not be royal, but they are most assuredly regal.

Dennis spent a goodly portion of the first day getting labs drawn and guzzling dizzying quantities of contrast in preparation for the scans.  His flavors of choice were chocolate and “very berry.” Yum.  He downed those bad boys in record time, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scratched his belly, belched, and swaggered toward the scan room.  Actually, I made up that last part. In addition, the procedure also required a “wazoo wash” that discretion dictates is better left unblogged. Actually, you couldn’t make that last part up. However, in this instance, he was not given a choice of flavors.  But the whole thing left him seeping and depleted.

Our appointment with Dr. Wolff was scheduled for Wednesday morning to review the results of the imaging and discuss options and possibilities.  As we sat in the exam room awaiting the verdict, we were peaceful and serene.  It was the most vital vital sign.  We were acutely aware of the presence of a multitude of loved ones.  We were not alone…we were swarmed.  Thus, we expected good news.  We had reason to believe.

Finally, Dr. Wei, Dr. Wolff’s associate, arrived to display the “before” and “after” pictures.  He seemed pleased, and a little baffled.  The scans showed “dramatic response” and “significant reduction” in the appearance of the nodules.  This was plainly evident even to our untrained eyes. Then Dr. Wolff came in and declared that the results of the scan were compelling.  He called Dennis a “subset of a subset,” and said the gemcitabene and 5FU had been quite effective.  He reiterated that this was unusual.

Dennis and I were dazed, amazed, but not surprised.  We know how potent chemo can be.  But we also recognize that charity, faith, prayers and hope are the ultimate healing agents.  It was easy to gauge their power.  We saw the images.  Undeniable.

When Dr. Jones received a copy of the scans, she also noted that these results were out of the ordinary.  We savored the moment.

We are not removing the armor, nor declaring a cease fire.  We are still in attack mode.  We plan to carry on with this same regimen. And we will continue to center our lives on joy, not adversity.

The bridge over troubled water has become a paved highway.  So many traveling companions have run ahead to carve a path and ease our journey.

We celebrate Easter, as is our custom, with contemplation amid episodes of grandchildren exploding with effervescence, like cans of soda pop that are opened right after shaking.  And we will continue our constant supplication amid microbursts of mini prayers. 

It has taken a kingdom, with a willful disregard for the laws of gravity, to hold us up, and enable us to live our lives from miracle to miracle. But then, it is the season.

April Showers

April showers arrived in the Witness Protection Program.  They came disguised as a winter deluge.  The heavens opened up and poured out a storm like a benediction.  Dennis and I caught snowflakes on our tongues as we went for our early-morning walk.  I was able to attract more flakes, nearly causing freezer burn, because I can keep my mouth open wider and longer than he can – a skill I’ve perfected over a lifetime.  Dennis is used to keeping his mouth shut.  Dennis needs to work on his technique.

It looks more like Christmas than Easter, which is OK with us because last week we got a welcome gift in the form of some lovely lab results.  Dennis’ tumor markers went down to 29, well within the parameters of normal.  We like those numbers.

Some numbers we don’t like.  Dennis’ weight has diminished noticeably.  Apparently increasing my thigh size by proxy doesn’t transfer to his body mass.  Pity.  We like to think of him as aerodynamic. In reality, he’d have a hard time in a stiff wind. My skinny jeans would swallow him whole.  We’re both embarrassed by that.  So we simply agree not to cross dress.  End of problem.

We will be going to Houston Tuesday morning.  We are scheduled for lab tests, CT scans, and a visit with Dr. Wolff.  We have a robust optimism, corpulent positivity, and Dennis has a stout heart.  Too bad it doesn’t register on the scales. 

 Our six little Ninjas have provided the usual comic relief.  Asher (age 4) had us all in stitches Sunday.  Since being toilet trained, he has had time to perfect other vital skills.  He has mastered the art of the “smolder,” ala “Tangled.”  He cocks one eyebrow up as he assumes his most provocative “come-hither” look, holding the pose for maximum effect.  Then he erupts in hysterical laughter, exposing a mouthful of baby teeth and crossing his legs for bladder control. I defy anyone to keep a straight face.  I was smitten.

Last week we went to a movie because Dennis had a week off from infusion.  Movies are much more fun than infusions…and less expensive.  Talk is cheap.  Gemcitabene is not.  Sometimes it’s nice to have a break. 

Our hearts are grateful.  We are ready for this journey.  We are overwhelmed by the kindness and tender concern of friends and loved ones.  This has been such a resource of strength and courage for us. 

We will provide updates as they occur.