PRS Guitars, the Cure for Cancer...

For anyone that doesn't know, right before I had gotten diagnosed with cancer, I had saved up to buy a new PRS guitar.  I had sold various things and was finally ready to make my new purchase.  When getting ready to go to the store, I saw two separate ads for people selling used PRS guitars and another brand I was wanting to try as well.  I realized if I bought used instead of new, I could get TWO guitars instead of one.  And we all know, two is twice as good as one.  I bought a PRS and the other brand.  Later when one of the other sellers finally got around to contacting me back and offered to sell me the other PRS.  I was enjoying the one I had, and still had a little bit of money saved, so I bought it as well.

As luck would have it, my surgery limited the amount of weight I could lift.  Those PRS guitars I bought were just under the weight limit and were how I passed much of the time recovering from surgery and chemo.  I decided to sell some more stuff I wasn't using on ebay (like parachute pants and a disco ball) and get a nice PRS guitar after I got well.  I didn't get the chance.  For the first Christmas after Chemo, my whole family got together and bought me one.  It was a gift I never expected to get and one of the first pics of my son were taken with him holding it.  A few days after Christmas, I walked into the music store with what little money I had been saving for a nice PRS (not nearly enough) and there sat the guitar that I had originally been saving up for in the first place, marked down drastically because it literally fell off of the back of a truck and chipped some paint.  Although, not nearly as nice as the one my family had just gotten me, I had just enough cash to cover it, and decided to make the PRS story come around full circle by buying the one that made me start the journey in the first place.

Two years ago, I had the opportunity to meet Paul Reed Smith and had gone over in my mind everything I was going to say and thank him for what was basically a coincidence, but it meant a lot to me.  All I managed to get out when I met him was my first name and I got too emotional to carry on any further.

Now I would say this is all review to my regular blog readers, but I can't imagine that anyone would actually come back to my page twice, it's really not that good, so that is what you have missed in the past.

As I said on my last post, I was expecting to be done with oncology visits and therefore done with cancer in May.  The nurses this past November told me it was customary to schedule something big to celebrate breaking free of the cancer stigma.  Paul Reed Smith was opening up the doors to the factory in June, just a few weeks after I was to be released, so that is the trip I planned for.  That is the trip that would bring everything full circle.  I started my cancer journey with PRS guitars, I would end it with a tour of the factory...except that didn't happen.  I didn't get released.  I got sentenced to an unknown number of years of continued monitoring.

I rolled into Maryland and on the PRS campus with a bittersweet feeling.  This was supposed to be a celebration of being free, instead it was a reminder that I am still going to oncology visits.  I am still a cancer patient.  I am still living under that threat that I am not free and clear.  

Now here is the thing.  Paul Reed Smith is an actual guy, not just some made up brand.  He's just a guy that likes playing guitars and tried to make a great guitar at good price.  He doesn't know any of this is going on.  And all I really wanted to do was say "thank you".  My wife came with me to a private event that was essentially for the PRS "fan club".  Paul was being very cordial and walking around to everyone talking to them, signing autographs, answering questions.  He was working the room and making his way over to us.  My wife was wanting him to come over, but I knew I wasn't ready.  It wasn't the man that was making me emotional, it was the whole process, the whole history.  I have had those PRS guitars for only about two weeks longer than I have been dealing with cancer.  The two are linked in my mind for eternity.  I can't separate the two.  One helped me survive the other.  I feel silly because it's just a hunk of wood and a little bit of metal, but that's where I spent my time and worked through my problems.  

As Paul got closer, I knew I couldn't say thanks this time either.  When you have had cancer, there are just certain things that trigger you memories and take you back to that time.  It could be a food, a phone call, a doctor's office whatever.  For me the flashbacks sometimes take me back to PRS guitars and or back to the urologist office when a guy I have just met asks me to drop my pants and starts playing with my ball.  Luckily that only happens in doctors' offices (or what I was led to believe was a doctor's office.  Fool me once...)  So as Paul got closer, and as my wife got more excited to tell him what I hadn't been able to, I just had everything flood back into my memory.  The cancer, the chemo, the celebration that didn't happen, and the seemingly endless years of monitoring.  I couldn't take it.  I walked out.  No explanation, I just walked around to the side of the factory where no one could see me.  I squatted in the grass.  I walked by the pond.  I messaged a good friend.  I did everything to try to distract me from what I was feeling.  It didn't work as well as I wanted.
I had decided I just needed to go through the factory alone.  My wife decided to get something signed by Paul for our son, since ultimately the PRS guitars will be his one day.  Cell service was non-existent in the factory and as soon as I emerged, my wife called me and asked where I was.  She had gotten the autograph for my son and told Paul that I wanted to say thanks.  Paul had recently had cancer affect people in his life and told her he knew exactly what I was going through and started searching for me.  She said she would bring me back to him.
She found me, and took me in the tent.  Paul had a line of people seeking autographs and I didn't want to interrupt.  All of a sudden, he looks up and sees my wife, whispers something to his assistant, and made a beeline for us.  I tried to keep it together.  All I needed to say was thanks, I knew I could do that much.  That is when he put his arm around me, told me what the people in his life had been through, and I broke down as he shared his pain.  I did manage to say thanks, but that was about it.  But that is what I needed to do.  I may have shown up for the wrong reason, but I still accomplished the original mission.  A week later, I watched Paul put on a presentation at another show.  I no longer had to say thanks.  I didn't go up to meet him with everyone else.  He knows my pain, I know his, and I finally got to say thanks.  Now I just need to learn how to play guitar halfway decent before the oncologist kicks me loose and everything will be complete.

Old Feelings Die Hard

Four years ago this week, I first noticed my lump.  My wife had went on vacation with her mother and I stayed home alone to take care of work projects and watch the dogs.  The past three years, I never really paid any attention to this date.  After all, it's the date I just noticed something.  It wasn't the date I was diagnosed.  It wasn't the date I had my surgery or went through chemo or anything.  But that is the weird thing about cancer, it seems you are never really completely free.
This year we had planned to take my two year old to my parents to watch fireworks for the 4th of July.  From their house, they can see most of the fireworks.  And we thought if we take him there, and he doesn't like the loud noises, or the bright lights, or he just starts being...well, a two year old, we could just take him in the house and not have to deal with traffic or crowds or that one guy that has to describe every firework loudly.  After we had made these plans, my job made other plans, and my wife offered to take my son without me.  It was a plan that was seemingly perfect, my son could experience the fireworks for the first time and I could keep skittish dogs company in the country.
That is when it hit me last night.  I have been passing my scans without any problem, and my scanxiety has dropped to almost nothing.  I only have to go to the oncologist twice a year now  Even my dermatologist told me that she could tell I was really making a good effort to avoid skin cancer.  So I haven't been thinking about cancer much at all.  But last night was different.  I was back to that place four years ago, just me and the dogs.  The weird thing is, I didn't feel a lump, but I did have that feeling, a feeling I can't explain.
Most of us when we are diagnosed, aside from the shock of the "C" word, you get this "icky" feeling that something is growing inside of you that wants to kill you.  The surgery can't come quick enough, you just want that stuff out today.  That is the feeling I had last night.  The feeling that I was all alone again.  The feeling that something icky was going on.  What made last night even freakier, was without thinking, I picked up that PRS guitar I bought four years ago today to play with while they were gone.  It's not one I normally play, but it's what I grabbed last night.  The only one that was light enough for me to play after my surgery.  The one that got me through cancer.  Just as my mind flashbacked to the bad time four years ago, I also subconsciously reached for the one thing that helped me get through it too.
As I approach what I consider my fourth cancerversary, I have been thinking about when I am done.  Is it five years?  Is it ten?  Is it when you quit going to the oncologist...I hope it's not that one, because I think he has been saying "just a few more years" since my second visit.  As far as my health is concerned, I think I am done.  I have been getting clean scans.  I have finally been dropping the weight I gained while I was sick.   And for the most part, I feel better than before any of this happened.  But I guess it's harder to gauge the feeling that we are done mentally being affected by cancer.  Because last night, I sat alone and scared and realized I wasn't as done as I thought I was.  Or maybe I am, because I grabbed that PRS, just like I did after my surgery, and played until I didn't have cancer anymore.

Cancer Flashbacks With Paul Reed Smith

I am well aware that it has been a while since I last posted on here.  I do have a reason.  Trying to type with a toddler in the house means most of your writing looks like this "aklsjoun   saiolkjdfslak  klafjl;a".  And even if he were not "helping" me on the keyboard, it is hard to concentrate on writing when you have a two foot tall individual that moves just shy of the speed of light, that you are yelling things at like "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "no, the remote control doesn't belong in the toilet", "we can't blow bubbles outside right now, it's 14' outside, and dark", "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "where did you find that, get it out of your mouth", "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "no, the table lamp is not a toy", and "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes".  (In case you were wondering, learning the parts of the face was a very challenging time for our dogs' vision.  Maybe we will have to find them a "seeing eye person".)

