A Matter of Degrees

A MATTER OF DEGREES

January 13, 2012

Dennis’ weight just made an eye-popping quantum leap of five pounds, and with that excess corpulence has come a clarity of recollection of the recent episode in Houston.  He wants to know more of just what took place.  I’m not sure if neuron-function is directly related to greater accumulation of bulk, but if it is, I’m having my IQ re-tested immediately.

Personally, I’m a little reticent to leap blindly into full disclosure.  It’s a little like divulging the facts of life to one’s children.  These things must be done delicately.  Some things may be disturbing.  One must judiciously select what is to be revealed and what is to remain concealed.  When moved upon by discretion, I can actually become the sphinx.

I opted to begin by telling him about steroids.  That’s pretty safe.  The doctors decided to put him on a regimen of prednisone to pump up his batting average, enlarge his quads, and prepare him for his ultimate goal of extreme cage fighting.  They would also assist him in transitioning from NPO to solid food – mainly ice chips.

OK.  The Clot ratified prednisone.  However, as with all potent medications, this one has serious side effects.  Namely:  it increases the appetite and could cause considerable weight gain.  OK.  We can handle that.

Only minutes after Dennis was administered his first dose, The Clot beat a hasty retreat to the nearest exit and headed en masse to Burger King, where we ordered their super-size Orca burger with all the trimmings…and tried to refrain from asking fellow patrons if they wanted the rest of their fries.  Boy Howdy, that stuff is powerful!

We waddled sheepishly back to the ICU, trying to dislodge sesame seeds from our teeth with our tongues as, in a laudable humanitarian gesture, we took turns spooning ice chips into Dennis’ mouth.  Copious consumption of peppermints helped disguise tell-tale whale breath.

Dennis listened to the story without interruption and said, “Sometimes comas are a good thing.”

We are all glad he is off prednisone.  But check out those quads!

I also decided to relate a notable encounter with Dr. Wolff and our daughter Erin.  Dr. Wolff is a brilliant physician whose great brain wields untold quantities of knowledge and information.  His mind is the warehouse of impressive and vital facts.  He is the quarterback of our team.  None better.

One evening he came into Dennis’ room to discuss his condition and current medical circumstance.  We steeled ourselves for a barrage of disheartening information.  And Dr. Wolff did not sugar coat nor mitigate harsh reality.  It was all rather grim.  Dennis’ condition was serious and threatening.  No question about it.

Erin and Brodi listened intently, and I sensed the crushing weight as the severity of the situation settled upon them.  Knowing our daughters as I do, I wondered how long it would be before one of them spoke up. 

Turns out, not long – and, of course, turns out it was Erin.  With great dignity, she said, “Tomorrow my Dad’s going to be better.”

Dr. Wolff responded that he, too, was optimistic.  But, he insisted, “I’m just telling you the facts.”

Once again, Erin, with unmitigated authority, replied, “And I’m telling you my facts.   Tomorrow my Dad will make a 180 percent turn around!”

Dr. Wolff was a little taken aback.  Out of the side of her mouth, Brodi whispered, “Erin, that’s 180 DEGREE turn around.”

Undeterred, Erin continued to pontificate that the day after that, Dennis would make another 180 DEGREE turn around!   

Applied mathematical principles would suggest that two 180 degree turnarounds would put one back where one started.  But such rational calculations had no place when one is making pronouncements.  Erin’s facts defy the numbers.

Dennis emerged from oblivion during this exchange just long enough to mutter, “See what I’ve lived with all these years?”

Dr. Wolff managed a smile after being carpet bombed by a wall of Ashton women, and conceded that both Erin’s facts and scientific facts could reside in peaceful co-existence.

The following day, in fact, Dennis made a 180 degree turn around.  Go figure.

I learned great things that day.  Perhaps, after all, understanding trumps science.  After tracking Dennis’ monitors for 12 straight hours, and watching graphs, numbers, flow charts and alarms react with the latest unnerving news, as well as being swarmed by platoons of technicians, doctors and nurses, even brilliant minds could still arrive at faulty conclusions.  There was no machine to register strength of mind and strength of will.

