If I've Seemed a Bit Weepy Lately...

Courage

The doctors left the port in her chest, so that she wouldn't need a new IV every time she got a chemo treatment. Some days, her left arm is so weak, she can hardly bend her elbow. Last week,they told her that the disease was not responding, and is much worse than they thought. She needs radical surgery, but they can't do it until she is stronger. She works out as if her life depends on it. Which, in a way, it does. I was spotting her in the weight room this week. Shoulder press with dumbbells. Hard for anybody. Nearly impossible for her. Our faces were inches apart when I saw the tear roll down her left cheek, same side as the tumor. "It hurts." "What hurts?" I asked quickly. You don't take pain lightly in my business. "Everything." I was about to stop her, then my glace fell to her jaw. It was set steel cable tight. "Two more reps," she growled, her lips barely moving. She ground two more presses out like an NFL linebacker, then dropped the weights to the floor, leaned into my chest, and soaked my shirt with tears of courage.

Thanksgiving

He was my best friend for a long time. A class mate. An ordained minister. A Christian education director. A flamboyant, joyful man, trapped behind the barely latched closet door that his church forced him to hide in. He was the one who reassured me that in spite of my curiosity, artistic temperament, and unsettling dreams, I was most definitely not a homosexual. One night, just after Thanksgiving break, he passed a joint and rubbed his eyes dry with the heel of his hand as he told me about coming out to his fireplug of an ex-Marine father. He trembled in fear as the old man smoked quietly for a long time, finally breaking the silence when he asked, "Ok. So, what is it that you do, exactly?" They talked long past midnight, gradually unpacking fears, truths, and a couple of stories about life in Greenwich Village in the 70's that still make me cringe. My friend was prepared to be disowned. Instead, he found a father's confused, but unconditional love. By the time he finished telling me about it, we were both crying tears of gratitude, cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room.

Bear Hug

The week before your first Marathon is not the time to discover a lump in the shower. No time for this shit right now. That Sunday, he broke four hours, and hoped the nub would go away. Three months later, he joined the 1%: only 2200 men are diagnosed with breast cancer each year. "Lucky me."  In spite of his initial denial, the docs said that they caught it early. Minor surgery seemed successful, but left enough doubt room for error that several rounds of chemo followed. Hair loss. Sunken eyes. Disappearing muscles. See-saw emotions. Weight gain. "Less than a year ago, I finished a marathon. Now I have to stop and rest when I walk to the john. I have to run again You have to help me run again." "I'm only a trainer," I told him the day we met. "I can't take a step for you. But as long as you're willing to run, I'll run beside you." For months, he was always early to class. inundating me with questions about nutrition, and exercise. He banged out reps in the weight room. Rocked the rowing machine. Made the stationary bikes hum. Soaked the treadmill belt with sweat before the rest of us were even warmed up. He was dragging through the front doors as I was clocking out after teaching an aerobics class this morning. "What's with you?" I ribbed. "You look like you've been pulling a plow." He glanced around the lobby with a weary sparkle, as if to be certain we were alone. "Last night. 3 miles in 32." Runners and cancer survivors: we have a shorthand all our own. We wrapped our arms around one another in the sunlit lobby: a big, back-slapping bear-hug that quickly became the kind of long embrace a proud father gives his son just before it's time to leave for college. "You son-of-a-bitch," I whispered. "Guess you'll have to run by yourself. I can't keep up with you now." He punched me in the arm, laughing. I was careful not to raise my head until I could duck into the men's room. I soaked a brown paper towel with salty pride.

#472: Running with a Friend

There is a sacred fellowship, a holy communion that passes between friends who run together. 

On the road, with people I love, we share stories of promises broken and kept. Relationships in trouble. Battles with depression and financial hardship and the pain of being alone and the joy of being married. As the miles roll by, hearts are bound together in the hushed music of footfall and breath. Sometimes one leads, then the other. Sometimes side by side.

There is fun and celebration in running with a group or in a race. Glorious solitude awaits the lone runner on the early morning streets of the neighborhood, but to run with a friend, wordlessly drinking in the world together... this is holy.

A winter morning, the Bluegrass hills looking like a snow globe as the two of you come to the crest of a hill, only to see half a dozen deer glide weightlessly over the barbed wire fence, across the road, and disappear into the whitening trees.

A frigid day, racing the rain, spent coming to know an old internet acquaintance who you've never met in real life, and crossing the finish line hand in hand, knowing that a faceless cyber connection has been forged into a life-long friendship.

Struggling through the afternoon heat with a pal who won't let you get a word in edgewise because the past few days have been so overwhelming and sometimes you just need someone to hear what you have to say.

Running hard, side by side in the morning mist, then stopping dead in your tracks together, overcome by the unspeakable beauty of a cool stream and a clear waterfall and an ancient mill. No language is necessary; you breath the clean, moist air. No one else will ever share this moment with you, and you both know it. This is sacred.

One of my favorite prayers in the Episcopal liturgy is part of the Eucharist: 

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. 

That's why I say running together is communion. On the road, in the hills, on the streets and trails if find peace and consolation, redemption even. But there is so much more there. Every run makes us stronger, teaches us confidence and humility, and if we are very lucky, it binds us together as friends in ways that nothing else I know about can do. This is fellowship. This is communion.

I ran with my friend this morning, on a course where in a few weeks, we will both be racing in a half-marathon. He is younger, stronger, and faster than me, (though not as good looking.) We will not see much of one another once that race has started, but because of the time we shared this morning, and on so many other mornings together, I will have him right by my side. When my breath feels labored, I will hear his stories. When my legs are heavy, I will see his infuriatingly steady pace just ahead of me, drawing me along like a locomotive pulling freight. Once you run with a friend, you never really run alone again. 

