Sheiks and Shakespeare

Arriving in Houston is a little like being sucked into the vortex of Hades in the humid season.  Just taxiing down the runway triggered a profusion of ringlets that made me look like a menopausal Shirley Temple.  I’ve often wondered why nausea is the constant companion of unremitting heat.  We were instantly swaddled in doughy, energy-sapping warmth.  We perspired so profusely, we looked like we’d been shellacked.  All my efforts to look glacial and glamorous were sabotaged.  I feared all our facial features would melt into one another like molten lava.  However, time has already accomplished what heat could not, so there was really no further disfigurement.  This was a good thing.

We met with our Oncologist Extraordinaire, Dr. Wolff, to confer about Dennis.  He is singular.  He enters the exam room and immediately launches into a monologue about his most recent adventures.  He had just returned from the desert sands of Qatar.  Apparently an obscenely wealthy sheik had flown Dr. Wolff to his obscenely enormous palace located on the entire land mass between the Tigress and Euphrates.  Talk about staging an intervention.  That’s the ultimate house call.  But it is evidence of the level of esteem Dr. Wolff is held in his area of expertise.  Dennis and I were just happy the sheik hadn’t purchased the good doctor and retained custody.  Flying to Qatar for our appointments would be terribly inconvenient. 

Dr. Wolff is quite pleased with Dennis’ progress, and has modified the chemo regime to be a little more humane.  He assured us this would not compromise the efficacy of the drugs, but would allow for greater tolerance.  Ok.  We can do that.  In fact, Dr. Wolff is trying to persuade Dennis to consider taking a 1-month sabbatical from treatment altogether.  I’m not sure either of us is willing to consider that right now, but it is on the table for discussion.  Each decision demands deliberation.  We were pleased it is an option.  We continue to focus on the possibilities.

As if it were a feral instinct, the urge to live life in the left lane prompted us to drive to Cedar City for the Shakespeare Festival.  This has been an annual tradition since medical school.  It is our cultural sweet spot.  We reunite with old friends and young grandkids to celebrate the creative imagination of a playwright who lived light years before computer-generated special effects.  The strange thing is, the kids were entertained by it all.  Perhaps seeing sword fights and Professor Harold Hill’s marching band with seventy-six trombones live on stage was actually better than 3D.  Go figure.  Everything old is new again.

We had tickets for “Richard III,” but decided to turn them in.  It takes a certain energy reserve to watch the dastardly villainy of “Dicky 3.”  (Talk about disfigurement!) Where Shakespeare is concerned, the “Wars of the Roses” is not exactly a stroll down the garden path.  Besides, we get enough of murder, ambition, fatal curses and colossal ineptitude just watching the nightly news. 

So, reciting our own soliloquys parodying “Richard III”:  “Now is the summer of our discontent…” we waxed hysterical in iambic pentameter and opted out of the historic carnage.  We’ll save the cruel swath of blood for next year when we return to The Globe.

At the moment, our favorite quotes are from Dr. Wolff, the preferred Bard of the moment:  “Based on Dennis’ CT scan, we’re heading in the right direction.”

No poet could have said it better. 

Out To Lunch

Recently, as Dennis was being infused, we had an interesting discussion. We had been inspired by, of all things, the Geico gecko.  Now ordinarily I am not influenced by a green lizard to buy car insurance, or by cavemen who are easily offended by how easy it is to switch to this company.  Actually, I tend to avoid allowing any opportunistic burrowing nocturnal marsupial or beast of burden to determine how to invest my money, or my conversational priorities. Personally, I’d prefer consulting with a skin tag.

Nevertheless, while Dennis was in a posture of repose, (and incapable of escape), I asked him with whom he would have lunch if he could choose anyone in the past or present, and what he would ask them.  Single stipulation:  The Holy Trinity is excluded.

Dennis, bosom heaving and nostrils flaring, making sounds like rapid-fire glottal stops,  sighed like he’d just expelled the air from hand bellows.  (I recognized this as a familiar reflective response, with a slight undertone of annoyance.  He was, after all, being saturated through engorged tubing with a highly potent cocktail of napalm and kerosene, akin to primeval mud, the spilling of which would require clean up from a Haz-Mat squad.  And this after several weeks of popping pills comprised mostly of nitroglycerin and methane from cow dung.)  I know he wonders if I will ever get custody of my tongue. Sometimes my questions don’t always require a response. Not this time.

But pondering has always been higher on Dennis’ hierarchy of emotions than irritation, a fact that has allowed our union to be preserved.  So after some thought, he posted his short list, which, oddly enough, was parallel to mine.  After so many years of marriage, people tend to cross-pollinate each other.

1. Dennis:  Abraham Lincoln – Do you have any regrets?
2. Joan:  Lizzie Borden – Yes, but did you do it?
3. Dennis:  Thomas Jefferson – Didn’t you have a debt ceiling?  Why didn’t you free your slaves upon your death?
4. Joan:  Cleopatra – An asp?  Really??!!!
5. Dennis:  Aristotle – What is the meaning of life?
6. Joan:  Eleanor Roosevelt – Do you have any idea how beautiful your compassion has made you?
7. Dennis:  Hannibal – How did your elephants get traction?
8. Joan:  Mom – Thank you.