Erin and Brodi knew their Dad deeper, better than all the technology of modern science.  They possessed the greater understanding that there are certain forces in the universe that conspire and center on someone with particular healing properties.

What the heart understands transcends scientific data.  Erin has always believed that everyone, including the entire medical community at MD Anderson, is entitled to her opinion and the facts as she interprets them.  And why not?  She was right.

After hearing this anecdote, Dennis’ desire to know more seemed sated for the moment.  He’ll eventually get the whole story, but only in degrees.

Thoracic Park

Christmas is a time for telling the old familiar stories of journeys:  Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem, and Wise Men following a star to a manger.  So it was entirely appropriate that at this particular season, we, too, made a pilgrimage.  Our destination:  Houston, affectionately known as “Thoracic Park.”

We prepared for our flight by checking the Heavens for navigational lights.  Then we way over-packed, and stayed in optimal physical shape by squat thrusting our luggage. 

We have never been gone for over two weeks, but we were most willing to hie ourselves to M. D. Anderson for the opportunity to eradicate a significant portion of Dennis’ lung nodules with high intensity radiation.

We met and conferred with the Three Wise Men:  Tom Buccholz, a dear and trusted friend; Dr. Joe Chang, a thoracic wunderkind; and Dr. Robert Wolff, who, as his name implies, is a ferocious oncological canine. 

There was no room at the inns, so we stayed in a local Best Western.  It was adequate, consisting of two rooms (with two beds and a bathroom) and dimly lit interiors.  I began to realize how minimally one can live when great opportunities present themselves.

However, the interior of our particular stable was dimly lit, and the lights cast a grayish, yellowish tint to one’s reflection.  When the post-shower fog on the mirrors vanished, we both looked sicker than we actually were. 

So I resorted to the Kardashian make-up handbook with tips for drag queens and smut mags, and applied several extra layers of mascara and foundation to counter the specter of my ghostly appearance.  I have decided that mascara is the opiate of the masses. The mirrors at the hospital, unfortunately, were truer than those at the motel, and I realized I looked like a geriatric refugee from the Kabuki Theater, gaunt and apparition-like.  I hate mirrors.

Things could not have gone better for the first five treatments. We were high on optimism and egg nog.  Dennis received his daily dose of radiation, and then we spent each day letting our light so shine and seeing the sights of Houston.  At the end of that week, he could have guided Santa’s sleigh. 

But that Friday night, there was an episode of such severity, we rushed him to the ER, where it was determined that he be placed in the ICU immediately.  His blood pressure  plummeted, his lungs became “fluffy,” and throngs of doctors and caretakers swarmed him round the clock.  Of the two of us, I was the only one cogent.  We all panicked.

At one point, in order to avoid a catheter, I decided to try persuasive imaging on Dennis.    After all, I watch “The Mentalist.”  I understand hypnosis.  So I started counting backwards from ten, telling him in my most velvet voice, that when I reached one, he would pee.  It didn’t work the first time…nor the second.  By the third try, I was looking frantically for a bathroom.  Dennis got the catheter.

In spite of all my protestations that we were going to be fine, Erin and Brodi boarded a plane for Texas.  Apparently long-distance “clotting” was insufficient for them. I mark Dennis’ turn-around from the moment he saw their faces.  The light in his eyes was beyond radiation.  And to tell the truth, their faces looked awfully good to me, too.

The three of us went “commando” and never left his bedside, except when hospital rules forced us out after 12 hours.  Then we rocked Houston.  We went to see “Mission Impossible,” and realized just how many impossible things are possible.   

We never felt alone.  In fact, at one point as Dennis lay semi-conscious and wired to every contraption conceivable to the mind of man, I asked him how many angels he thought were in the room with us. I didn’t expect an answer. Most of our conversations are one-sided anyway.  Besides, he was not awake, and I’m used to speaking in monologues.  But this time he responded, saying he didn’t know exactly how many angels were attending, but it must be a multitude.  Wow!  Out of the mouths of the comatose.        

