"You do not have to be heroic now."

The best blog entry I have read on chemotherapy -- with kind permission of the author:
http://denise4health.wordpress.com/2012/02/24/why-whining-is-necessary-during-adriamycin-cytoxan-ac-chemo-and-goodbye-to-side-effects/

The only thing I can add, and because I tend to think in military terms with the fight against this disease is that I am not a victim or a survivor. I am a warrior.
To quote a favorite General:

"Well Grant we've had the devil's own day haven't we?" "Yes," said Grant, "Lick em tomorrow though." - Gen. U.S. Grant responding to Gen Sherman's remark following the costly Union victory at the Battle of Shiloh.

2:1

Our little local paper has a “Thumbs Up/Thumbs Down” write-in column where folks can vent about things like skateboarders, or praise local fundraising groups. Things like that. I usually read with amusement, especially when readers start an argument back and forth.  But today I am sending in a “Thumbs Down” of my own.  I share it with you because there is one important PSA (Public Service Announcement) and a one very important lesson I’ve learned, and since is this is the raison d’etre for this blog, I present it to you now. 

(As an introduction, because sarcasm does not promote two-way communication, you will note that I refrain from it especially in this “Thumbs Down”.  Also the paper tends not to publish words like peckerwood, dick-head, or asshole, so you are definitely reading the cleaned up version for general consumption and not the story as told to my friends.)

Here goes:

To the driver who screamed at me while passing me as I was pulled off the side of the road. Yes, I know I was on a curve.  I had slowed down, put on my flashers and checked my rear view mirror. I did this because I was experiencing a health crisis and was in imminent danger of losing consciousness. My three choices were: tree, ditch, or driveway. Went for driveway, but did not quite make it.  I was later able to find a safer spot and call for help.  TWO friends arrived to take both myself and my car home.

So, readers, please try to remember that: 1) obstacles in the road are equal opportunity, that’s why we SLOW DOWN on steep curvy roads, so we can see them in time to avoid them.  2) Not everyone who appears to be acting stupid is actually BEING stupid. Maybe they need help.  And a huge Thumbs Up to the people who did help.

(End of letter)

Now some people would say that there is a karma ratio here of 2:1, and that this guy will “get his”, but I don’t believe in karma. 

What I do believe is this--and I have been telling my friends this for years: every third person you meet is an asshole.  (If you don’t believe me, work retail for about a week.) So when you meet someone, and it’s not immediately obvious whether they fall into this category, check out their body language, hold back on the judgment, don’t over-share, and wait until they have revealed enough layers of character to reveal their true self. You’ll save yourself some frustration and a whole lotta heartbreak.

Fun with Nurses -- sorry not that kind. ;-)

If you spend ANY amount of time in a hospital you know that your wrist ID is bar-coded. Staff is instructed to ask you your name and date of birth after they scan the thang and before they do ANY procedure or give any meds.

This gets old about the sixth time.  I had one really great nurse, so one morning when she scanned me, she asked the usual question: “What’s your name; what’s your date of birth.”  Of course my response was: “Margaret Thatcher”.  Later in the day it was “Princess Diana”.   (Hmm, picking dead people…)

So I have complied the following list should I find myself in the same situation with a really rockin’ nurse.  Just to see how far I can go with it. ‘cause I’m a shit like that.

1.        4 pack Sylvan 100 watt light bulbs.

2.       “The Danger”   (you Br Ba fans know what I’m sayin’ here.)

3.       12 ounce Dole sliced peaches in heavy syrup

4.       Troybuilt 2000 series replacement gearshift knob: $12.99

5.       Really?  (insert real name? Still?”)

6.       Roget’s Thesaurus

7.       22 pound premium bird seed.

8.       I’m Jesus Christ!  (no offense ya’ll, but that there’s funny)

9.       Ganymede

10.   Live feeder mice 3 @ $1.75 *

*this one should at least elicit either a “Dufug?” OR a visit from the psych MD on duty.

Have fun!

Just one hilarious post from a way cool Blogger

And that’s why you should learn to pick your battles.

JUNE 21, 2011

in RANDOM CRAP

This morning I had a fight with Victor about towels. I can’t tell you the details because it wasn’t interesting enough to document at the time, but it was basically me telling Victor I needed to buy new bath towels, and Victor insisting that I NOT buy towels because I “just bought new towels“. Then I pointed out that the last towels I’d bought were hot pink beach towels, and he was all “EXACTLY” and then I hit my head against the wall for an hour.