Peace,

Bob

#446: Friends, Family, and Warriors

Coach Rita, Renee, Marian, and Becky

Some friends play at friendship, but a true friend sticks closer than one's nearest kin. ~ Proverbs 18:24 NRSV

THE DAMNED THING

My friend is pretty sick these days. Not so very long ago, she kicked breast cancer's ass and sent it packing. Then, last winter, she started feeling tired. Head aches. Irritability. She started missing exercise classes. For most people that means you've got a bug coming on, or you need to get more sleep, or you're not eating right. For a cancer fighter, it can be more sinister. It calls for the kinds of tests that you are inclined to put off until after the holidays.

So as winter settled in over the Bluegrass, Becky went to the doc and began the long detective work; searching for what was wrong. There were a lot of false leads. Some docs will tend to look for everything else first. It's not necessarily the best medicine, but it's just human nature. When you're treating  a cancer survivor, you don't want to deliver the worst news first.

Becky's bad news came after a lumbar puncture. It was there. In her spinal fluid. The Damned Thing was going after her nervous system. She came to work for a few more days. Let us know what was happening. There would be chemo. Again. No telling what other treatment it would take. But she would do it. From the very first, she was scared, but not cowed. Becky is a warrior. She will fight.

Closer Than Kin

FRIENDS

It is difficult to think of Becky without thinking of Marian. I realized as I was preparing this post that I don't have any pictures of Becky without Marian close by. At work. In class. Shopping. At lunch. Marian and Becky were classmates when they went through LIVESTRONG at the YCMA together. They are closer than sisters.

While I was having my recent mental breakdown, Marian and Coach decided that I should not be told about Becky. I'm glad they spared me then. I'm not sure my mind could have held up under the news. Three nights ago, I asked Marian how our friend was doing. She could keep the facts from me for a while, but could never tell me a lie. So she took a chance that I was as strong as I said I was: she told me the truth. They've stopped Becky's chemo. It wasn't helping. She spent some time in the hospital. Now she's in a nursing home, waiting until she's sick enough to go back. They've contacted Hospice. Her daughter has been a Guardian Angel for her mother, protecting her, sitting with her, nursing her, loving her. They've decided to tell Becky only what she needs to know. Her mind is fragile, and she has days when she doesn't recognize visitors. Gets confused about where she is. I listened, my eyes moist with compassion and anger. Compassion for my friend's pain. Anger at the Damned Thing that had chosen such a beautiful and vulnerable target. Well, the Bastard was in for the fight of his life.

THE WARRIOR

This is no eulogy. My friend is very much alive and very much in battle mode. Marian and I visited her the day after she shared the news with me. Marian warned me that it would not be easy. There was no telling who would be there in the bed to greet us when we arrived. She was sleeping when we came in. Pale. and a little bloated from the chemo, but she'd kept her hair which was a balm to her vanity, I'm sure. Becky loved to get her hair done, and there was no telling what color it might be when you walked into the gym in the morning. It's a lovely chestnut brown right now. At least it was on Tuesday. She slept peacefully, deeply. I took her hand and gently greeted her the way I always have. "Hey, Miss Becky." She didn't stir. The whir of the air conditioner and the drone of the television wrapped her in a blanket of white noise that my voice could not cut through. Marian, standing on Becky's right, tapped her hand gently. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Look what I've brought you."

Slowly, Becky's hands squeezed ours and her face started to awaken. Half a smile came to her lips as she saw Marian's giant smile. "I brought Bob Johnson with me." Becky turned her face toward me, peering through the one, beautiful blue eye that the cancer has left her. I wasn't sure what she was seeing. "Do you recognize me, Becky?" "Yes, Bob," she answered as if it was the stupidest question she had ever heard. Marian and I laughed and Becky smiled softly. Contraband was exchanged. Becky chewed happily on the Mounds bar Marian had snuck in, the dark chocolate melting on her fingers. She sipped water to help wash the coconut down. We talked about the Y. I told her that the whole morning crew sent their love. Dave and Gary, Dora, Bonnie and Bob, Ernesto and Beth and Teri and Meagan and Derick. I didn't mention Coach leaving. Becky's carrying more than enough on her shoulders right now. I told her about my recent troubles, and that I was going to be running a marathon on Sunday.

I would be running for her.

2012 LIVESTRONG at the
YMCA racing team

Would she like to come along? I was sure I could sling her over my shoulder and carry her for most of the way. She turned her head to Marian and rolled her eye. "Idiot," she seemed to say. We laughed again, remembering how proud we all were the night back in August when she finished her first 5K, the Midsummer Night's Run. I had pushed ahead, trying to break my first 30 minute 5K. I missed it by 3 seconds. Coach had stayed back with Becky, walking along. Struggling, sweating, and gasping. We pounded fists and celebrated with water and bananas when she crossed the finish line on that muggy night. She would not be walking in Cincinnati on Sunday. But she will be with me. One way or another, I'm carrying my friend across the finish line.

We sat together for an hour or so. Becky drifting in and out of reality. She was firmly grounded when we talked about the Y or Mrs P's work (Becky was a social worker before she retired.) Other times, she confused by the TV. There was a cartoon on, and she kept seeing herself and her friends on the screen. Or maybe she was yanking our chains. It was hard to tell. Her sense of humor has no cancer in it. It remains strong and healthy.

After a while, her eyelid started to get heavy. I couldn't coax her out of the TV world with my stories and jokes. Marian offered her another piece of chocolate, but Becky was sure that it didn't belong to her. We reminded her that Marian had brought it for her. Our hands had not stopped touching the whole time I was there, and now I felt her squeeze just a little harder. Goodbye time was coming.