So, because of the delay, I am writing about an incident that happened in June.  I think we have all been in a situation where a sound, or picture, or smell has brought you back to something in your past.  For instance, every time I smell VapoRub, I think back to that time as a little child that my great grandmother rubbed it into an open wound.  It still brings tears to my eyes.  Well, for the most part I feel I am over this cancer stuff.  Sure, I still have a few more years of CTscans, X-rays, blood tests, and all of the other monitoring.  I am not exactly sure how many years, because asking an oncologist how much longer you need to see him, is similar to asking your parents on a road trip "are we there yet?".  I think the answer has always been "4 or 5 more years" (for the oncologist visits, not the road trip...it just seemed like it took 4 or 5 years sometimes).  Other than the endless doctors' appointments, I really don't have much to do with cancer.  Oh there is still the solemn tone from friends you don't see very often asking "How are you doing?"  But for the most part, I am living my life.

I love playing guitar.  I play like I play golf, I don't play particularly well, but I don't take it too seriously and I enjoy doing it.  When I had my surgery, I was restricted in what I could lift.  Luckily, just before I was diagnosed, I had found some cheap used Paul Reed Smith guitars.  They were the lightest guitars I owned, and were pretty much the only ones I could lift and play for a long time.  They were the one thing that was able to get my mind off how bad things were for an hour or so at a time.  When I finished my chemo, my family all pitched in and bought me a nice Paul Reed Smith for Christmas.  The guitar means a lot to me for so many reasons.  First I just like the guitar!  But it symbolized closing the door on cancer.  It meant a lot for my family to pitch in and get me something like that.  And it was something I spent a lot of time with during my "chemo brain" months.  So, a coincidental introduction to PRS guitars, ending up having a pretty significant impact on that period of my life.

Which brings me to what happened in June.  Every year, Sweetwater Music has what basically amounts to "musician porn" at their campus in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  Literally hundreds of manufacturers are there showing off all their new toys, letting you play with them, and they bring in dozens of endorsed artists (some more famous than others) to trick you into thinking that if you just had that equipment, you could make all those amazing sounds too!  Well, Paul Reed Smith was on hand.  Not just the company, Paul Reed Smith the actual person.  In my past, I worked for a record company, regularly hanging out backstage and on tour buses of multi-platinum and even diamond selling artists (diamond is ten million copies).  I was never nervous or star struck hanging out with rock stars, but being the geek I am, I was excited to see a guy that designs guitars.  

One good thing is, I was right at home with my fellow geeks, because there was a full auditorium of us waiting to see him (although, I was one of the few that showed up an hour early to stand in line, and made it to the front row).  I watched his presentation in awe when he talked about all the technical things that make his company's guitars sound so good.  I had heard he was good about doing "meet and greets" with his fans, and throughout waiting in line, and his presentation, and...waiting in line again to meet him, I ran through my head exactly what I was going to say.  I was going to tell him, how his products got me through some dark times.  Thank him profusely.  And maybe talk to him about the technical nuances of a quality guitar (not that I know what I am talking about, but I can fake it).  

The problem with be one of the first ones in the auditorium for the presentation, is that means you are going to be one of the last ones out to stand in line for the meet and greet.  The whole time in line, I ran over my little monologue in my head.  Over and over again, as the line grew smaller and I moved closer and closer to this guy who really has no idea that his guitar helped me with my cancer fight (although his company does regular donate to cancer charities).  Then the big moment, I am standing before THE Paul Reed Smith...and I feel like I am at the oncologist's office for the first time, all the emotion came flooding back from that day.  I felt the fear, felt overwhelmed, I felt like I was going to burst into tears...but I WAS NOT going to do that...no matter what!

So, I stood before Paul Reed Smith, handed him part of my guitar to sign.  And was afraid if I said anything I would have an emotional outburst.  So, in an effort to hold back this flood of emotions, I stood there looking like I was probably about to punch him.  He asked me if I would like the autograph personalized and my big speech that I had practiced over and over again, was now reduced to one word, "Tom".  Yes, all that I had planned on saying, all that I wanted to thank him for was boiled down to me barely uttering my own name through clenched teeth.  He politely signed my piece for me and I briskly walked out of there, trying not to break into an all out sprint as I headed to my car, hoping if I went fast enough I could outrun this emotional avalanche.  But I was also hoping if I couldn't keep it together, I would be far enough away that no one would see me.

Now, let me just say one thing in my defense.  The surgery I had to help prevent a different kind of cancer, has caused me to be a hypoglycemic.  And sometimes when people have low blood sugar, they tend to get more intense emotions.  And, because I am a big geek, I got so busy looking at musician porn, and standing in line an hour early, and sitting through a presentation, and standing in line again, that I went about 14 hours without eating (not a smart thing for a hypoglycemic to do).  So I will blame part of this incident on that, so as not to appear to be such a wuss.

So, I didn't get to thank Paul Reed Smith.  And to be honest, I don't know what he would have thought about it if I did.  It's not like he found the lump, or performed the surgery, or administered the chemo, but he was still important to my recovery, even if that isn't why he got in the guitar business.  But this incident says a lot about us cancer survivors.  You never know what is going to help us get through a hard time.  It could be a book, a phone call, visits from a friend, or a cheap used guitar.  And it is hard to feel "done" with cancer when you are still going to doctors' appointments every few months.  They tell you it's over with, but in the very next breath, tell you to come back in November.  And just like any other major event in your life, you never know what trigger will bring you back a memory or a feeling, that you may or may not want to experience again.  At least, I got to meet him.  I got something signed to me personally.  And I got something to eat so something like that didn't happen again.

Is There A Jaco Or A Gretsch In My Future?

As a survivor of testicular cancer, there is a reality I must consider.  My junk isn't shooting out the same quality and quantity that it has in the past.  Before you leave this page, I will start off by saying this entry does not focus on my junk or its production value.  But it is for this reason that my oncologist suggested we see a fertility specialist.  He made that comment for two reasons.  One, I already mentioned and two, he said that we "need some good news in our lives".  

So, we have spent the past two weeks at many doctors' appointments, all of them resulting in the good doctor getting to know my wife in very intimate ways.  Each violation is followed by me comparing each examination or test to one of my gastro-intestinal procedures and proclaiming that my tests are much worse (something I will continue to maintain as long as I am male...or at least half male).  The ironic part of all of this, is my wife experiences all these doctors' appointments just to be told, that I am probably the issue here.  That was kind of a no brainer that the guy with one nut and fresh off chemo wasn't shooting the best quality.  But, we have a great doctor and she is confident that we will get pregnant no matter what the cost.  We on the other hand are confident that we will get pregnant for under five figures, after that...well, we don't know.  I have already asked the billing person at the doctor's office to give us the bills so we can show our little bundle of joy why they are not getting a new car when they turn sixteen and why they will be going to a state university...provided that state university is not a Big Ten university in this state.  

The latest foray into the world of fertility involved various medications and injections all experienced by someone that is not me.  Something again that I find ironic since I am the problem.  It even involved me giving my wife a shot, which for some sadistic reason that I cannot explain, I enjoyed way too much.  I will give my wife credit though.  If this latest bag of medical tricks worked, that would put our due date right around...Jaco Pastorius' birthday.  When my wife pointed that out to me, I reminded her that whatever day our child was born would be Jaco's birthday, because that will be our first born's name.  For our kid's sake, I hope it won't be a girl, because Jaco will be an awkward name for a girl.  

The doctor explained that the stuff we are doing right now should work, but should the chemo not release its hold on my remaining junk, we would have to switch to a much more expensive option.  That led to a conversation in the car.   The last resort option the doctor mentioned is a very expensive option, very very expensive.  My wife asked what we planned to do if it came down to that as our last option.  I said I planned to buy a Brian Setzer Gretsch and order a custom made Paul Reed Smith.  

Once, when asked why we didn't have kids yet, my wife made the comment that we were too busy buying ourselves toys to buy toys for a kid.  And she was basically correct.  I have already accepted that fact that whenever we do get pregnant, my toy buying days for myself will be over for at least twenty years or so.  If it comes down to shelling out a possible five figures for the down payment on a kid...then the twenty years worth of raising them...I may just stick to buying myself toys.  I now understand why when going to carshows with my buddy, who has three grown children, he points to cars and says "that was my first born" and "that was my second born".  I guess he didn't go the same route we did, but what I don't understand is why he points out much more than three cars...good Lord do they really cost that much?