Then Laura came to pick me up so we could go to the discount outlet together, and as Victor gave me a kiss goodbye he lovingly whispered, “You are not allowed to bring any more goddam towels in this house or I will strangle you“.   And that was exactly what I was still echoing through my head an hour later, when Laura and I stopped our shopping carts and stared up in confused, silent awe at a display of enormous metal chickens, made from rusted oil drums.

(read the whole thang over at ...)http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

CHICKENS!!!!

Now listen up

I have given this advice to many people over the years—because it’s simple and it’s true.

If three people who love and care for you tell to do (or not do) something, give up and do WHAT THEY TELL YOU.

“Dude, don’t ski down the black diamond trail.”

“Girlfriend, dump that guy.”

“You better get that mole looked at.”

“Don’t buy that house.”

“Another kid, are you crazy???”

And guess what, while I wobbled and vacillated and decided to give up on this diabolical cancer treatment, I realized there are THIRTY FIVE people telling me to go on. So there ya go, I gotta put my money where my mouth is.

Because the guy who was told by his wife, and his buddies and his doctor, to get that mole looked at?  He didn’t. He died at age 48. 

"RORR"!!!

"Report Only no Reply Requested"*

(* an entirely made-up military acronym)

Well!

A rough week, but !!!  nearly 100% now.

Had to be admitted to hospital on 21st for extreme low white blood count. Never shook so hard in my life.  (Unless  you count the "Peruvian Marching Powder Incident of 1982".) 

It's a serious bump in the road, but a typical and expected possible side effect of chemo and I felt  better in less than 8 hours.  But they just can't let ya go out in public with "a" single white blood cell, so here I am in isolation until tomorrow.  All saidand& done not such a bad place to be: regular chow, someone cleans up for me and I get all the pudding I want. I can think of a few people who would sign up, actually.

The chemo after effects come in predicable time frame: the first are intense and nasty but for 72 hours so ya just need to bite down on something and gut it out.  And  juuuuuuuuust at that time some peckerwood at the insurance company decided they would not fill the entire prescription for anti-nausea. Will personally track this dude down and kill him later.  Preferably with a Benelli Super Black Eagle 2.  Or maybe the slow way with just a few boxes of rubber bands, B'wahaha.

Aren't ya glad you asked?

And Sunday is my 52 Bacon Birthday.

 (You know who you are, LOL.)

Just sayin'

If you have a chronic illness, and are being subjected to diagnostics tests, then you know that some are highly invasive, scary and sometimes painful.

Others are a real cake-walk.
When I had the echocardiogram (which is basically just an ultrasound), the tech pointed out my liver. I saluted it for it's many years of hard service.

That said, after returning to work after having an echo & you are asked how it went, you should probably NOT respond with: "That was easy; you can rub me with KY jelly all day."

Since the last post was so depressing, I had to toss this little gem in.

New post-mastectomy bra on order. ;-)



re-posted from Criggo
http://www.criggo.com/page/16/

"The absence of fear is not courage; the absence of fear is some kind of brain damage." --M. Scott Peck

Well! First chemo is May13th!

The "run-up" to this process could stun an ox. The possible side effects could kill it, and butcher it into one inch cubes.

Please pray to the deity/dieties of your choice that he, she, it or them, find no other CA cells anywhere else.   'Cause I'm only doing this ONCE.

At least the port insertion will be done under general anesthesia 'cause that thang scares the snot outta me.

So looks like an early BD present for me as chemo starts . WTF, man, we used to look forward to getting drugs!!!! Total 4 different medicines: mix n' match different combos all told for a year, but the most concentrated regime in the beginning, then tapering off to one last medicine in about six months & I'll keep taking it for another six.

Will start the radiation about Thanksgiving (if you call it that) and by my reckoning will be completely done almost a year to the day I found the tumor-- except for the one last drug, which goes to June 2014, but that will be like lukewarm soda after the rest of it.

Got the wig. Named her "Liza". Co-workers thinks she looks great, but I am not so certain they weren't just blowing glitter  up my skirt. Liza will live in the closet until at least the 28th when my hairdresser will shave my head. ($10 dollars says my eyebrows fall out but I keep the mustache, LOL) But once MY hair goes, they can finesse the styling.  Just demoralizing. But I know! I know!  It's TEMPORARY.

Discussion was opened about anti-depressants. Those things are scary shit on their own, but when you start looking for tall, sturdy, horizontal tree limbs in your yard...they might be an option.
So, yay.