Dennis began to improve dramatically.  He endured, and eventually prevailed.  I was in a constant state of wonderment, but not surprised.  We began to see things in high def.  We witnessed miracles that would astound and confound the Magi.  So many miracles that I lost count…but there were definitely more than 17.   

Our family was gone so long that we lost track of time. When Dennis began to recover, he asked me what just happened.  I asked him what he remembered.  He said not much.  I said good.  One day I’ll give him all the details. But not now. Some things are better left unspoken. We are at peace knowing we were exactly where we were meant to be at this time.

Staring down cancer is a monumental task.  But my New Year’s resolution is singular and simple:  NEVER EVER BLINK.  (Of course, I’m aided in my commitment by copious amounts of caffeine.  I actually CAN’T blink!)

If life is a journey, it is good to travel in multitudes, as in days of old, and to choose one’s traveling companions wisely.  I have.

Houston, We Have a Solution

Stricken by my annual Nesting Instinct, and staking out territory at the top of the food chain, I decided to cook a Thanksgiving turkey.  Personally, I prefer to munch on invertebrates and microscopic algae, but we’re surrounded by a family comprised mostly of carnivores, who become predatory at this time of year.

So I donned my monogrammed “GRILL MASTER” apron and started preparing the feed bag. 

I began the “apocalypse planning for future survival” by freezing the bird’s packaged innards.  I’m not really sure just what each item is, and I do not ask questions.  I don’t know whether to read the entrails or cook them.  So, I simply place them next to the ice trays and wait till freezer burn dictates date of disposal.  Very tidy.  No guilt.

We managed to prepare all the traditional dishes and achieve a degree of nutritional value at the same time.  Thankfully, we live in a country that has decreed pizza a vegetable, so we are able to hit some serious food groups simply by having Domino’s on speed dial. 

As usual, it was a requirement for everyone to tell what they are thankful for.  But with restrictions.  Family, country, etc. were not allowed.  This left the field wide open.

There were some creative and thoughtful things presented.  Josh was grateful for drive-ups.  Without them, it would be more difficult to get a “happy meal” so fast.  I liked his thinking. 

I personally was thankful for thumbs.  Without opposing digits, (and an upright posture) life as we know it would be quite different.  The kids proved my point by trying to eat using utensils with only their fingers.  I stopped the demonstration when most of the contents of their plates ended up on the carpet.  Our daughters went into collective depression when they realized without thumbs, they couldn’t text.  Only MY routine wouldn’t change without thumbs, technologically speaking.

I stuffed the bird and then the bird stuffed us.  As we were hauling out the carcass and hauling in the Christmas tree, our phone rang.  It was Tom Buchholz from M.D. Anderson in Houston.  He told us he had gone over Dennis’ PET scan with Dr. Chang, head of the thorax division and all things lung.  Apparently they decided that high-intense radiation known as SBRT could take out three of Dennis’ five remaining lesions. 

Dr. Chang said he was going after the hot lesion and two of its satellites.  In order to ensure I understood exactly what he was saying, I said, “So, you’re offing three of the little buggers?” He concurred, with only a barely detectable eyeroll.  I don’t think he was aware that whenever I refer to the “lesions,” I am accustomed to dropping the “B” grenades, “bugger” being the only one fit for blogging.   

Of course, this changes the whole equation.  I was overwhelmed. I wish I could master Kim Kardashian’s technique of crying without moistening a single manicured eyelash or dislodging so much as a single layer of carefully applied mascara.  All her tears are contained within the boundaries of eyelids that remain botoxed in cement and unblinkingly carved in an impossibly perfect, vainglorious face…a mutation of inbred narcissism. 

My tears splash out of my lids and mock my claims of eyes of cork.  They wash over my mascara and carve rivulets of India ink down my cheeks, joining the streams of viscous nasal pond scum that compels onlookers to avert their eyes in disgust.  But I mopped up the mess, and couldn’t stop doing the moonwalk as we packed our bags and headed to Texas with less than 24 hours notice.