The first time I saw a Setzer Gretsch it was like I was looking through one of those fuzzy filter thingys the movies use.  When I saw the price tag, things got even fuzzier.  So it has always been a dream instrument of mine.  And I received my dream Paul Reed Smith from my family for Christmas this year.  A guitar I am absolutely in love with (it's hard to imagine loving anything that much, even a kid).  Guitars can have different tones with different shapes, different thicknesses, different electronics, etc.  The PRS I was given is a model that is unique to the rest of the PRS line.  Eventually I would like to own another nice PRS, but the features I love about my PRS, are not available on any other model, which means I would have to have one special made if I do decide to get another one.  And since Paul Reed Smith guitars are ridiculously expensive to begin with, I can only imagine the cost of a custom made one, but yet somehow I think it is still less than the cost of our last ditch procedure should we come to that decision.  

However, I don't think it will come down to that decision.  Hopefully what we have done already will work, and even if we didn't, we still try that for a year or so, and by then hopefully I will be over the toxic shock from the chemotherapy.  I place it all in God's hands.  If He wants me to have a kid, I guess He will give us a child.  If He wants me to have two guitars, well...I guess the issue I haven't addressed is that if we don't have the big money for the last ditch procedure, then we probably don't have money for expensive guitars either.  Maybe I could just win the lottery, then I could afford both...but still not a private school for the kid.

Scanxiety, The New Caffeine

I really didn't think this week's test would bother me as much as it appears to be.  The cancer insomnia is back in full swing, as bad or worse than it was when I first got diagnosed.  I can operate on just of few hours of sleep and not seem to be tired at all.

My wife has been picking up on it, but hasn't found a way to make me sleepy, outside of poisoning me, and I catch her before she is able to slip stuff in my meals like "vegetables".  She sometimes convinces me to lay down when she does, but I lay there for an hour or two, then get back up again.  Once up, I stay up for another two or three hours until I decide I had better lay back down before she gets up for work, or she will beat me (it's happened before).

The worst part of all of this, is just like last time, there is very little productivity in all of these extra waking hours. I wish I could exercise, but that late at night all of the wheezing, moaning, huffing, puffing, crying, and whimpering would wake up the rest of the house, and that is just from putting on my exercise shorts (because I have found you can't work out in a camouflage snuggie, it keeps getting tangled on the uneven bars).  I don't really do anything creative, either.  If I were to play my American made, twenty four fret, double cutaway, Paul Reed Smith in the dead of night, it would also wake up the rest of the house (although every note that comes out of it is pretty much a sweet lullaby in my hands...).  I haven't done anything like written a great novel about giraffes ruling the Earth and starting their own Puritan society until some giraffes with poor morals start wearing turtleneck sweaters and that risqué clothing starts eroding their moral fiber and the giraffes start fighting so much within their own group they don't notice that the impalas are starting their own society which is a lot better because all impalas are cool (provided they were made before 1996).  I have spent some of the time late at night in the insomnia hours looking for jobs, but the jobs you find yourself looking for at 3am aren't the same jobs you would apply for at 10am.  Apparently the later in the night it gets, the better your perceived abilities are.

When I finally do get to bed and it is really late (or early) that is when my mind starts running rampant.  I am usually still not tired physically, but my mind is completely fatigued and not working correctly.  I lie there, still wide awake, and in the still of the night I hear every little sound outside.  I can hear that damn raccoon farting in my workshop, and I just know he is doing it on Michelle the Impala.  Then I lie there thinking of elaborate ways to assassinate flatulent raccoons, but I know the squirrels will never cooperate with the plan and I just plain don't trust the 'possums.  The longer I lie there, the more my mind conjures up weird thoughts that scare me awake, like images of little trolls doing backflips on trampolines with cutlasses in their mouths, kinda like lederhosen wearing, green Shawn Johnson's, but not near as cute.  And I don't know whether I should tackle them and steal their swords, or jump on the trampoline with them and pinch their little cheeks (because that is what I would do if I were jumping on a trampoline with a green Shawn Johnson, is that weird?  Hmmm, I guess it is.  Forget I said any of that last bit.  Unless your Shawn, you're into that sort of thing, and have a place for me to stay after my wife kicks me out and beats me...not necessarily in that order.  I'll bring the lederhosen.)

I tried listing some of the crap that I am trying to unload on ebay while I was up that late, but nowadays everyone always waits until the last minute of an auction to bid, and what I found out, is people are not on ebay at 3am, they are either asleep, coming downstairs to ask me why I'm not in bed, or looking at porn.  Maybe if I could sell porn on ebay I would have the perfect combo, but first I would have to get some porn to sell.  I doubt I could make any myself, because I don't think there is a market for "husky" guys with one nut.  If there is, how much does that sort of porn pay, and will there be trolls or a trampoline involved?  (I'll provide the lederhosen.)

I am definitely counting down the days until I do this latest test and I get my results.  Hopefully I will find my normal sleep patterns again.  If I can't get my normal sleep patterns back, I hope I at least find something productive to do with my time.  Maybe I could rearrange the basement while no one is awake to get in the way.  You know, if I move the couch over there, and the TV there, and the computer desk there, I should have just enough room for a trampoline and I tripod,hmmm....I gotta run, I think I just found a way to make money and occupy my time.

NAKED CHURCH! Now That I Have Your Attention, Read About What It Is...

Recently I was invited by my parents' pastor to be part of his internet radio show, the Naked Church's Naked Talk.  Before you get your hopes up, it is strictly a voice interview, not webcam and the name is definitely misleading (something I embarrassingly found out after the fact).

Throughout my ordeal I have tried to look at the positive side of things, because frankly, I don't have a choice.  Sitting around stewing about things doesn't help anyone, so why not be positive?  And I think I have a lot to be positive about.  I found my cancer early, and even though I ignored it for a month, it still didn't spread.  I was Stage I and had the "best kind of cancer".  I had doctor's that moved swiftly and quickly treated me before things had a chance to get any worse.  I only lost approximately half of the balls I started with, and just found out what is left still works (in theory, still trying to make it work in practice by having a mini-me running around).  Even the one hiccup with the bad oncologist resulted in me finding a great oncologist that helped to unite all of my doctors into a team.  I only had to do one round of chemo and I made it through that fairly unscathed.  All in all, I think I am pretty lucky.

We have all heard that there are no atheists in a foxhole, and I wish I could say the same for cancer patients.  many of us do depend a lot on faith in God and man (now Bowie's Modern Love in running through my head).  On one hand, you have to have total faith in your oncologist, because your life literally is in his/her hands.  So in that sense, you are putting your faith in man to cure you.  Many of us also spend a lot of time on the horn to God asking that he guide that man to help us through what we are going through, as well as help us as we fight to survive the cure (which can sometimes be a harder fight that the sickness, but at least you have a fighting chance of surviving the cure).

The people I don't understand are the ones that curse God for their cancer.  As I said in my unfortunately clothed radio interview on the unfortunately clothed Naked Church, for those that say "Why me?", you can also say "Why not me?"  In this world, we can't all walk around with everyone having the perfect life.  Some of us are going to lose jobs, some of us are going to get cancer, and some of us are going to be given American made Paul Reed Smith guitars with twenty-four frets and double cutaways for Christmas.  I had all three of those things happen to me last year, and I think I made it through OK.

For the atheists, they don't have anyone to curse, and they also have no one to put their faith in other than man.  Personally, if I were an atheist with cancer, I think I would hedge my bets and find some faith quickly.  After all, if there isn't a God, you won't be any worse off than you were already, right?  It's the people that curse God for giving them cancer that really confuse me.  If you think God gave you cancer and you are cursing Him, what sense does that make?  If you believe He is the type to do something like give you a disease, won't cursing Him just make things worse?

One of the ladies in my group said a friend of hers said, "NOTHING is a surprise to God."  And I don't think that phrase needs to be expanded on or thought about in depth, just repeated when you think life has taken a dump on you.  Nothing is a surprise to God.  I don't know if it was a plan, a punishment, a blessing, a break from working, a rest, a teachable moment, a way of that extra scrotal weight I have been carrying around all these years, or what.  I just know that I experienced it.  I made it through with God's and man's help.  And now I will hopefully use these life experiences to be a better person and help others.  And if you are the type that doesn't believe in God or curses God, what do you have to lose by becoming a better person from all this?