Friday Dennis was scheduled for a CT scan that would reveal the current status of his condition.  In the past, there has been a reduction of the disease burden.  But results are not always predictable. These moments can be stressful. However, the report came back that there has been further reduction and stabilization.  It was what we had hoped for.  Could there be any greater privilege than to witness miracles? 

So in that light, we revised our list of lunch guests.  We decided our greatest desire would be to break bread with all who have loved us, prayed for us, supported us.  It has been said that you live life forward, but understand it backward.  Perhaps our only contribution to the conversation of that meal would be “Thank you.”

What's in a Name?

Shakespeare’s young (much, much too young) lovers, Romeo and Juliet, first asked that question centuries ago.  What’s in a name?  Turns out, there’s a whole bunch of stuff in a name.  (Remember Anthony Weiner?!)  I always think as this tragedy moves inexorably to its conclusion, that somehow things will turn out differently. For once, the timing will change, and the pair will live on into middle age as a paunchy, bickering couple as it’s supposed to be in the grand matrimonial scheme of things. But it never happens. It’s always too late.  Just like “Gone With The Wind.”  Every time I watch this movie, I’m convinced that surely Scarlet will prevail. When Scarlet asks Rhett, “Where shall I go?  What shall I do?”  he invariably retorts, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a dang.”  (Sorry. This is a family blog, after all.)  Just once I’d like to see Clark Gable turn around in the mist and say, “Oh, all right.  Let’s give it another try!”  Hasn’t happened yet.  I continue to hope.  Ah, but I digress.

This past weekend, the nation celebrated its birth with fireworks and an inexplicable obsession with British royalty.  No one seemed to notice the 800-pound oxymoron in the room.  Independence Day is a time when high-spirited citizens, armed with a match and everything from rockets to bottle bombs that rival Molotov cocktails, take to the street curbs and scorch the road with explosives ignited in the name of our illustrious forefathers until, mercifully, the garbage trucks arrive, grinding and flatulent, to harvest the debris of this pyrotechnic, patriotic celebration.   

Dennis and I, in a flourish of health, good intentions, and mind-numbing insanity, decided to celebrate the Fourth AND accomplish a “one of these days we should…” things on our “one of these days we should…” list.  So we filled the car with petrol and headed for, where else?, Little Bighorn battlefield.  

Having seen numerous documentaries about this historical event, we were well prepared to be an eyewitness to history.  And there’s no better way to observe our nation’s birth and adolescence than by making a pilgrimage to the site of a bloody clash between two nations, two cultures, two philosophies, two polar opposites.  However, the more we learned, the more difficult it became to decipher which opponent should rightly be labeled “savage.”

The Black Hills were green, lovely and reverent, and concealed their history.  The landscape was silent, as if the hills had all conspired to take a vow of omerta and not yield up its secrets willingly.  Of course, this calm was in stark contrast to what had taken place exactly 135 years ago.  Then, Cheyenne, Miniconjou, Oglala, Blackfeet, and Arapaho warriors clashed with the U. S. Seventh Cavalry, and saturated the soil with bloodshed.

Now here’s where names come in.  The consortium of tribes was under the command of leaders and holy men like Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and Gall.  Indian warriors were called Wooden Leg, Low Dog, Bloody Knife, Rubbing Out of Long Hair, Standing Bear, and Two Moons.  These monikers would strike greater terror in the hearts of the enemy than, say, Tom, Bill and Jim, (actual members of Custer’s Company). Sometimes, names carry great significance and spiritual power. It is ironic that some of the fiercest carnage occurred at a place called Rosebud.  Sounds more like the opening scene of “Citizen Kane.” 

One cannot walk these hallowed grounds without being inspired by courage, determination, devotion, and unyielding bravery in the face of overwhelming odds by warriors on both sides of the conflict.  I am familiar with such characteristics.  Brodi dedicated her book, “Everneath,” to her father.  She wrote, “For my Dad, a quiet man, a fierce warrior.”  It made me ponder. I have contemplated what Indian name would be appropriate for this man.  Sitting Bull was a Hunkpapa Lakota.  Dennis is rather bony at the moment, but that won’t always be the case.  In fact, his bone structure protrudes in so many directions, one could actually calculate longitude and latitude and navigate the seas just looking at him. Nevertheless, spiritually, he’s every bit the “hunk” that Sitting Bull was. Perhaps, because of his diminished butt dimensions, he could be called One Moon.  Or Peeping Tom-Tom.  Or maybe Mini Ha Ha (aka LOL).  My personal favorite would probably be “Silver Stud Muffin.”

Today, he will once again wage a battle to rival any in history. And I will recognize the same traits our nation’s forefathers possessed that went into the forging of this nation. He will sit patiently as he receives his transfusion, grateful for the opportunity to go to war against an insidious interloper. No war paint or feathers – just a port surgically installed near his collar bone to transport the toxic fluid to the battle site.

Friends and family make a difference in every cancer patient’s war.  They are the battalions that cover our backs and say, “I am here.  Let’s heal together.”

Dennis’ personal manifesto comes straight from George C. Scott, although Sitting Bull might well have said the same thing.  “The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it.” 

He continues to distinguish himself.  Fortitude is his nucleus. I do not doubt that, like all courageous warriors in the history of this nation, he will triumph.      

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.