In spite of all of the above, I landed in Houston looking laudably perky in my sunshine yellow cardigan and pathetically matching saffron shoes.  Thanks to the moisture content of the equatorial atmosphere, I arrived at the doorstep of M. D. Anderson looking like a bedraggled, jaundiced fur ball coughed by a stray cat with toxic dyspepsia.

I heard from a Jesuit priest that yellow is the color of intelligence.  Thankfully, I had packed plenty of burlap, the color of the neuron impaired.

 We met with doctors and technicians, who created a body mould for Dennis, and then did calculations that would stupefy the intelligently elite, to prepare for the two weeks of intense radiation that will eradicate these invading nodules. 

In order not to nothing ourselves to death, we decided to explore some points of interest while we waited for Monday.  We went to Galvaston for a romantic walk along the beach and release our inner sanity.  However, the wind blew so hard, it swaddled my head in platinum and root re-growth, making me look like a cross between cro magnon and the missing link.  Not exactly a Kodak moment.  But somehow none of that mattered.

It has been said that what is past is prologue.  Dennis began his intense and precise treatments today.  For us, it is Christmas.  And perhaps that’s what this season is all about…prologues and possibilities.

  

APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEIVING

Recently a friend of ours said he thought we were courageous.  He seemed to include both Dennis AND me, so I was a little taken aback.  Actually, I was stunned.  I recall sitting there with my usual vacant, saucer-eyed noncomprehending stare that so often makes me appear slightly genetically challenged.  It’s my “Duuuhhhh!” face.  Perhaps he didn’t notice. Perhaps my application of excessive mascara was a distraction.  Perhaps my appearance was deceiving.

But his comment prompted me to think about courage.  It is such a noble trait, a characteristic of grace and dignity, a virtue to be acquired and assumed.

 I have never thought of myself as brave.  Episodes of paranoid excess due to an accumulation of unknowns expose my “Barney Fife on steroids” underbelly.

I am more the burrowing nocturnal marsupial in camouflage fatigues and pith helmet whose primal instinct is to run through the neighborhood shrieking, “Be afraid.  Be very afraid,” with the irrational conviction of a Harold Camping.

I confess I don’t understand exactly what courage is.  As much as I’ve studied Shakespeare, I don’t really know just what it means to “Screw your courage to the sticking place.”

I am much better acquainted with the attributes of fear, which include paranoia, alarm, dread, anxiety, doom and gloom. 

Fear is bile green with tentacles that strangle and suffocate.  It is base, a mongrel that prompts one to carry talismans as big as the Hindenburg to ward off the emotional brown-outs that tend to suffuse one’s subcutaneous.

On the hierarchy of emotion, fear can trump even the most righteous attributes.  Fear generates revulsion, especially to those possessed by it. 

In fact, on a whim, Dennis and I went to see Ballet West’s production of “Dracula.”  Talk about VAMPIRES IN TIGHTS!  Their fangs were uncomfortably apparent.  The scenes in the crypt were so well performed that it actually gave me the wubbah wubbahs.  Absolutely nobody gets the gruesomes at the ballet.  (I being the notable exception.)

But then I began to examine the facets of courage, and the people I most admire who  seem to own it.  I decided there is an integral psychic after-burn associated with this gift – a sense of sun on their faces – an empowerment, an enlightenment, an elegance.

They persevere… simply putting one foot in front of the other.  They are patient and positive. 

I have concluded above all, that courage is not the absence of fear.  Quite the contrary.  Perhaps Admiral Rickenbacker said it best:  “Courage is doing what you are afraid of doing.”  OK.  I get that.

Monday Dennis had  an eyes to thighs PET scan.  It revealed that only one of his nodules seems active right now.  It’s “hot.”The others are apparently comatose.  We are jubilant.  Now, how to eradicate the obscenity.  We are entertaining suggestions.  But at the moment, the three most rational options are:

1. ablate
2. radiate
3. operate

We recognize the miracle of having one option, let alone three.  Each one, however, comes with its own set of possible risks, side effects, and scary terrors, which send us into cold sweats and drives us to willful misconduct.