We kissed and told her we loved her. Promised to return soon. I told her I had a book I wanted to read to her. It's called Naked Came the Manatee and it's about a sea cow named Booger. She gave Marian one last eye roll. "Be still my heart," she said with perfect deadpan timing. We hugged one last time, and made our way to the hall.

Marian looked at me once, her eyes rimmed with red. She hadn't shed a tear in the room, but now she was fighting them back with all her might. She is a warrior, too. We walked to the door in silence, then talked about our next visit. We hugged, there in the sunlight. It was a beautiful Bluegrass spring day. I walked to the car and called Mrs P. Time to go home. I made plans to go back Friday to start the Manatee book. I think she'll like it. At least my droning on will help her to sleep.

Metastatic cancer is a son of a bitch. It kicks you down, and then it keeps kicking, spreading, staying one step ahead of the doctors and their poison. I was lucky. Mine got to my lymph nodes, but we killed it before the express train to brain and lungs and liver left the station. Becky is not so lucky. It is spreading and growing now in places where nobody can reach it. Brain cancer is so cruel because it doesn't just attack your body, it assaults your self. Cancer could never break Becky's spirit, so he's trying to just obliterate it.

He will fail.

With all she has suffered, all the pain and fear and confusion, Becky still loves life. She loves her friends. She loves the blue sky that shines through her window. She loves the taste of chocolate and the gooey feel of her sticky, brown fingers when it melts in her hand. She laughs. She teases. She loves.

She lives.

CLOSER THAN KIN

I don't know what's down the road for my friend. Nobody does. Chances are that her travelling is going to get a lot harder. But I know one thing. She won't be travelling alone.

The last time I really cried, I was in the arms of my friend Terri. We were members of the first LIVESTRONG at the YMCA group in Lexington. She is more than my friend. She is my sister. "It's going to be ok," she whispered. "We will always have each other." There are a lot of people who love us, but there is a place where only survivors can go. There is a bond that only we can feel. Once it is formed, nothing can break it. We will always have each other. We will never give up. And we will never fight alone.

Becky would do this for me. We are closer than kin. We are survivors, fighters, victors. She would be there for me or Marian, just as eagerly as we are there for her. It's not just about friendship. It's about family.

Cancer warriors don't leave their wounded behind.

Peace,
Pennsy

#382: Resolutions

Here's my line for yesterdays race:

New Year's Day Resolution Run 5 Mile Run/Walk

Coldstream Research Park

Lexington, KY

January 1, 2012, 1:00 p.m.

(~45 degrees, Cloudy Skies and VERY Windy) [Swackett said the wind chill was 31°. I believe it]

Overall	Name	Age Gp	Place	Time	Pace
251/354	Pennsy	M 50-54	7/8	53:55.6	10:47.1

HTML Tables

 Yesterday was a great start to the new year. I wanted to run arbout 12 miles yesterday, but Coach Melissa kept talking about this race that would be raising money for a young man named "RJ" who had Hodgkins Lymphoma, Stage 4A. That's one I couldn't say "no" to. 


I decided to make up the mileage in a LSR with a friend in the morning. 

50°. 6.08 mi/1:10:48 @ 9:00 AM. LSR, Legacy (b) from Coldstream. Adidas. 5:00 run/0:30 walk. Splits 12:04 11:40 11:44 11:40 11:29 11:14. Beautiful morning run.

The sun was shining and the air was a perfect 50°; a little too cold for standing around in shorts, but just right for running. We trotted down the Legacy Trail into the Bluegrass morning, along the fence rows and the cow barns and the horse farms. These runs always make me so grateful for the place I live and the chance to run in such beautiful scenes. We kept a nice, easy pace, and finished with breakfast of eggs and grits at the Cracker Barrel.


The race was scheduled to start at 1:00, so I made my way back to Coldstream and parked to wait. Tried to call Mrs P, but got voice mail. I called Mum to wish her Happy New Year, and we caught up on one another's news. As I sat in the Honda chatting with her, I noticed that the car seemed to be rocking. Outside, paper, branches, and other surprisingly large objects were moving horizontally past my windshield. The blue morning sky cooled to a steely glow. Winter had decided he had waited long enough to visit Kentucky. When I opened the car door, it felt as if the temperature had fallen 20°, though the thermometer swore it was only 5. I reluctantly pulled off my warm-up pants. Even more reluctantly, I took off my damp shirt, greased the nips, and pulled on three top layers for the race. I could always take one off if I got over heated, but to be honest, I did not anticipate that eventuality. Then I kicked myself for taking those gloves out of my bag in the morning when the back yard felt more like April 30 than January 1. It was a short jog up to the hotel where registration was going on.


The big, beautiful lobby was filled with people in running gear, some of it seasonally appropriate, some of it just plain crazy. My friend DJ was just wearing shorts and his "Run Kentucky" technical shirt. I didn't know whether to admire him, or to medicate him. A strangely familiar man greeted me warmly. "I'm sorry," I said, "But I don't remember..." "I'm John," he smiled. "I work with Dr. Kudramoti. You probably don't recognize me in my civilian clothes." John was the resident who raced me to the ER when they discovered I was about to die from a blood clot in my chest. Not the kind of guy you want to forget no matter what he's wearing, even without your glasses. We shook hands and smiled. I assured him I was doing great, and wished him a good run. 


Registration was in a large meeting room off the atrium. To the right was a loooong line of runners waiting for on site registration. (This not a strategy I recommend, by the way.) From the left, I heard another familiar voice greeting me. My friends Krissie and Nathan were volunteers, distributing bibs to those of us who had pre-registered online. Krissy told me she had decided to volunteer for more races than she ran this year. Nathan was wearing an orange safety vest, and said he would be at the last turn, pointing weary runners in the right direction. These are some very cool people. But soon, they would be much cooler. I decided that I would like to do some volunteer support one day, but that I would look for a chance to do it in May, not January. I don't imagine there was much demand for Gatorade yesterday.