Don't get me wrong, there are periods of frustration, or confusion, or exhaustion, or apprehension.  But there are also periods of relief, elation, joy, and a whole different outlook on life.  So far I think my faith has served me well, and I don't plan on giving that up anytime soon, which is a good thing because I already have the tattoo (wish I could say the same thing about the wedding ring tattoo, guess I am stuck with her now).  I don't mind talking about my ordeal and I don't mind talking about how my faith got me through it and continues to get me through things.  The only time I think I have really asked "Why me?" is when I found out, that the Naked Church is false advertising, but I still managed to enjoy that too.  I guess I will have to find somewhere else to show off my new, slimmer sack.

One Wall, Two Walls, Three Walls, Four Walls...

I am officially tired of being in my house!  At first being unemployed was a nice vacation from the long hours I had to put in at work.  Then being unemployed was nice while I was dealing with cancer recovery.  And with all of the doctors' appointments this month, it is nice not having to beg for time off, but I am sick of seeing the inside of this house.

I am still afraid to push myself too hard.  I went up to my shop for the first time this week and was able to tell when I was coming close to doubling over in pain and able to stop before I did, thus saving me another two or three weeks of sitting around immobile waiting to heal for the one thousandth time.  See, I do eventually learn not to over do it.  But I am limited on things to do in my shop because my marine projects are all fiberglass, and messing with them while it is this cold can cause some serious cracks and greatly increase the scope of those projects.  The non-marine projects are behind the marine projects, and I know if I try to push projects around in my shop, like I normally do for the winter, I will also push my insides through my incision.  So, although I am enjoying what little I have been able to do in my workshop, I am itching to do a lot more.

I have been Wiiing up a storm, though, trying to lose weight.  Today I was "helped" by a basenji, which doesn't work too well when I am moving like a cokehead doing the "Cabbage Patch" trying to get the EA Sports game to recognize my "Kick Ups".  The dog decided he needed to be right next to me during whatever exercise I was doing.  Then the abused basenji, who likes being around the non-abused basenji, comes down to see where he is while I am doing the "Combo Boxing" portion of my Wii exercise routine.  I don't know if she was hit by a Wiimote as part of her abuse before we got her, but I do know she flinched every time I did that motion, which required me to do that exercise in slow motion, while my trainer yelled at me, and abused basenji cocked her head trying to figure out if I just had a stroke or something.

Wiiing is about the only exercise I can do right now.  We have lots of exercise equipment, that normally sits in front of the fireplace we don't burn wood in, but got repaired in case we ever want to burn something in it again.  The problem is, they didn't completely repair it.  So I can't put the equipment back until they finish what they are supposed to do, then I have to clean up after them, then slide all the equipment back, which will probably result in my pulling something, and not being able to use said exercise equipment.

So, I don't know what to do now.  I have pretty much surfed everything I have ever wanted to surf on the internet.  I think I have seen everything there is to see on cable.  And I have been playing my American made, 24 fret, double cutaway PRS so much that I feel like I have dimes taped to the end of my fingers.  I still enjoy doing that, but I am making a lot of typos with my left hand since I can't feel my finger tips.  I am hoping one of my job opportunities comes through soon, not just so I can finally get out of this house, but so I can quit getting the "Have you heard anything..." questions.  Until then, I guess I will keep surfing, Wiiing, and watching crap.

Cancer Done, Let The Testing Begin!

After having the tumor removed and making through chemotherapy, it is all over but the testing, lots and lots of testing.  Today was hopefully the last of one of the weirder set of tests I had to endure.  Today I had to see if, well, um, I still have swimmers.

They make a big deal out of telling you that you may be sterile after chemo.  But then they tell you dozens of stories of people who have fathered children after having this particular chemo (people like Lance Armstrong).  And I have heard lots of anecdotal evidence from people as well that have fathered children after chemo.  Today's test will tell me if I can be one of those people.  I am more than a little anxious about the results.  It is not a big deal either way, we have some frozen guys, I am just a little concerned (without any scientific basis) about freezer burn smelling babies.  Normally, I would be doing tons of internet research on the subject, like if you are sterile at first does it sometimes come back later on, and stuff like that.  This time, I just want to hear my results, which are two days away...a long two days away.  If I find out they are not swimming, then I will do research to see if they end up swimming later on.  But right now, I am just hoping to hear good news.

While checking in, some insurance info had changed since I made my "deposit" at the "bank" before surgery.  The nurse was asking me about my treatment and everything else, and I got a lot of "I'm sorry"s and "Oh, that's too bad"s and every time I explained why I didn't necessarily see them as a bad thing.  I think things happen for a reason, and as cancer goes, or even life, I am doing better than a lot of other people.  I can't complain.  The nurse said, "You sure have a way of putting a positive spin on everything."  Really?  What am I supposed to do?  I have said this before and I truly believe it, cancer is the one disease where attitude seems to really affect the prognosis.  My prognosis never was that I was going to die or anything, but my treatment could have gone smoother too.  But what good does it do to fret about it?  For someone in the medical field to be surprised that I am happy to be a unemployed cancer patient/survivor just shows that she doesn't comprehend how much better that is than being a victim of cancer.  I don't know why, but for some reason the whole exchange with her kind of bothered me.  About the only thing that was going to get my mind off of it was to look at a bunch of porn.  As luck would have it, she took me to a room to do just that!

This being my third visit, I felt like an old pro.  The bad thing is, it is the same "educational magazines" and "documentaries" as the other two times.  And someone really needs to learn some etiquette on magazine care and maintenance.  I don't remember the centerfolds being wadded up and shoved in the magazines last time I was in there, so I am assuming it was one guy who was in a real hurry with all of the centerfolds.  And who rips pages out of a magazine at the sperm bank?!?!  I mean, we all know what people are doing with those magazines.  They pretty much have that same purpose in the real world, but in this environment, that activity is their sole purpose.  I don't even like touching them to turn the pages (well, the pages you can turn) much less rip out a page and take it home with me?  And how do you get it home?  Are you going to walk through a hospital annex proudly waving your latest art acquisition?  Are you going to fold it up to hide it?  Won't the creases ruin it much like they ruined all the centerfolds?  And while I am on the subject of this type of material, I have never really been a connoisseur of the films.  Don't get me wrong, I have stumbled across the occasional one on Showtime or HBO late at night, but they are not near as in depth as these documentaries were.  And while the documentaries were running it dawned on me that the "hardcore" documentaries are really just horrible.  I am sure some people must appreciate them, but the one that was on the TV when I got in there today, didn't look like much fun for any of the parties involved, and there were an awful lot of parties involved.

At any rate, I was able to complete the test and after scrubbing all of the dirtiness off of me, walked out of the lab.  As you leave the hospital grounds, you have the weird sense of guilt that you are certain that everyone knows what you just finished doing and they are looking down on you.  I guess as far as tests go, it could have been worse.  I will take this over a colonoscopy or CATscan any day (although I think I did see those in one of the videos there).  I think other tests would be more tolerable if they provided dirty magazines.  I think I will take a few to my chest X-ray in a couple of weeks.  Maybe I should start slow and just bring a Paul Reed Smith Guitars catalog with me instead.

What Can Happy Meal Toys Buy For You...

So there are many reasons I haven't been able to keep up with this as much as in the past, but finally those are behind me so I should be back up to my daily installments.  First there was the trip to Florida and to see my parents that kept me from being able to write.  Next I received the latest seasonal plague going around.  I don't know if it was the flu or what, all I know is that night I went through all of the toilet paper in the house and then half of the Kleenex.  Finally, I had spent a lot of time on the internet selling stuff on ebay to people desperate to buy their family member some crappy item from their past that they really wanted and luckily the person buying it didn't realize it was just a crappy item and paid me too much to sell it to them.  Why was I selling stuff?  Well, it's something I do every year at this time, it's mainly just to clean out the house from stuff I never use.  However this time, I was saving up to buy an American made Paul Reed Smith with twenty four frets and double cutaways.  It wasn't going to be a new one, or a nice one, just whatever one I could afford.

Two days ago, we all sat around the Christmas tree in Missouri and I finished opening my presents earlier than everyone else.  I didn't think too much of it, except that I didn't get the tools my father said he spent a lot of money on.  Then he came around the corner with an American made Paul Reed Smith with double cutaways and twenty four frets.  I was hoping it was for me, because if someone else had asked for it too and they got one and I didn't I would be really ticked!  It was for me though!  It was a much nicer and newer one than I could afford, in fact it was a model that wasn't even on my radar because of how nice it was.  I knew I wouldn't be able to afford this model selling twenty year old broken laptops and McDonald's Happy Meal toys on the internet.