Sometimes the thoughts are disturbing.  But less disturbing than thinking about ballet dancers doing pirouettes in tights.  Now that takes courage!

But there is no room for doubt or fear.  We will do what we are afraid to do.  And we will put the “ablate” in “celablate!”   

Ghosts of Halloween Passed

After every Halloween comes November.  We began celebrating the transition at 12:01 a.m. – not because we were partying, but because we’d overwhelmed our digestive systems with scones and hot chocolate consumed at a speed unsustainable by our age.  I believe there’s actually a mathematical formula for figuring the intake/biological-rejection-time ratio for really old people.

So we raised a cup of “projectile pink” Pepto Bismol and belched a toast to the new month in unison.  It was one of our proudest moments.

November is a month of promise and possibilities.  It’s just that we have to get beyond October before November arrives.  Now, no one isn’t graphically aware of how much our family hates Halloween.  In fact, Brodi has re-named that day as National Suck It, Doc Day.  How appropriate.  But we did receive some much appreciated assists in getting us through dreaded October.

The first was courtesy of our grandson, Carter.  Of course, pink is the color of breast cancer awareness month. It is the color of hope. It is also the color of Carter’s costume.  Nothing gothic for this kid, no sir.  He was a pink human woopie cushion!  We all agreed it was most appropriate for the occasion.

Another significant assist came on our recent pilgrimage to Houston.  Dr. Wolff was very pleased with Dennis’ progress.  At one point he stood over him and said, “Just look at him!  He’s amazing.  And he’s not going anywhere any time soon.”  I took that straight to the bank.

Dr. Wolff further reiterated that the way to fight this disease is with brute force, as if battling some foul and narcissistic creature from the Black Lagoon.  We were with him so far.

But then he lost us. Dr. Wolff said that after inflicting blunt force trauma, we should consider backing off chemo for a while. 

Oh yeah, like that’s going to happen.  We have fought so hard for so long, and have reduced the number and size of the nodules by half.  Was he actually suggesting we “un-chemo?”  AS I-IIIIIFFFF!  No.  No.  No.

But apparently, Dr. Wolff is smarter than I am.  He said that those who take a chemo break actually do better over-all.  Hmmmmm.

OK.  OK.  We promised we’d confer with our family about it and then decide. 

When we discussed the issue with Erin and Brodi, we all agreed that because of the degree of difficulty involved, this called for drastic action.  We reasoned that in order not to squander our existence or our options, we’d go platinum en masse.  When in doubt, bleach it out.  Lightening our hair always enlightens our minds.  It’s easier to get to our alpha state when blond.  And, it’s cheaper than recreational cosmetic surgery. 

So the girls and I assembled around Erin’s bathroom sink, shrouded in towel turbins like terry cloth burqas, empty boxes of Loreal platimum 01 littering the countertops like spent cartridges, and foamed our collective scalps.  We muttered incantations over our cauldrons of peroxide, reciting ancient recipes dating back to Jean Harlow calling for eye of Newt, Mitt and Herman and invoking the spirit of Dulcolax, which caused our squirt bottles to foam and bubble by the light of the full moon.

To ensure maximum potency, we drank anything with caffeine and ate our weight in Halloween candy.  Within an hour, we went platinum…and then we went stupid.  Too many calories per hour, but we really put the “duh” in “duhlicious.”  We rocked blond!

But most importantly, as we emerged from our cocoon of platinum, our family had arrived at a 3-pronged plan of action:

1. Ablation
2. Vacation
3. Celebration

We are considering ablating two nodules in Dennis’ right lung.  This involves killing the buggers with high intensity microwaves.  I offered to shout dirty words down Dennis’ wind pipe, but he didn’t think that would have the same burn capability.  I’m not so sure. 

While ablation is invasive, it is not a huge operation.  (My way wouldn’t require anesthetic, but whatev.)