I wandered the lobby for a while, listening to Indian folk music on my headphones and greeting runners I knew from John's Striders. It's surprising how many new people I've met this year. We run together on weekends, and keep up with each other online during the week. Yet another pack that has welcomed me in.


My LIVESTRONG cohort, LaDonna showed up and I went with her to the registration room. by now the line stretched around the walls, but by some miracle, an angel with a handful of bib numbers offered to sign her in as we were making our way to the end of the queue. LaDonna has earned a lot of karma points during her battle. I suggested she might want to pick up a lottery ticket on what was obviously a lucky day.

R.J. Hijalda

On my way to the start, I met a bald young man in the hall. He was surrounded by friends, and was wearing a bib. I heard someone introduce him, and stopped. "Hey, are you RJ?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. He had a friendly, open face. "I'm Bob. I had cancer last year. You're doing great. You can beat it. Keep fighting." He met a lot of people yesterday. I hope he remembers me. RJ has a lot of friends, and a lot of heart.

This is the part where I should tell you about the race. I'm not sure I remember many details. I remember feeling numb. I remember running into the wind, praying for the next turn that would change it into a tail wind. Early on, I looked down at my sport band and saw it blinking crazily. I pushed the buttons until it stopped, but I knew from the first quarter mile that something had gone screwy with it and I wouldn't be able to rely on it for time or distance today. I set it to monitor my pace, and chugged along,  Trying to sustain  11:00/mile. There are a couple of long climbs on this course. Mercifully, the wind blew from behind on them. I tried to glide on the downhills, letting gravity and an easy stride carry me along. I had a hard time finding anyone to keep pace with. I'm sort of half-fast, now. I'm either passing people, or watching real runners pull away. On the other hand, I don't get passed nearly as much as I used to. Around mile 3, I found a woman I could track, and we exchanged places several times. You sort of get a feel for when somebody likes running with you. She was kind of hard to read. Not everyone appreciates being passed by a Fat Man. At mile 4, she shifted gears, and pulled away on the last long climb of the course. I thought about trying to keep up, but knew if I tried to push my way up the hill, I would be out of gas before I got go the top. I let her go, but I was just a little grumpy about it. A couple of young men zoomed past me, playing hare to my tortoise. It wasn't long before they learned that Aesop was right. I confess, that felt good. I turned the corner at the top of the hill feeling surprisingly fresh. Up ahead, I could barely see my former traveling companion steaming along. I know this course well. With the exception of one last little rise, it was all downhill from here to the finish. I decided to see how close I could get to her before the finish.


Jeff Galloway talks about "dirty tricks," little mind games you can use to keep your head in a race. I fashioned an invisible rubber lasso and threw it around her waist. Then I tied my end around my head. As she ran, without realizing it, she was actually pulling me closer. On the last rise, my watch beeped: my last walk break. Instead, I eased back to a jog, gathering steam for the downhill to the finish. As my watch beeped again, I crested the hill. I looked down and saw my friends Krissie and Nathan, freezing their butts off, pointing runners toward a side trail. Through the bare branches, I saw the timers and the finishing chute. I dropped my imaginary lasso and turned on the treadmill I have been training on this week. The belt spun faster, but my legs moved easily, Krissie and Nathan cheered my name and I smiled as I passed them. Ahead I could see the finish line, and my nemesis, just ahead. She had no idea I was about to pounce. She turned into Wile E. Coyote, mystified at the "whoosh" of air and the cloud of dust that flashed past her, 15 yards from the finish. Far behind me, I could hear an Acme anvil falling. I didn't look back to see if it got her.

Resolution Run, 45° 5 mi/53.55 @ 1:00, Coldstream. Adidas, Intervals, 5:00 run/0:30 walk.

At the end of the chute, we smiled. She wasn't such a villain after all. "Were you keeping time?" she asked. I looked at my watch. "50:33," I read. We were both amazed and delighted. Runners like us can only dream of that kind of pace. It wasn't until I got home and downloaded my runs into Nike+ that I discovered my gizmo had failed to record the first 4/10ths of a mile. I kind of hope she never found out. She looked really happy about her new PR.


I went to the car, put on a coat and some pants, and walked back to Krissie and Nathan's corner, hoping to see some friends finish. It wasn't long before I saw LaDonna coming down the hill, running strong and smiling enough to beat the clouds and the wind. I joined her for the last hundred yards, but at the end, I pulled back and let her finish on her own. After she got through the chute, she came to me, glowing. "That's the first time I've ever run 5 miles," she said and we threw our arms around one another. I know what that feels like; to go somewhere you've never been before; to reach something you once feared you would never reach. It is the greatest feeling in the world. And it's an honor to be there when someone you love feels it. That's holy.

God, but I love to run.


Peace, y'all.

Pennsy

#353: My 50/50 Chance.

They gave me a 50/50 chance of seeing this birthday. Flip a coin. Heads, you live to be 51. That's the best the docs could promise me. But I had an ace in the hole.

Love.

Love made me want to live when I felt like dying.

Love knocked at the door, and helped me to laugh when I felt like crying.

Love made me Chicken and Cheddar Chowder, which is even more fun to eat than it is to say.

Love washed my belly when the stoma around my feeding tube leaked all sorts of creepy goo.

Love answered the prayers I didn't know how to pray.

Love picked me up out of the tub afterI  fainted there in the middle of the night.

Love gave me books on tape when I didn't have the strength to hold a printed copy up.

Love wept tears of grief when they told us I had cancer, and tears of joy when they told us it was gone.

Love insisted I get better so that I could act again, then waited for me until I was ready.