World's Shortest Flowchart

Learn it. Live it.

Really?

"Will I still be able to play the piano, doctor????"

*sneck*

Sometimes in dark days, you need a dark muthartruckin' book

Spent most of last week reading:
 1 Dead in Attic  by Chris Rose.  A fine piece of writing and well worth the Pulitzer.

It was on my list before the cancer thing, and SINCE I COLD TURKEY-ED cigarette smoking for the surgery, I spent the entire $148.32 I saved at the bookstore.

So Chris, if you read this, the question "How are you doing?" is also the question du jour for cancer patients. From now on answer will be "What are the choices?"

Now, my fans, go out there and buy it
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/1-dead-in-attic-chris-rose/1103366115

"...and let them know we're not dead and if we are dying, we're going to pretend we're not."

Well, fell into shit-house, did not find piano.

Both of my fans know that about six weeks ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Didn't see it coming.Smoked for 37 years, hoping that would just take me out, but what the hell, it's not lung cancer? I get the sympathy, "pat on the hand, I'm so sorry" cancer, and not the "well, what did you expect?" cancer.

Despite all the pink ribbons and cute slogans and the concerned, silent tilt of the head and weak smile everyone gives you, it's nothing to dick around with and they needed to take the entire right breast, and PDQ. So that went down last week.

On the whole the surgery and post-op were as smooth as could be expected. The best case scenario is that loopy surgical patient goes home with pain pills and sleeps for three days, wakes up and has a bowl of oatmeal.

Unfortunately that was not the case, but I am afraid of crossing some invisible line of geezerhood by describing the whole thing.  Recovery was miserable, but what are ya gonna do?

The good news?  The surgical sight is PERFECT and I am cleared to return to work on Monday with just some minor follow up with the plastic surgeon, who, lemme tell ya, is some kinda of artist. I will taking my left breast out at parties to show people, LOL.

So here are 2 experiences worth a laugh.  And I double checked the first one with doctor to make sure I wasn't delirious with pre-op meds.

 First:  As I was in the OR, as God is my witness, the plastic surgeon had Pink Floyd "Comfortably Numb" playing in the OR. And I'm thinking--dude, that's kind of a sinister song if you really know the lyrics. So I asked: “Really, Floyd, that is so kewl, have you heard the Easy All Stars Dub Version? He, said “Yes! I have that How kewl izzat?” And 'cause I'm a little scared I ask him to hold my hand and he does and we have this little conversation and then...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I did verify this with him today just so no one can call BS. I said: "Because it just sounds so familiar, like something that happened to me 30 years ago, listening to Floyd, holding someones's hand, passing out...that wasn't you? Was it?"

      

      Fast forward a buncha days and the I go to see the other surgeon. “DR. I-Save-Lives-SERIOUS”, to have a “drain” removed. A Jackson- Pratt Drain, to be precise. Don’t  Google it, just don’t, you won’t be able to un-see it.  I have all the respect in the world for the medical profession, I’ll occasionally inject a note of levity into the conversation but generally I try to shuddup and listen and I say please and thank you and understand many staff are really really busy, so I cut them a lot a of slack, and I am willing to wait for stuff– for a reasonable time depending on the situation. But yesterday. Yesterday. When the doctor took out the last postoperative drain-- that lovely surgeon DR. SERIOUS with the big blue eyes wearing a snow white t-shirt under his starched button down shirt and his sweet smile-- when he took out that drain, well, my eyes went black and my primitive limbic system kicked in -- I nearly grabbed his balls.  And yes I yelled. I believed I made have yelled: “Holy shit snax” but he was too sweet (or professional) to comment. 

 So we may now trip, tra la la into the wonderful world of toxic chemo and radiation. La la la…  The pathology came back and they upped the Staging from II to III-a,  which is not a surprise, because the tumor was large, and fast growing, and yadda yadda yadda. So Holy shitsnax.

I get it that no way that everyone who gets hit by this thing was just skipping down the road, enjoying their good life and looking forward to the next exciting thing, oh boy! Some of us were sitting on the curb, wringing our hands and pondering our next move when this kicked our ass.

And I so don't want to be defined by this.  This is only who I am for a short time.  (One way or another.) 

And that’s all the news for today.  

“Sometimes you fall into shit-house and come up with piano on back.”

Which means: “Dumb luck, my friend, will sometimes find even you.”