Me and the new Paul Reed Smith have been spending a lot of time together since we got home.  So much that I may have to cut today's entry short because my fingers are sore.  My family chipped in to buy me this not only as a Christmas present, but as a symbol that all of this cancer stuff is over.  And in some ways, I do feel like I am over all of it.  But, I still haven't healed from surgery completely (well I really just keep re-injuring it) and I have years of tests.  Part of going through chemo was having the peace of mind that I more than likely won't have anything to worry about, but cancer is a very scary word, and one you have had it, it is never completely out of your mind.  However, I do know when I hold that Paul Reed Smith I am not thinking about cancer at all!  I am thinking about how my family made a very big gesture and bought me a very nice present and how important it is to live your life and love your family and...OK, I will admit it, I am really just thinking, "Man this thing feels and sounds good!!!"

The ironic thing about all of this is that my father and I have had long conversations about which model I wanted and what I was looking for.  I kept mentioning one model over and over again, not because it was my dream model, just because it was the only model I would be able to afford.  I had described in depth the qualities of the model I had told myself was the only one within my reach.  This was not the model they had already bought me.  They had purchased a much nicer model with much nicer features.  So, the weeks leading up to Christmas they are worried that I am not going to like the really nice guitar they bought me, because it isn't the cheapest American made PRS that I had planned on buying with my own money.  It has taken much convincing that I am not disappointed in the least.  The more I play it, the more I am glad they found this one for me and I didn't spend so much money for a lesser quality model.

Now, part of the deal with the gift was that I am supposed to shut up about wanting an American made Paul Reed Smith with twenty four frets and double cutaways.  I have been trying to think of something else I can cancer-boy-look my way into getting, but I think I have already cashed in that card.  And although it may not quite have the effect they were wanting of being an official end to all of this cancer stuff (since I still have years of testing), it certainly has a way of making me forget cancer, and the trials of the past few months, and my spouse, and food, and...you get the idea.  Well, I should probably get off of here, I have been ignoring my new guitar for about 45 minutes now and she is probably wondering where I am.

Letters to Santa: A Christmas Bonus Blog!

As I was packing up some stuff I sold on ebay and wadding up newspapers for padding, I ran across the page of "Letters to Santa" from third graders.  Some of them had me laughing, and I thought I would share.

Dear Santa,
I would like to borrow Dasher this year....
Your Friend, 
Gavin


Um, we live in rural Ohio.  If I were Santa, I would wear hunter orange and be leery of anyone wanting to "borrow" a reindeer.  I am afraid that might be like a drunk "renting beer".

Dear Santa,
I would like a laptop please and a bolt action rifle 300, and a nerf shotgun and a mini motorcycle and a real four wheeler.  And the new nerf gun.  Can you please wake me up when you come please?
Your buddy,
Isaac


If I were you Santa, I wouldn't wake him up.  Especially after you have armed him and given him an all-terrain vehicle.  And this Christmas list is exactly why I suggest you don't loan a reindeer to Gavin, especially if he lives next to Isaac.

Dear Santa,
Can I have some meat for Cisy?  Can I have some bones for Rundy?  Can I have a toy mouse with a bell for my cat?  Can I have a 3ft. long bone for Cisy?  Can I have a 3in. pizza bone?  One more thing can I have a chew toy pencil of Roundy?
Love, 
Emily


Oh please dear God please let all those things Emily listed be for pets.

Dear Santa,
I want a trampolene.  I want a pet goldfish, and a dog...
Your friend,
Dylan


A trampoline, a goldfish, and a dog...not a good combination.  I don't see this ending well.

Dear Santa,
I would like...a new toy robot that when you push the heart a little part comes open. and there is an egg inside with her baby in it.....
Your friend,
Rosie


Damn! I have no idea what you are talking about, but I WANT ONE TOO!!!

Dear Santa,
Can you please bring me...and one more thing lots of sun chips. cheesy king.  You are the best.  If I get all of this stuff for Christmas...
Your friend, 
Emma


Sun Chips?!?!  Set your sights a little higher, Emma!  Did you see that bitchin' heart-pushing-egg-laying-baby-robot thing Rosie wants?  THAT is what you ask for.  Besides, does Santa look like a guy that knows what Sun Chips are?

Dear Santa,
...you go down the chimney.  I will never see you in person.  I don't like that.  Can I see you 1 time when you were giving out candy on the streets for donations....I'd love a ring and a phone and passing the 3rd grade also.  For Christmas I please want an ipod and $100...
Your friend,
Grace


If I were you Santa, I would give her whatever she wants.  I am not aware of any mafia-types in this area, but she sure talks like she is "connected".  How many kids do you know that ask Santa to fix third grade and then pay "tribute" money?

Dear Santa,
...Please help the needy and homeless before you come to me.  Can I have a new skateboard, water-gun and gun, and Ipod?  That's not all.  I want a golf cart, and a art set with paper and clay....oh and can you change my hair to blue and red.
Your friend,
Alyssa


Well, she did ask him to help the needy first.  Although that poor homeless kid that wakes up with blue and red hair is going to be pissed!

Dear Santa,
I would like an Xbox 360 for Christmas.  I don't want much.  If you can give me that I'll be very happy and maybe even a laptop and ten games for the xbox 360.  That would be all.  Thank you!
Your friend,
William


William, we started out good, but you started getting a little greedy towards the end...

Dear Santa,
...I have been a good girl.  Please can I have the toys?  Can you please stop at my house?
Your friend,
Abby


Hmmm, either Abby hasn't been quite the good girl she says she has or her family is Jewish.

Dear Santa,
I would like to have a full size blue racing four wheeler for Christmas...
Your friend,
Hunter


He's in third grade, Santa.  He can't ride a full size four wheeler.  Just drop that thing at my house.

Dear Santa,
I would like a horse please...Santa Claus, please give to all the kids all over the world so all the kids are happy so they don't cry, like the song you better not cry Santa Claus is coming to town.  I would like a barn for the horse...
Your friend,
Elicia


Apparently Elicia's parents tried to edit her letter by giving her the old we-don't-have-anywhere-to-put-a-horse speech.  But Elicia already thought about that.  Well played, Elicia!  Well played!

Dear Santa, 
I want an i pod for Christmas.  I also want an ipod and a laptop.  I want a girl teen.  I want a cotton candy machine....I also want a cupcake maker.  I also want a phone that had minutes, games, and internet...
Your friend,
Autumn


Hey Santa, this is Tom.  Ditto on Autumn's list for me, too.

Dear Santa,
For Christmas this year, I want makeup.
Your friend,
Becca


Not a good sign for a third grader.  At least her name's not Candy, Bambi, or Cinnamon.

Dear Santa,
For Christmas this year I want makeup and a necklace.
Your friend,
Desiree


I still think you are too young for this, but at least you are getting the jewelry up front.


Dear Santa, 
I've been good this year.  I would like a wrestling man for Christmas.  Thank you for the toys!
Your friend,
De'Vonta


De'Vonta, have you been hanging around Becca and Desiree?

Dear Santa,
Would you please get me a babby doll and a ring?
Your friend,
Madison


See De'Vonta, Desiree, and Becca?  That's how it's supposed to work.  Get the ring, then the baby, and you won't have to worry about make-up or wrestling men.


Dear Santa,
I want a sling shot for Christmas.  I will need balls to go with it.
Your friend,
Natey


Natey, I know where you're coming from, brother.

Dear Santa,
For Christmas this year I want a BB gun a pellet gun.
Your friend,
M.R.


Good thinking "M.R."!   When asking for weapons and you know it's getting printed in the newspaper, it's best not to give your real name.

Dear Santa,
I want you to be my present for Christmas so I can have lots of presents.
Your friend,
Makenna


Brilliant move Makenna!  If you OWN the toy czar, then you own all of his toys too.  Makenna, you evil genius!

Dear Santa,
I want a phone.  I will cry if you won't get me one.
Your friend,
Grace


Apparently Grace and my wife think alike...

Dear Santa,
How are you?  I have been good this year.  I would like a DS and a ball.  Thank you.
Your friend,
Ethan


I like Ethan's style.  A short concise letter.  He asks for one thing high tech expensive thing and one cheap old fashioned thing.  Way to mix it up, Ethan!

Dear Santa,
I've been good this year.  I would like my two front teeth for Christmas.  Thank you!
Love, 
Evan


Apparently Evan knows this is just a school assignment and want's the easy A.

Dear Santa, 
Would you please get me a princess crown?
Your friend,
Aubree


Stay away from this one fellas.  I know you're only in third grade, but trust me on this.  You boys will thank me when you hit high school.

Dear Santa,
How are you?  I have been good this year.  I would like a guitar and a monster truck.  Thank you!
Your friend,
Cody


Who wants to bet Cody is already rockin' a third grade mullet?