Love lifted me out of bed, taught me to walk, helped me to run.

Love found us a new home, when the bank said we had to leave the old one.

Love never left. Not even when I thought it was gone forever.

They gave me a 50/50 chance. Love rigged the game.

On this, my 51st birthday, I thank God for the love that saved my life. From Hell. From cancer. From depression. I don't know how many birthdays I have left. I hope there are many more. But no matter how long I have left on this earth, I am determined to never spend another second without the love that God has given me.

Take some for yourself. It's my birthday present to you.

Don't worry. I've got plenty.

Peace and Love,,
Pennsy

#327: Strangers in the House

This turned out to be a little more mopey than I intended. Feel free to pass it over and I'll write about my long run tomorrow.

Winter in Martha Park

Mrs P is writing a report and I am under strict instructions not to disturb her, so I'm just going to meditate with you for a while.

I've mentioned before that we are losing our house. In order to avoid foreclosure, we are pursuing what is called a "short sale" where you sell the house for whatever you can get, then the bank decides whether or not to forgive the rest of your loan. At least that's how I understand it. Mrs P initiated the process while I was still very sick, so I'm a little foggy on the details. What I know for sure is that strangers are spending a lot of time in my house.

 OK, look. We are lousy housekeepers. Always have been. Mrs P an I both come from families of pack-rats. We've even inherited a lot of their stuff to supplement the junk we have collected over the past 24 years. Are we hoarders? I don't think so, but I can't watch that show on TV. It hits just a little too close to home.

Molly teaching Jake where to pee
in the dining room

Point is, it's embarrassing to have friends wander through our house. Having strangers do it... it's agony. I drive the realtor crazy. She calls to say she has someone to come see the house, and I hem and haw and mumble. I finally just asked her to talk to Mrs P. It's less stressful for me for some reason.

Baby Jake (rug cleaner in the background)

We've had some lovely people come through. Young couples looking for a "starter home," whatever the heck that is. Professional house flippers looking to make a quick profit, (good luck, fellas.) Families looking for an inexpensive place to live.

Yeah. Inexpensive. In 1998, we paid $71,000 for our home. We're trying to sell it for $56K. Less than half the balance on the mortgage. The Great Recession can get a little depressing, sometimes.

Usually, when they come, I take the dogs and go out back on the porch until they leave. That way I can imagine them judging us without having to actually see them turning up their noses at all the retriever hair and cat litter. And books. And tools. And shoes. And... you get the point. Today, I had chores to do, laundry to wash, socks to sort. I was not inclined to go hide while the house shoppers prowled around wondering why there were running shorts and brassieres hanging from half of our doorknobs. So we got a chance to chat.

The garage has some
structural issues

"What's the neighborhood like?" Great. Great neighbors. Generous people. A mix of ages, races, national origins. A diverse neighborhood,  Kind of a rarity in our city. "What are the problems with the house?" Well, there's that big hole in the wall where I passed out while peeing in the middle of the night last summer. There's the siding that blew off in a windstorm. There's the garage that should have been demolished when we bought the house, and is now a clear and present danger to the cats, coons, and possums who have taken up residence in there. "Why are you selling?" That's my favorite. I always want to tell them that it's haunted. You know, by the guy who hanged himself in the basement. But I don't have the courage. So I give them the thumbnail version. Laid off, savings gone, cancer, can't pay the loan, bank won't help, blah, blah, blah. All I need is violin music. I was folding Mrs P's underwear during both of these visits, so the pathos was just that much thicker.

NO! Not the
Get Well  Troll!

I noticed that the salesmen didn't seem to appreciate my contribution all that much. They were all "You could add this," and "all it needs is a little what have you." What it needs is a family who loves it as much as we did. That's what it needs.

Buddy enjoying Christmas
dinner while the humans
ate in the living room

Fifteen years isn't all that long, not really. Neither is 24, in the great river of time. But for Mrs P and me, it's a lifetime. I always used to marvel when people had to pack up their houses after decades, only to move into a room in a retirement home. We aren't that bad off, but we are having to let go of a lot of memories. Some are silly, like old show tee-shirts. Some are very hard like the vanity Mrs P's mother refinished for her, or the journals I have kept for every role I've played since college. Even the old, unused litter boxes are reminders of the many cats we have loved and lost over the years. There is no reason to keep them, in fact, it's kind of gross, but seeing them stacked in the corner reminds us of them and putting them on the curb feels like throwing away memories.

Kizzie trying to set
her bed on fire

In college, I read a short story by Stanley Elkin called I Look Out for Ed Wolfe. It's about a collections agent who gets fired for bullying people. He loses himself. He decides to sell or pawn everything he owns in order to find out just what his life is worth. It turns out to be about $1400 dollars. The realization causes a kind of psychotic break or break down or something. I don't remember the details. It's been a long time. All I know is that he winds up in a bar in Harlem screaming racial epithets and throwing all that cash up in the air for the patrons to have.I got the impression that he was committing suicide.

The ramp our brother-in-law built
 for Molly when she couldn't
climb the steps anymore.

If Mrs P and I tried to sell or pawn all of our stuff, it wouldn't be worth much. The books are musty. The records are ancient. The clothes are worn. The furniture is scratched or chewed or broken. The strangers who come through these rooms must think we live in a dump.

Mum quilting in the bedroom

But this is our home. These are our memories. This is the place where we learned to be husband and wife instead of married room mates. Where Mum came when I was diagnosed and stayed till my treatments were over. This is where we taught dogs to poop outside and nursed sick animals and played Scrabble with friends and spit in death's eye. I want them to know all that, these strangers. There is love in this house. Love that will haunt it like a ghost, long after we are gone. At least, I hope so. Look past the dust and the animal hair and stacks of boxes, and that's what you will find. This dumpy little shack is a house of love. But I don't think the realtor wants me to tell them all that, either. They just want us to pack up and get out so their clients won't have to listen to my sad stories any more.