If all goes well, Dennis will take a chemo vacation for several weeks under strict surveillance.  We will then celebrate with significant G-force, which includes daily “Tebowing,” and give the stink eye to cancer. 

We gathered in a very blond huddle, and after a moment of silence, we shouted in unison, “Happy ‘Suck It, Doc’ Day!”   

  

Fright Sprite

I’m not exactly sure why I have an almost Biblical vengeance against Halloween.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love a good old scary movie by a roaring fire on an autumn eve as well as anyone. 

Perhaps it’s because every year its presence invades our consciousness around Labor Day, seeping in like a malevolent fog, and lingers through November, when all the smiling jack-o-lanterns have decomposed into frowning faces more ghoulish than my own.

Perhaps it’s because Halloween is a holiday dedicated to celebrating a sinister accumulation of dark and terrifying unknowns that makes it so fearsome.

Perhaps it is because four years ago on that very day Dennis was diagnosed with cancer.  Yes, I think that’s it.

Nevertheless, the occasion does have a bright side.  When I asked Necie what she wanted to be this year, she suggested being a hippie.  Last year we were twin witches.  She asked if I knew what a hippie was.  I replied of course I did.  It is a condition singular to every woman post menopause.  She just looked perplexed.

So I explained that long, long ago in a decade far away, hippies inhabited the earth wearing flowers, long skirts, sandals and tee shirts with peace signs on the front. 

Necie’s face lit up as she listened.  And then she asked if she could go to my clothes closet for a costume.  The little darling.  I guess I should be glad she didn’t ask for a flapper dress and lessons in learning the “Black Bottom.”

Then Necie asked what I was planning to be for Halloween.  I said I was considering a sociopathic exoskeleton because I’m seriously into decadent nobility.  Again, she just looked perplexed.  Nothing like a little verbal propofol to stifle further questions.  It worked for both of us.

Dennis has been considering being a scarecrow.  He’s got the clothes and the figure.  Lately he’s been singing, “If I Only Had A Brain.”  Now this is ironic, because he had just had a brain MRI at the Huntsman on Saturday.  We spent the weekend waiting for the results and trying not to think thoughts.  Only one of us succeeded. 

On Monday we received the welcome news that he indeed has a brain, AND that brain is NORMAL.  No evidence of metastasis.  We celebrated by defying the laws of gravity…and propriety. 

I heard of an elementary school principal who claimed Halloween sends the wrong message to children.  So she cancelled it.  Huzzah!  I ratify that! 

And I will go and do likewise.  I’m canceling Halloween too, right after I consume all the chocolate I planned to distribute.  This works for me.

I’ve been investigating other calendar events to take the place of Halloween.  And last week was National Bosses’ Day.  OK.  I can do that one.  But not one person wished me Happy Bosses’ Day.  I was so mad, I fired the world.  I cancelled the whole week.  I am now in the process of founding an entirely new reason to celebrate…National No More Night Sweats Month.  I figure it will not only make every grandma more tolerable, but it will also reduce global warming.  Both will be beneficial for the eco-system.

A while ago, Brodi decided to “de-Brodify” her computer.  She was suffering from www fatigue.  Very interesting.  Apparently, there are actual physical ailments associated with over-use of one’s amazing inventions.  For instance, there’s “tech eye,” and “pc elbow.” 

Can you believe it?

I find that intriguing.  Now I don’t use my technology that much, but there have been occasions when I have threatened to disembowel my computer. Had one just now. And lately I have noticed I have developed my own set of peculiar adversarial syndromes.  I have “android ear,” “ipad paranoia,” “allergic techno aversion,” “aggravated granny jiggle,” and “snuggler’s flab.”  I’m not sure pitching my computer into the Grand Canyon would help.  But it’s tempting.

I love autumn.  Enough leaves have fallen to kick through on our daily walks.  The days are golden, bright and sunny. 

There are definitely more things to celebrate than fear. 