Dear Santa, 
...I would like a guitar and a gun and playdoh.  Thank you.
Your friend,
Peyton


Maybe he makes targets out of the playdoh?  I wonder if his last name is Nugent?

Dear Santa,
Thank you for the funny glasses that you gave me last year.  This year I would like a playstation 3.
Love,
Ian


In other words, enough with the gag gifts, Santa.  Start making with the big boy toys!

Dear Santa,
...I would like a necklace.  I will be asleep when you come.  Do you have snow?  Do you love me?  
Love, 
Brooklyn 


Asks for jewelry, then asks if he loves her.  I think I used to date this girl...

Apparently a lot has changed since I wrote my last "Santa" letter.  Santa if you are listening, I would like to remain cancer free, a kick ass job where I don't have to actually do anything but get paid a lot, and an American made Paul Reed Smith with 24 frets and double cutaways.
Thanks Santa,
One Nut Tommy

Tom's 2010 Comeback Tour

I am still fatigued, but I am continuing on my Comeback Tour.  And much like Elvis' Comeback Special, I feel overweight, I sweat and grunt with just a little bit of exertion, none of my clothes seem to fit the same as they did (especially my sequin jumpsuits), and some days I feel like I am going to die on the toilet.

Yesterday I met with an older friend who I enjoy talking to a whole lot despite the forty year age difference.  It then dawns on me, that when I finally do have a child, there will be a forty year age difference.  I wonder if my child will see me as a source of wisdom and great stories as I view my friend, or will I still be just an embarrassing parent?  My money is on the embarrassing parent, at least that is what I am aiming for.

Today I met with another good friend I haven't seen in a while.  The first thing she said was that my mustache looked good.  That is a good friend, to tell a bold-faced lie to you just to make you feel good.  Liz, I know my Mo looks ridiculous, you can admit it.  It was good talking to her.  Of course the cancer stuff came up, I mean it has been a big event that I have been dealing with, and she hasn't seen me since it all started.  But we also got to talk about a lot of non-cancer stuff, which was good.  She showed me lots of pictures of her recent trip to China, in which I learned I am not going to China unless I am allowed to bring my own toilet.  I have seen photos of friends' visits to China before, but her visit was away from the traditional tourist areas and I found them fascinating, and I am not just saying that because she sometimes reads my blogs, I am saying that because they were a lot better than most people's usual boring vacation pics (like the ones I show people that frequently involve a large cartoon rodent).

After that great visit, it was time for my cancer support group.  One of my favorites showed up today!  I was getting a little worried, because neither my wife nor I have seen her or her husband in our respective groups, but it turned out that it was just a coincidence that we kept missing alternating groups, and they are doing OK, despite being cancer patients.  The non-therapying therapist that I like is doing the snowbird thing and we were introduced to our winter non-therapying therapist, who tends to therapize a little more that I thought they were supposed to.  But to be fair, I really like our snowbird guy, so I guess I need to give this new guy a chance.  One of the subjects we discussed today was paying for long-term care of loved ones.  I suggested that if insurance refused to pay for long-term care of your loved one, you could always abuse them, then the state would step in and take care of them for you (which should scare the crap out of my parents that I even came up with that thought, I hear an American made Paul Reed Smith with double cutaways and twenty four frets makes children forget a lot of things and really want to treat their parents well in their twilight years...I'm just saying...).  Everyone seemed to be amused and laughed at my comment, knowing that I only half meant it, including the person that brought up the subject that seemed to laugh a little too hard, I don't know if they were so frustrated with insurance that they were actually considering my plan or not.  However, new non-therapying therapist didn't seem to be near as amused.  Heck, we are cancer patients, we can joke.  Does he want us to just sit around and talk about how much our lives suck right now?  Because I do that in my blogs and to my wife and to the basenjis, I don't need to do that in group too.  After all, that's why my wife goes to her group to complain about my complaining.  The two basenjis don't have a group, except each other, and since they are barkless dogs they don't say much.

And speaking about how life can suck, one of the best things about group is getting the experience of the group and hearing about new technologies, treatments, and treatment center reviews.  This chemo fatigue is really bothering me.  I feel like such a lazy bum because I can't lift much and I get so exhausted, even from eating pancakes and changing channels.  So I mention it to the group (and I can say this about group in specifics because it was about me) and all of the other people that have been on or are currently on chemo said I am perfectly normal...well as normal as an unemployed, one nutted, cancer patient that suggests elder abuse to pay for medical bills, can be.  They said shaking the chemo fatigue does take a while, a lot longer than all of the other chemo symptoms.  One suggested taking a regular midday nap until I get my strength back (I liked to hear that), while another said with chemo fatigue naps may have little effect (which I didn't like hearing as much, so I took a nap).  As usual, group was very helpful.  We laughed, we cried, we group hugged-which I still don't like group hugging, but I don't mind tolerating if it helps someone else.

I need to rest up for tomorrow as my tour continues.  After hanging out with a seventy nine year old yesterday, I am hanging out with two twenty year olds tomorrow.  I need two of them, just to give them a fighting chance.  Although I am closer in age to the twenty year olds, the seventy nine year old is still easier to figure out what he is talking about.  I enjoy the twenty year olds' company regardless and I am sure we will have a great time talking about what a wonderful person I am.  Plus, compared to the boys the twenty year olds hang around, my Mo will look normal.

Yesterday, After The Urologist

After the doctor's appointment yesterday, I decided to get out in the real world for a change.  Although I have done that the previous week, this time involved multiple errands, with multiple stops.

I started off by heading to my firefighter buddy's house.  I almost teared up a little bit.  He had seen my Mo for Movember when we went to lunch last week and had decided to grow one in support.  Since his Mo is about a week behind, it looks about as pathetic as mine.  One thing many of us newly mustachioed men are finding, is that the women in our life, although they fully support the Movember movement, are not really a fan of the Mo.  Either that, or they are just using that as an excuse not to touch us.  But the real reason I was at my buddy's house was to take his 1947 GMC pick up for a drive.  This project has been in the making longer than I have been alive, but it's almost done, except for the missing floor, but I still found somewhere to rest my feet.  Of course, the engine is highly modified and the mufflers are...well they just aren't there.  Did I mention it is 8:30 am and he lives in a quiet subdivision?  Well, we changed all that.  We finally get the thing going (many hot rod engines don't like to start in cold weather) and hit the streets very loudly.  Since we can't go very fast on residential streets, he stays in first and second gear and gets to the 20 mile an hour speed limit as fast and as loud as possible (OK, we may have creeped over 20 a few times, but the school buses were already off the streets meaning the rugrats were absent from the streets as well).  We sped from cul-de-sac to cul-de-sac laughing as neighbors run to the window to see what all of the racket is about just in time to see us speed away again.  We were doing great until there was a backfire that caused an air cleaner to fly about ten feet in the air, much to our amusement, and much to the confusion of the other car at the stop sign and the lady out for a quiet walk.  Still laughing, I rush out of the truck, being careful not to fall through the floor, and pick it up.  We head back to base and back down the hill that is his driveway.  As we do this, the cab fills completely with exhaust smoke.  My friend is concerned about all of the smoke.  I point out several factors for that.  First, we lost an air cleaner which means we were sucking in too much air causing the engine to run lean, and thereby smoke more.  Also, we were backing into the smoke.  And lastly, he had a window down to see as he backed up and there still was no floor in the car, which tends to let in a lot of exhaust when you are backing up for some reason.  We both laugh and he is put at ease...or at least he is sleepy from the carbon monoxide poisoning.  We hide the truck back in the garage to make the neighbors wonder who was responsible for all of the noise pollution...and regular pollution.  After a little chat about all the other wonderful projects we are going to complete, I head out to run more errands.

I hit Home Depot and find that out that if you go on a weekday, you might actually be able to find someone to help you.  I also found out that you don't get the "A" team on a weekday.  Surprisingly, for the first time in my life, I walk out of Home Depot without spending a penny.  This is partly because they couldn't help me, plus I am an unemployed cancer patient, and I am saving every penny for the Paul Reed Smith fund where money is raised to buy American made Paul Reed Smiths with double cutaways and twenty four frets for unemployed testicular cancer patients.  So far I have raised, well not much at all really, but at least I am on the way to raising the money, and sometime in 2023 I hope to have enough cash to finally get one!

I then head to a pool supply store, because Home Depot said that is the best place to get stuff to clean your fireplace bricks.  I don't understand either, but I didn't have anything else to do, so that's where I went.  The nice gentleman inside, who obviously doesn't have a whole lot to do running a pool supply store in Ohio in the middle of November, said yes they do carry stuff that will clean fireplace brick (who knew?) at their location about thirty miles away.  Not really wanting to travel that far, because I am not really wanting to clean the fireplace brick, I went to meet my carless wife for lunch.