It’s a family saying passed down from my paternal great-grandmother, and when I questioned my dad, a second generation immigrant from Europe, he just shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea what language that’s translated from.”

I have been working on family genealogy for over a decade now. My mother’s side, while elusive in particulars, is so far, not so interesting. My research stalls out in Pennsylvania in 1798. My mtDNA testing reveals only that my mother’s people are Haplogroup H, the most common European Haplogroup, AKA “vanilla.”

But when I started to research my dad's side, all I had to go on was: "Your Grandfather was born in a village (in Europe) near three rivers beginning with the letter B.” (Really, dad, that’s all you got?)  My father said that in the “old country” the ancestors lived in three different countries, and yet never left their village cluster.

Piece by piece I teased it out: immigration dates, census sheets, some help from internet cousins…. and clues from WWI and WWII draft applications, where some men identified themselves as being born in Austria, and others as “Poland in Russia.” Until one grandfather not only listed the general region, but wrote down the name of his hometown: Bialawoda, Nowy Targ. (now in SE Poland.) Yet we are neither Austrian, nor Pole, nor Russian, not even Ukrainian, we are Ruthenian/Lemko. Sometimes called Rusniaks or Rusyn.

Throughout their history, our people spoke at least six different languages: Polish, Slovak, Magyar, Ruthenian, Ukrainian and possibly Russian (and of course the Church records are in Latin).  They used three different alphabets: Latin, Greek Cyrillic, and Russian Cyrillic-- if they could read at all.  They worshipped in at least five different kinds of Churches: Ukrainian Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, Roman Catholic and Byzantine. Sometimes only because they selected the church nearest to them that approximated their “true” religion. (This has been a PILE of fun sorting out, lemme tell you and I still don’t have a clear picture.)

Professional scholarly DNA testing research provides some interesting clues to the genetic make-up of these people, who lived tucked in a Carpathian mountain valley for centuries.  My dad used to joke about his mother’s Asian appearance, saying that her family came from a village so far east  in Eastern Europe it was called “China.” And actually, he is right. Haplogroup I – one of the oldest EuroAsian Haplogroups is found in studies of the Carpathian peoples.

They survived the invasions and subsequent domination from the Wallachs, Romans,  Turks, Mongols and Tatars (and others) & lost many of their native sons and daughters through emigration until they were finally nearly exterminated from their native land, first by Hitler (in a general way, being targeted as “Poles”) and then by Stalin, who uprooted the survivors and forcibly removed them from the SE Poland region. These people are resilient, if not so forgiving. A family joke goes like this: "What do you get when you cross a Rusniak with a Sequoia?"  "A tree that can hold a grudge for a thousand years."

We are a dying breed. No one knows who we are. WE don’t know who we are.  (And smarter people than I are still arguing the point.) My grandparents spoke the old language, but the last ancient speaker in the family has died.  Our people came to America in the “string immigration” fashion, then assimilated, and through fear or shame, or benign neglect, failed to keep the memory of our ancestors alive.  Only now have I re-connected with the Lemko heritage, vicariously, through books and scholarly articles on the internet. I learned more about my ancestors through research than I did through actual experience. 

The one thing we all agree on are the names for this group: Rusyns, Ruthenians, or Lemkos.  There is a saying that these people use to describe themselves and it only further blurs the ambiguity we all share about our collective identity:   "Po Nashemo."  It roughly translates to:  "People like us who speak our language." Which, I guess, is how every group of people identifies themselves.

And so I come full circle. While trying to discover my ethnic roots, I discovered that I am everyone.

Another, interesting and sweet perspective can be found here: http://semanchuk.com/philip/ForstarDu/photograph.html

with kind permission of the author.

Fail du jour -

Failure to achieve end stage thermal equilibrium resulted in a separation ratio of less than 100%.

Met my new dentist today

It's embarrassing that some of those old fillings were installed in the bronze age. They pre-date the moon landing, for gawd's sake.

I told the new guy that when my old dentist drilled out the largest cavity, it was so big that 3 illegals and an INS agents came out.

*ba-do-boom.* I'm here all week, folks.

Your job as a parent – short version:

“Your job as a parent is not to make your kid happy, your job is to teach them to cope when life gives them a turd salad sandwich.” 

  

This issue comes up more frequently during the holiday season, when parents discuss what they are getting their kids for Christmas.

Now, you should know, that Christmas and kids, are two of my least favorite things on the planet, so when the two converge, I tend to get a even more cranky than usual -- like drive a railroad spike through my head, cranky. So when I overheard a co-worker say, juuuuuuust one too many times: “I want to make my daughter happy.” I found myself replying with above quoted turd salad reference.