Just pack it all up and go. It sound easy. But it's not.

Peace,
Pennsy

#226: Keeping in Touch

Larry Neuzel is a legend in Lexington
theatre. His faithful lens has documented
nearly every performance in town for
decades and he captured this shot of
Ave and me before Merchant of Venice
rehearsal began.

The most wonderful thing has started happening. People are calling me with their good news. I took my usual after radiation nap this morning, and awoke to Jake breathing softly in my ear. Soon after, the phone rang. It was a dear friend calling to catch up and share some great news about a project she's working on. Not long after, another friend called to tell me about a job interview. Then I got an email from someone who got a job she's been looking for. Yet another call came in about some money that showed up so a pal could get the car fixed. Finally and old buddy called to update me on a high school theatre reunion that had lifted his spirits and helped to heal his soul.

It's great to get calls like these! I've always wanted to be the kind of person friends want to share good news with. Now people call me with good stories to help lift my spirits. What I'm realizing is that hearing good news is healing because of the joy I feel for my friends. They may think they're lifting my spirits, and they're right, but it is their joy that heals me.

I have always thought of myself as aloof, a strange man with a few close friends. Turns out I'm actually a strange man with a lot of friends. Some have taken my by surprise - people I would have never expected have become faithful in their contact and prayers for me. So grateful.

For other friends, it is harder. There are a lot of reasons why someone might have a hard time calling a friend with cancer. The disease has touched so many of our lives in so many ways. Parents lost. Lovers lost. Children. There are people who don't call whom I know love me, and it's OK. I understand. I wish I could call and say, "I know you're thinking of me and I remember when you lost your wife or your mom. I love you too. Just knowing how we feel is enough." I want to tell them that. But it's a little weird. Just want to let them know that we're OK and I want to get back in touch when all this is over. Maybe doing that will be the best way to say it.

Pride and Prejudice opens tonight in the park. I'm sorry that I won't get to see the second act, but I don't feel up to another late night just yet and my toothless cackling and hacking are not really crowd friendly. The show is going to be wonderful. Charming and graceful with magnificent costumes and career best performances from some actors I've known for a long time. I loved watching them work, so light and easy. It is a tribute to their director that even amid the discomfort of a rain delayed tech rehearsal, they were able to play with such joy. It was like watching a dance. If you are in Lexington this week, see it.

Peace,
pennsy

#225: Friends, Indeed

I've always thought of that old expression the other way. You know, "A friend in need is a friend indeed." I always understood it to mean that when someone needs something from you, they act like a true friend. I have a new way of looking at it. I'm realizing how many true friends I have now that I'm the one who needs something. My friend L came over to hang out today. We laughed. We played Scrabble. I slept. She made an origami box to entertain me. I'm sure she could have found a more pleasant way to spend her afternoon than listening to me wretch and watching me squirt milk shakes into my belly, but she spent it with me.

What led to L's visit was a change in a change in plans. A few days ago I posted on facebook that I needed a pennsy-sitter. Mrs P was planning on going out of town.Several wonderful friends volunteered and we were ready to coordinate the project. Over the weekend I had a couple of rough spells and Mrs P decided that she would stay home. Yesterday was a great day, and we agreed that I could handle her being away if we could get someone to stay with me for the day. I had already told everyone that I wouldn't be needing them, but one phone call to L and I had adult supervision for the whole day.

She showed up at 10:00, loaded down with laptop, Scrabble, even arts and crafts. She reminded me of the occupational therapy director at the nut house. We watched The Daily Show and Colbert Report, then played some games. By that time, I was pretty worn out, so I napped and she fussed around the house, dusting and washing up dishes and things. When I awoke, my meds were ready for me and my lunch was ready to squirt. In the afternoon, I slept some more while she read, then she offered to show me how to make a little paper box. It was silly and fun. Now, we're waiting for Mrs P to return home. L is typing emails and I'm chatting with you. It's been a nice day. A gift from a friend to a friend in need.

Yesterday, I called my friend D with some news. We are both following the progress of a theater that's being renovated here in town. I drive past on my way home from treatment. Yesterday I was excited to see a sign company crane hanging the new marquee, so I called D to tell her the news. She told me that she had been invited to see a dress rehearsal of the next play at SummerFest, Pride and Prejudice. She offered to go with me if I felt up to it. As I said, yesterday was a good one so we made plans. We had a wonderful time together, the play is charming and engaging, and Mrs P got a few more hours off from care giving.

Speaking of which... I just read the chapter in Lance Armstrong's book about how his relationship with his girlfriend ended once his chemo was over. I think I understand a little better now. Care giving is such a total task. The person with cancer is fighting something tangible, something inside them. The caregiver is fighting something more abstract. Something "out there." They are very different perspectives, but both demand great effort and focus. It is very easy for us to wear one another out. This is not uncommon among people who survive treatment together. It is not a path I want to imitate!

So giving my bride a respite from time to time is really important. I want her to be able to get away from this thing now and then. Maybe that means spending time with another friend or figuring out how to juggle all the mechanics of feeding myself. Maybe it means finding a friend indeed who's willing to spend a few hours watching me sleep. Whatever it means, I am so grateful to D and L for giving Mrs P the chance  to rest. And for all the laughter we've shared over the past two days.

I did learn something, though. Yes, I can feed myself quite sufficiently, thanks. I don't need Mrs P resting her hip against mine, watching as the plunger gently pushes nutrition into my stomach. I don't need her to wipe up the spilled drops or to pat my cheek when it's all finished. I don't need that. But I really miss it when it isn't there. All this time, I thought she was giving me dinner. Turns out that was the least of her gifts. I'm glad she got this rest, but I'm glad she's coming home, too.