My wife had to run some errands for her work Thanksgiving dinner.  She warned me that I wouldn't enjoy it, and she is right.  Watching someone else shop for groceries for another someone else is really boring.  So boring, I forgot to buy the things I was going to get while we were out.  We grab Subway, which according to their commercials is just like working out, and I drop her back off and don't work out.

Next I head to see another friend and her baby.  That was the plan, but no baby, no crying, no nothing.  I am very suspect that she still has this baby, I may have just seen a rental baby in the past.  This makes me suspicious about her pregnancy as well.  I should have tattooed the baby last time I saw it, just to make sure she is showing me the same one each time.  I don't know how baby rentals work, and if they give you the exact baby every time you get one, or if they just have a gaggle of similar looking babies.  Next time I will buy a tattoo gun and take it with me.  We have a great conversation with plenty of gossip (and why do I have more gossip than her when I don't even work with her anymore) and then she kicks me out to "work".  I have seen her "work" and that term is used very loosely.  OK, she gets her stuff done, so I guess it's technically work, but she enjoys it too much to get paid.  She should divert that money to my PRS fund.

I decide to go for the hat trick and see some other people that I used to work with.  I was only temporary help for this group of people for about three months last year, but they send me cards about once a week and are constantly calling or e-mailing to check on me.  Don't get me wrong, I don't necessarily need all that, but it does make you feel good to be remembered.  I just wish my previous employer would do the same, except instead of sending me a card they could send me cash, and instead of calling and e-mailing, they could send me cash.  I basically kept them from working for half an hour (I seem to be good at that today) and by then it was time for them to shut down and me to go pick up my wife from work.  I tried not to pick her up, but they warned me that eventually she would find her way home and she would be ticked when she did make it.

I wasn't really that tired while doing any of my running around.  I felt like I was really making progress, until I sat on the couch once we got home and immediately fell asleep.  And today, I feel like I ran a marathon yesterday, or at least what I perceive that it must feel like the day after one runs a marathon sans the bloody stumps for feet.  Tomorrow is another errand day.  Hopefully it will go just as smoothly and hopefully I will fare better the day after.  Until then I will just avoid that nap inducing couch.

Going Out On The Town, No Matter How Annoying That Town Has Become

Today was the day that we hit all of my favorite haunts from college...well the second time I went to college.  We went all of the places I used to go to except for the half that have went out of business. 

We started the day off at a pawn shop.  Now pawn shops in this college town are different than other pawn shops.  You have the advantage of having a bunch of over privileged kids, who have their parents (or their parents' credit cards) buy them the latest toy that they desperately need.   Then the weekend comes, and not wanting to ask their parents for beer money, they take their new stuff to the pawn shop and go straight to the local watering hole.  This is a good thing for bargain hunters and a bad thing for parents.  There is a trick in dealing with pawn shops, and the most important is, you have to know about the products you are thinking about buying.  Pawn shops are just like any other business or politician, they will try to get as much money out of you as possible if you aren't paying attention. 

The first one we went to is not one of my favorites, but you never know where you will find treasure, and I have gotten a deal or two there in the past.  Today was certainly not one of those days.  They had their usual assortment of crap and rip offs all marked up about ten percent more than you can pay anywhere else, including new.  We leave that store quickly and head to the next pawn shop.  It had better prices, but worse crap.  We hit one more pawn shop today, which had decent prices but sub par crap, even for crap.

We also decided to hit the music stores.  As predicted, I walk into my favorite, and hear my name yelled out.  Even though they have plenty of good prices and lots of good stuff, luckily, I didn't need any of it.  I say luckily, because I am still a broke, unemployed, cancer patient so it would have sucked to find something unbelievable and not been able to buy it, especially if it was an American made Paul Reed Smith with twenty four frets and double cutaways. 

I did see something unbelievable, but not necessarily in a good way.  A quick lesson for people not up on the latest 1980's music gear.  The Roland TR-808 Rhythm Composer, is a vintage drum machine that is pretty much useless today, but is still collected by some people who remember that the "808 kick drum makes the girlies get dumb".  However, nobody really cares about the sister models such my TR707 (if you are, I will give you a great deal on one) or the one I saw today the TR727...at my favorite music store...WAY overpriced.  The reason no one wants these drum machines is that they are old and outdated, hard to program, and most of all the 707 and 727 never made the girlies wanna get dumb they just made them airsick (the two people out there that are fans of Roland, Boeing, and early 90's rap are laughing their butts off right now...if they were reading this, which they are not, because they don't have access to the internet in their group home).  The ironic thing about these drum machines is to use them correctly, you have to be able to read music, which to make a totally prejudice statement, I will ask how many people wanting to use a drum machine have any idea how to read music?  So, as the owner of the music store came over and I saw the TR727, I immediately started laughing.  He instantly set me straight in a way to say that wasn't his choice to purchase that item, nor would he have purchased that item, and yes he knows it is overpriced, but they paid way too much for it and are trying to recoup their money.  I told him that the only person that is interested in old vintage 80's electronic crap like that is me, and unfortunately, I have one!  He couldn't get mad at me because he knew I was right.  I then offered to sell him my TR707 and he respectfully declined.  We then left there and headed to the next music store.

This music store promised lots of equipment and arms...yes weaponry.  We get there and it seemed to fall a little short on both.  We look around the store at the sparse amount of music instruments and I am not sure if this is a music store or if we caught a high school garage band between sets.  At least with my teenager mustache I would fit right in.  We didn't look long for two reasons, he didn't have much of a selection, and if we actually bought anything, it would leave a gaping hole in his inventory display.

Finally, we decided to go grab some food to take home.  The food my wife wanted was in the heart of campus.  I decide to go the easy way...by the stadiums...not realizing the home basketball opener is tonight.  After four hours of cursing at alumni that actually still keep up with the university, we make it past the stadiums and onto campus where the students are taught everything but what a crosswalk is and how a stoplight works.  There were students all over the road, but I wasn't able to run over a single one of them, not even a fat sorostitute that is just there to make her "sisters" look better.  It dawns on me that we are driving around in a glorified "mom-mobile" with out of state plates and two older guys (one with a cheesy pervert mustache), people must have thought we were a same-sex couple coming to school to pick up our daughter.  I tried to pick up a few random daughters, and that didn't work either...not even the fat sorostitute.  We get to the restaurant and I talk my dad into ordering his own stromboli, neglecting to point out that is it basically just a twelve inch pizza folded in half.  The funny thing is, my wife pulled the same trick on my mother when they called us with their order.  We got our food, picked a way off campus that was nowhere near the stadiums and got out safely.

All in all it was a good day.  Going to some of my old haunts showed me that although chemo is still messing with my taste buds, the appetite is back with a vengeance and then some.  And it also showed me that chemo still refuses to give me my energy back, although I feel I am getting stronger everyday.  To celebrate, the family will gather tomorrow to eat even more than we ate today and then sit around and do nothing but argue over which of the six dogs to blame our farts on.  I can't wait!

Dogs Just Sniff You To See What You Taste Like...

Today I did absolutely nothing.  Well I did take a nap and walk the dogs, but outside of that nothing.  Still not completely able to shake free of this chemo stuff, I am trying to develop a rhythm and a routine (no not gymnastics).  By the way, I was told that some may not realize that when I "walk the dogs around the yard" that the yard is five acres, so it is a little more than just standing on the porch holding the leash at arms length while they do their business.

This weekend though, I am hoping things will change.  I will pretty much be forced to do stuff and get into a decent sleep routine.  We will be traveling to my parents' with the dogs for an early Thanksgiving celebration.  To honor my still being alive, they are carving a turkey to look like a malignant testicle...OK, I am making that up.  But I do feel that this Thanksgiving will have a little more thanks than usual, even if it is only coming from me. There will be plenty to do during the day, like sleep while the girls shop, but that is not why I think I will get into a routine.  There will be five people and six dogs.  I try to make it a habit to never be outnumbered by dogs, especially when they can count.  And most dogs can count.  If you don't believe me, get two dogs together and give them treats, but give one of them one more treat than the other.  You will quickly see that I am correct about dogs and arithmetic.  So, there certainly will not be any sleeping during daylight hours, that is when the dogs will all be together and they can plot.  I do not think I can stop them or outrun them in the state I am, but I am getting well enough to knock down my sister when the dogs come after us, and that should be enough diversion for me to get away...and possibly my wife, she is on her own though.  At night time, we all retire to our separate bedrooms, where we will be at parity with our puppies.  Again, my sister will be the sacrificial lamb, but she is the one that let herself get outnumbered so I have no pity on her.