So how do you teach them those coping skills? 

Let’s re-visit the expectations.  Are they reasonable and expected needs, (warm clothes, decent housing, books), or, are they whiny needy self-centered wants? ‘Cause I’m addressing the latter here, and I am specifically addressing those parents who are able to offer their children some assets beyond the bottom half of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. (Parents in lower socio-economic levels have other challenges, but the value of learning to cope with unmet expectations is the same.)

After you assess the expectations, start out by NOT GIVING THEM EVERYTHING THEY WANT.  Start by saying no.

                                   And, “NO”, my friends, is a complete answer. 

Not another New Year's Resolution Post

Dear Doctor:

I read with interest your worksheet on “Foods to Avoid” and “Foods to Use” that your staff kindly sent to help me lower my cholesterol. I have a few comments and questions:

First of all I have to tell you that I am half Ruthenian/Lemko --it's kinda  like Ukrainian, kinda not really Polish -- anyway, you get the idea. Without a weekly infusion of pierogi, kielbasa and sour cream, my DNA will break down.  I put gypsy curse on person who wrote list. 

I am also half Irish, and if I tell me sainted grandmother that I am not allowed to drink Guinness or eat corned beef and hash, she will take her shillelagh and haul me into St. Aloysius’ on my knees to pray for my sanity.

How can it be okay to eat olive oil but not eat olives?  This must be a typo.

I’ve said it before and I will say it again: Life without butter would be a mistake.

“Avoid marbled beef.”  Ha ha. 

If I do not drink 27 cups of coffee with half and half and two teaspoons of sugar every day I will fall asleep at my desk and get fired.

“Dried peas or beans may be used as a bread substitute.”  Have you tried making a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato, hot peppers, pork roll and egg on dried peas?

“Buy a good low fat cookbook.” So, I can eat that because it’s low-fat?

The nice people at the Entenmanns’ Bakery are counting on me to keep their jobs.

The worksheet keeps referring to fried foods.  Is there another kind?

Eating ice cream keeps the evil aliens from landing in my backyard.  It must be true because I eat ice cream all the time and I have never seen an alien.  In the interest of global safety, I must continue to eat ice cream. 

Grandma Annie’s Kettle Cooked Potato Chips are non-negotiable.

Also, if you see a doughnut and you do not eat it, it hurts its feelings.

Dark Chocolate Raisinettes are fruit.

Melba toast is the spawn of the devil.  It says so right in the Old Testament.

The slice of lime in a Gin and Tonic counts as a citrus serving, right?

“Avoid coconuts.”  Does this mean I cannot wear my Polynesian Halloween costume this year?

“Limit eggs to 4 a week, including those used in cooking” That is just mean.  I think you might be a little nicer to a patient whom you have been treating for over 35 years.

I am trying, really, but it seems that the only things I can safely eat are steamed jellyfish on Communion wafers with mustard. 

(feel free to re-post, but gimme credit @ http://artificialparakeet.blogspot.com/) 

A tribute to those who have passed

in Breaking Bad, that is. (Spoiler alert!) The whole Los Pollos enchilada up to end of "Summer 2012 Season 5". Courtesy of long time BrBa talk forum member Yeah Science:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pwwfbv4AgrQ&noredirect=1

How to answer your kid when s/he says: “But YOU did drugs!!!”

“Listen kid, that was 1973, and my parents didn't know chronic from a glazed donut, but me, I have a clue, and I’m watching your back.”

                                                               "You're goddamn right."

Random Thought...

If you spend all your time running in circles, the only thing you will ever see is your own ass.

Every advice column answer, ever.

I’ll start right off and tell you that everything that follows in this post can be applied to every life situation except etiquette questions. I’ve read enough Ann Landers, Ask Amy and Dear Margo to tell you there are only three answers to life’s big questions. And following the grand tradition of Abigail Van Buren, two of my responses ARE questions. 

So here goes:

1)      “What did you think would happen?” Or, “Hey, dumbass, you didn’t see THAT coming?” so …

2)      “How long are you going to take that shit?” Fix it or STFU. 

3)      (This one is accompanied with a quick slap to the side of the head): “Accept the fact that there are people who are different from you.”  If someone wants to shave their head and paint it blue, you go ahead and let them, and STFU about it.

Find any random letter to any random advice columnist and see for yourself.