Against All Odds

Last week Dennis and I took a road trip to beautiful downtown Cedar City for SUU’s fall lineup of plays.  We went with old and dear friends.  Jeff and Barb Booth are very comfortable to travel with, partly because we have made this annual pilgrimage to indulge our fetish for drama every year since medical school. We four have passed through every phase of life together, from sideburns to mullets, new babies to grandchildren, internship to practice. Shared time and experiences tend to mellow people through the years, and seasoned friendships take on the relaxed contentment of cozy slippers.  We have arrived at that golden point of our lives where we have stopped denying bowel realities and laugh uproariously at the preposterously embarrassing bodily emissions of the aged.   

The two plays we attended were “Dial M For Murder,” and “The Winter’s Tale,” by Shakespeare.  The first is a tale of suspense, dramatized to challenge one’s sphincter control.  This could have been dicey because much of the audience was composed of seniors from a tour bus, wearing name tags.  Seeing this production motivated me to do a lot of scrapbooking just so I could keep a pair of Samaria scissors handy.  Dennis gave me a wide berth when he noticed me sorting through old photographs.

The second play centers on a king, whose tyranny wrongs his queen and destroys a cherished friendship.  Both plots involve mischief, murder mayhem, and jealous husbands who, except for the mercy of a humane playwright, could have caused the death of their wives.  Hmmmm.  The concepts were compelling. Husbands who murder their wives.  Hmmmmm.  Oh, the power of the theater!  And the power of suggestion on a weak mind.  I kept a close eye on Dennis as I trimmed our pictures with the scissors from my sewing basket.  (OK, I don’t really have a sewing basket, but it serves to produce tension.) 

Finally, I nonchalantly asked him, “Do you think you have any jealousy issues?  I mean, do you ever have suspicions about…me?”  He just gave me that “look.”  I had recently visited my dermatologist, Dr. Igor, who had assaulted me with an evil vial of smokin’ liquid primordial ooze and a cattle prod.  I looked like I had done fifteen rounds with a blow torch whose cauterizing quotient could have stemmed the flow of Niagra Falls…and lost.  Dennis pointed me to the nearest mirror and said gently, “You’re safe!”  I was reassured, sort of, but a little disappointed.  Did his lack of jealousy stem from default?  Hmmmmm.  So I decided to put down my scissors and begin investigating the possibilities of body dismorphia.

From Cedar City, we headed for scenic drives through Escalante, Torrey and Bryce Canyon. We went on numerous hikes (mostly consisting of easy walks on level terra firma), and ate like starving carnivores.  When we returned to our room, I noticed that the diamond was missing from my wedding ring.  I nearly hurled the fatted mastadon I had just consumed.  I became dizzy and disoriented, which is my behavior of choice in any crisis. We searched the premises in vain. Dennis was meticulous.  I was uttering profanities. To make matters worse, I wasn’t even sure when I’d lost it. It could have been at Bryce.  It might have happened when Margot stabbed Lesgot. It could have fallen into the last spoonful of mashed potato inadvertently left on my plate.

 I was sick.  I slept sad.  In fact, I didn’t sleep.  I just lay there and cursed obscenities into my pillow.

The odds against finding that little gem were enormous.  But Dennis awoke the next morning with a smile and a plan. That’s his behavior of choice in any crisis. We would carefully remove our luggage, and then search every inch of the room until we found it.  I was OK with that idea, because my plan was to “Thelma and Louise” ourselves over the Grand Canyon. 

After all our luggage was loaded in the car, we knelt on the floor. As we lifted my final duffle bag, the diamond rolled between us.  Whoa! We were all amazed.  Whoda thunk it.  The odds of that happening seemed definitely not in our favor.  The odds were wrong.

There are those who claim that numbers don’t lie.  Digital calculations are immutable.  But I think they can be deceitful and misleading to the point of pernicious perjury.  After recovering the missing diamond, I have decided to ignore any odds not in our favor.  I will respond only to positive numbers.  I will reset my mathematical compass daily to the sweet spot of the affirmative.  And should there be those foolish enough to offer anything contradictory, the last thing they will see as they skid under the bus is the flash of my diamond ring.