Peace,
pennsy

#221: Little Dignities

When I get out of bed, I try to always put on my shoes. I'm not sure why. Partly it's that Jake is always leaving some sharp, chewed up piece of something or other lying around and I don't want to step on it. But I think it's also got something to do with keeping a little dignity. I don't want to be padding around the house like a sick person. Lacing up the Adidas makes me feel more like I've got somewhere to go, even if it is just to the bathroom and back.

Little dignities. That's something my vanity won't let me quite give up. Like tipping my ridiculous, huge sun hat to a lady. Like tucking my shirt in or tapping my walking cane on the sidewalk as I do my tenth of a mile hike around the block. Or keeping myself shaved. I want the world to know I'm still a man in here. Maybe I want to remind myself.

Beware the pink and blue
bunny people!

Then there are the other times, the silly times. Yesterday, Mrs P couldn't find her blue bandanna. Later when it turned up under my pillow, I didn't want to lose it, so I put it in the one place I knew I wouldn't forget it. This led to one of those arm's length self portrait sessions that I have come to treasure so much. Mrs P is a better photographer than I, even when she can't see what she's doing, so she usually does the snapping. In this case, she also stole a smooch. I was happy to give it up.

We're setting up a field trip for Mrs P this week. She and her sister are going to try to visit Big Brother 1, and we need Pennsy sitters. Generous friends have volunteered and we'll coordinate all that. I am so touched by the easy way people stepped forward to "take a shift." I can't tell you how it feels to be as loved as I am. I honestly had no idea...

After yesterday's blog about how weary I was, I went to bed for a while, as promised, but it wasn't very restful. I decided to try putting my feet in motion and wound up taking a walk in the end of yesterday's rain. It was a beautiful, humid bluegrass afternoon. The rain dripped from my big straw hat as my cane tapped the concrete and I made my way around two short blocks - far as I've walked for a while, I think. I had to stop and lean a couple of times, and I was pretty soaked by the time I finished, but it was a great feeling to be really tired, not just used up. As I made my way to our corner, the grill of the Honda was heading up the street. Mrs P was on her way home from taking Jake in for his nail trim. His behavior was exemplary, she says. Seeing them get out of the car gave me the strength to carry myself through the front door, and a real nap followed, not one of those restless flutterings between awake and asleep that can be so frustrating. It felt like a nap I had actually earned.

Found some old photos of Jake today. He really is an insanely beautiful dog. Also an idiot, but that just helps him to fit in. There is a special quality to Golden Retriever's coat in the autumn that just makes them look like a huntin' dog. Jake might be trainable, he is very smart and has a soft mouth, but neither Mrs P nor I have the knowledge or the inclination to take him out in the woods to shoot birds. Guess he'll just have to settle for being pretty. Just like his papa...

Peace,

pennsy

#218: "I Prayed for You This Morning."

That's how he greeted me, the tall, handsome preacher with whom we share our early morning radiation appointment. He and I were both awake early this morning. Difference was, I was thinking of myself. He was thinking of me. Mrs P and I have come to know several folks in the morning.

There's the couple who are only two days away from their last treatment. He goes back, she smiles and chats about their farm and how long they've been married and how much she loves him.

There's the fellow who comes by himself. He has an ugly looking open sore place on the back of his head. It looks painful, but he is always laughing and joking.

Then there's the lovely lady whose oral cancer was so bad that they had to remove most of her gums. She had her chemo changed yesterday because the side affects were hurting her so much.She felt much better today, and I was relieved to hear it. She always follows right after me to the treatment room, and one morning she gave me a high five on her way past. It was the highlight of my day.

I don't know most of these people's names - the man with one ear, the man whose jaw is missing, the lady who sits quietly waiting for her momma every day.  We don't know one another's names, but we know our stories.

Those stories are what binds us. Always, always it is our stories that bind us.

And this morning, he prayed for me. That is his story. His pain leads him to the sufferings of those he loves, though he barely knows them. Today, I'm praying for him, the handsome preacher and his beautiful wife. We share a diagnosis and are on very similar treatment plans. He and I began and will finish at nearly the same time. Our side effects seem to run parallel, and our good and bad days even coincide sometimes.God bless him. We are walking a dark road, but we are walking together.

That's our story.

Peace,

pennsy

#180: Mileposts Passed

Today was "R5" on Mum's calender. That's day 5 of 33 radiation treatments. She is the keeper of the official date book. Actually, I think we all have one. It's funny how one measures out the time. My day usually starts around dawn with some quiet staring into space, then an alarm at 7:00. Wash, rinse my mouth, pills, flush the PEG, change the dressing. It's a team effort. After a quick trip across town courtesy of Mom or Mrs P I'm on the radiation table by 8:30 and out the door by 9:00. Then I sit down to chat with you for a while.

Of course meals are mileposts, too. Slowly sipping some herbal tea or a protein shake. A nice crumbly muffin. A smoothie made of fresh bananas and frozen berries. Yesterday, I dreamed about cutting a slice of Ray's Original Pizza into tiny little pieces and savoring each sliver.That may have to wait for the store-bought choppers, though.

And friends, my touchstones. I spent hours on the phone yesterday. You can't imagine how I treasure each second. We talk about plays they are working on. Books they are reading. Sick relatives. Gossip and jokes. My friends give me a reason to laugh every day. They are my treasures.

Late in the afternoon, my energy wanes. The tum becomes a little unstable. The thinking clouds. There isn't much evening activity for me these days, though I desperately want to be well enough to see some of the wonderful theatre being prepared for the summer. Maybe if I time the steroids out just right...

Tomorrow, I get to sleep in. No radiation on the weekends. It seems funny to get such intense treatment on a work-week schedule. The techs told me today that each shot from the linear accelerator (that's the machine's real name) represents about 6 million volts of X-ray radiation. My morning treatment is comparable to getting 100 chest X-rays every day. I'm not sure which is more miraculous, the fact that they can do it, or the fact that I can stand it.

Summer is only 10 days away, but feels like it will be here any minute. This morning the air was just plain sultry. There aren't many days that I happily surrender to the Air Conditioner gods, but today, my heart belongs to them. At least until the afternoon rain gives us some relief.

I hope your time is passing peacefully today. May we all have many miles to travel.

#176: The First Day of Chemo

This post is much longer than I expected. Sorry, it was a pretty eventful day. I'll talk chemo today and radiation tomorrow - Pennsy

Last night was a late one. There was a blog to post, my news reader to catch up on, a couple days worth of Facebook status updates to read. Yeah, I was stalling. Finally got to bed about 1:00. Mum was still awake, reading. I don't think either of us wanted to face the dreams that our evening was likely  to hold. We were both awake again at about 3:30. Mrs. P's alarm went off at 6:00. I got up and made a vanilla protein shake. That's what goes in the spot where I put three Marlboros and half a pot of coffee back in the old days.

Then it was time to flush my PEG tube. This involves taking a large syringe and running clean water through the tube four or five times a day just to keep it clear. We also change the dressing around it then. Because the stoma is still pretty new, it leaks a little. Usually nothing newsworthy. Except this morning on the gauze we found something that looked suspiciously like the spinach and mushroom dish I enjoyed at our favorite Indian restaurant yesterday.

We were faced with two equally fearful prospects. First, there was a possibility that stomach contents were leaking. This is very bad mojo. The juice in your stomach is designed to break down organic tissue. Having it sloshing around inside your abdomen is a terrible plan. Second, it was certain that I was going to have to admit that I spent my last day before chemo - a therapy almost assured to cause nausea - gumming on enough curry and tandoori to bust a gut. Mrs P, ever the student of those forensic procedural shows, bagged and tagged the evidence so we could take it with us to the cancer center.

There is such comfort in falling into a routine someone else knows well. After a short wait, we moved from sign-in to triage, from triage to the treatment room. "Dee", the nurse from my medical oncologist's office was summoned to examine the verdant discharge on my bandages. After a thorough examination of the tube site, the team agreed that the green stuff was gross, a little hilarious, and harmless. The Chemo could proceed.

"Rodger", the chemo nurse explained the procedure to me. He would give me two litres of fluid, then a bag of medicine, then two more litres of fluid. The "medicine" is very dangerous to the kidneys, so they do all they can to keep them flushed clean. I should feel free to get up and use the bathroom at the first urge. We would be working my radiation treatment into the schedule sometime during one of the two hydration periods.

Two children in white lab coats were my next visitors. I was shocked the first time I saw a police officer on a subway car who was clearly much younger than I. I have started to feel the same way about a lot of the wonderful young people who are working to save me. They are  brilliant and competent, but they are also so fresh-faced that they make me want to ask for ID before I show them my scar.

He was my pharmacist. She was his student and not his prom date, as I had assumed. He told me about the specific medicines i was going to be using. My kidneys could fail. My hearing could be damaged. My esophagus might swell shut. My bowels could stop moving. Gotta love this kid. While Mum and Mrs P took careful notes, (God bless them,) he went over each of the pills I'd be taking home. Steroids, anti-nausea potions, more anti-nausea potions, even more anti-nausea potions. "Don't lose these," he cautioned after showing us one particularly potent pellet, "they cost about two thousand dollars a piece." So that's where the nausea comes from.

The girls worked crossword puzzles and did needlework while I listened to my iPod and gazed out the window of our little cubicle. Time dripped through the pump that fed the juice into my left wrist. I had to move my LiveStrong bracelet to my right arm. In the process, it got turned around so the lettering faced away from me. I reversed it again so I could read it. The words are for me, not to impress other people.

When it was time, after about two hours, Rodger and another nurse came in with a large IV bag in a dark amber shroud, almost the color of a beer bottle. I should be so lucky. They were wearing blue haz-mat robes and gloves to protect their skin from the stuff that would soon be pumping into my veins. Like missile officers reviewing launch codes they triple-checked my identity.

"What is your name and birthdate?"
"My records show him as ... born on..."
"His wrist band shows him as so and so, birthdate thus and such, patient number..."
"I have him as patient number..."
"The bag contains..."
"My records show that the bag should contain..."
Check, check, and check.

There were a lot of light-hearted moments in the room. This was not one of them. this was some nasty stuff. How nasty is it? My pee is toxic. I had to use a special bathroom on the ward. The staff could not be exposed to the chemicals they were giving me or they might experience all the wicked side effects they'd been telling me about for two months. I have to "double-flush" to make sure none of the stuff they are putting on me winds up in the bowl at home when someone else uses it. Disinfect seat and handle. Nasty stuff.

As the chemo was finishing, a dear friend who is on the staff came down to visit with us for a while. She offered to walk us over to the radiation therapy building once I was back on fluids again. Rodger set me up, and we trundled my little IV pole across the courtyard. It was a beautiful Bluegrass afternoon. We laughed and joked and drank in the air and the energy of the young people enjoying their lunches at picnic tables. We probably walked 150 yards. It felt like a mile.

After radiation, which I mostly slept through, we made our way back to the ward. It wasn't long before I was finished and feeling worn out. We arrived at 8:00 in the morning and left around 3:00. That's all the typing I can stand today. Sorry I can't craft a more artful ending. We'll talk about radiation tomorrow.

Peace,
pennsy