One of the activities my father and I have planned is a trip to some of my old stomping grounds, including one of my favorite stores.  Keep in mind, I have maybe gone into this store once a year for the past ten years, yet the employees still greet me much the same way they greet Norm when he walks into Cheers.  Don't ask how much money you have to spend to be remembered after ten years...seriously, please don't ask.  The only depressing part is usually I have money to haggle and deal with, even on stuff I don't want, and this time I won't.  Between being unemployed and the financial hit we took from cancer surgery and treatment, there isn't a whole lot of "fun money" to be had.  (It turns out that the great insurance that I had through my employer, kind of sucks.)  I thought about selling my body to raise some cash, but I was having trouble giving it away before the surgery, and now after the surgery I am considered "B-stock" or "irregular" and will have an even harder time.  Plus my wife says, she is not willing to pay me for that and even if she did, it is still "our" money anyway.  That just doesn't seem fair.  Because, this place just may have an American made Paul Reed Smith with twenty-four frets and double cutaways.  I wonder if they would be interested in trading one for an irregular body?  Nah, I don't think Phil nor Eric would be interested.

So, between avoiding the canine uprising, looking broke and pitiful at stores (but not so much that they kick you out), and eating turkey, I should get my sleep pattern back.  And getting out will help me to be less sedentary than I have been around here.  However, if my family really wanted me to be active and cared about my health, they would get me that PRS...

I Have a Sleeping Problem...And a Possible Solution!

My wife wants to drug me, and I may let her.  She has been complaining about my cancer insomnia since all of this began.  At first I didn't think it was a big deal.  Sure I would only get four hours of sleep, but I was operating just fine on four hours.  But back then, how much sleep did I need when I was unemployed, wasn't allowed to lift over ten pounds, and pretty much ordered to sit around all day by the doctor.  Now as far as my surgery goes, I am supposed to slowly be trying to regain my strength.  And I need plenty of rest to recover from chemo as well.  One of my cancer supporters told me that I probably wouldn't have any trouble sleeping once the chemo kicked it.  In one way she was right.  If I am anywhere but in bed, I can fall asleep at the drop of the hat, which can be a problem in the bathroom.  Yesterday for instance, I was constantly falling asleep on the couch.  However, around 9PM, the sleepiness left, and stayed gone!  At around 4am, I finally forced myself to go to bed, even though I wasn't tired, and laid there for at least another half an hour wide awake.  At 9:30am, I woke up wide awake again and even though I laid in bed, I couldn't fall back asleep.  There was a basenji that was glad of that fact, because if I am awake in bed, then I can rub her ears.  Finally, after an hour of laying in bed wide awake, and carpal tunnel from all the basenji petting, I get up.  And I stayed wide awake for two hours, then fell asleep on the couch again.

My wife keeps bringing up the idea of sleeping pills when we are around the oncologist, the nurse, pharmacist, vet, sandwich artist, or anyone else that will listen.  I have been against them, because I keep having visions of Elvis.  No, I don't think that I am going to overdose on prescription pills and die on the toilet, I am afraid I will get fat, wear hideous jumpsuits, make cheesy movies, and turn into a glorified Vegas lounge singer.  The oncologist's nurse jumped on my wife's side (of course she would, it's women conspiring against me) and suggested a few things up to and including over the counter sleep aids, before I hit the prescription stuff.  I don't know what to do.  I just know I am feeling really tired and I wish I could get one really good night's sleep.

I have big plans for my birthday.  I plan to run/jog a five kilometer fun run, even though the only running I have done since my surgery was into the hospital a week ago, and if it weren't for the adrenaline, I wouldn't have been able to do that.  I would like to do a thirty mile bike ride, even though the thought of hopping on a bicycle seat after my surgery makes my sole remaining testicle want to hide.  And the most physically demanding thing, I plan on going to Walt Disney World on my birthday.  And I am NOT going to be one of those jerks who gets a doctor's note to rent a wheelchair once they get there just to cut in line on all of the rides.  It's pretty obvious what is going on when you see them leap out of that wheelchair everytime the ice cream cart rolls by.  My contention is that if you really need a wheelchair, you will bring the one you always use.  But anyway, the point is, I plan on walking around Disney on my own power.

So between needing to up my physical activity and not being able to look at the inside of this house anymore, my wife and I did a little Christmas shopping today.  After about fifteen minutes, I was exhausted.  Part of that was because after fifteen minutes, I had looked at all of the stuff I wanted to see, then I just had to follow my wife around for the rest of the time pouting.  Anyone that has been shopping with my wife knows exactly what I am talking about.  I wouldn't have minded so much if she was shopping for an American made Paul Reed Smith with twenty four frets and double cutaways, but I found a used one at the first place we went and pointed out that it was a bargain at $1600.  She acted like she didn't care at all!  To me, we were done shopping with that find, but we left the store (without the guitar) and bought stuff for other people!  I made my best but-I-am-a-cancer-patient face, but it had no effect on her.  Probably because that look is permanently on my face ever since the chemo kicked in.  I think she has grown an immunity to it.

We went to Cracker Barrel after that and then to the grocery store, and I will admit, I am dead tired.  But for some reason, I am not sleepy tired.  I wish I could explain it better because if I could, maybe I could find something that would help me.  So, if I can't sleep tonight, I may break down and get one of the over the counter sleep aids.  Until then, I will just search the internet until I find an article saying that playing American PRS guitars helps you sleep well, and practice making an even more pitiful cancer patient face.

Talking About Cancer Can Be Fun?

Chemo is still messing with me.  Yesterday I felt great.  I actually got out in the real world (briefly) without supervision and wasn't too tired.  Today I have been tired all day and yet when I lay down it's hard to sleep.

Yesterday was group meeting.  If you don't remember my group post, I will give you the real quick down and dirty.  Basically there are two groups, one for cancer patients/survivors and one for loved ones/caretakers.  There is no set agenda or leader.  There is a therapist in the meeting that starts it, but he stresses he is not there as a therapist (even though they only let therapists do that part of the meeting).  I feel especially lucky because our therapist is also a cancer survivor, so everyone in the room is going through or has been through the same thing.

I was kind of torn when they said that cancer fighters and their loved ones don't attend the same meeting.  After all, this has been a long tough journey that we have both been on, neither of us by choice.  Throughout this its seems we have been side by side, it just doesn't seem right talking about the journey, without the person that has been riding shotgun the whole time.  They explain it is so the cancer patient can freely talk about any abuse (such as not receiving an American made Paul Reed Smith guitar with twenty four frets and double cutaways) and the caretakers can freely talk about what a joy it has been to be around me and to cater to my every need (almost, there is still the issue of the PRS guitar).  My wife seems to enjoy it.  I think she likes making the other caretakers jealous about what a wonderful patient she has.

Yesterday though, we had a real small group.  I have enjoyed the groups before, but yesterday was different. It seems in the big group, you always steer the conversation back to cancer.  Sometimes it can be a little depressing.  But yesterday, with a group of five to seven of us (some came late, some left early) it was more like a normal conversation, with cancer as the common thread we all had.  Yes, a lot of what we talked about was cancer, but we talked about everything else in the world.  And we laughed.  We laughed at our pain.  We laughed at our joys.  We just seemed to all enjoy a conversation where everyone in the room had the common experiences.  One thing about cancer is you may all have the "C" word, but there is the surgery group, the radiation group, the chemotherapy group, the "just watch it" group, and those of us that have had the combinations of treatments.  Yesterday, we had all been through chemo (I was the newbie) and we just had a grand ole time complaining about treatment.  And everyone got a kick out of me, the chemo one-shot-wonder, going to receive treatment with books.  It is hard to concentrate in the chemo room, especially as a first timer, so no one really read books and I was the only one in the room without some sort of electronic device sitting in front of me.  As soon as I mentioned I didn't bring an MP3 player or a computer/DVD player, everyone in the room laughed at me.  Being the only one at chemo not tethered to some form of electronic entertainment I felt like the only kid on the playground that while everyone else had brand names, I had clothes my mom made.  At least I assume that is what that felt like, being a Navy brat on the playground in the 70s and 80s, pretty much anything went at the schools that catered to military kids.

I think yesterday was the first day I didn't look at the clock to see when it was over.  OK, that is a slight lie.  I am still drinking of ton of fluids from the chemo, so I did look to see if I could hold it until group was over or if I had to get rid of the fluids before then.  But our conversations went everywhere.  I am not allowed to talk about the conversations.  I would make the joke "What happens in group..." but that joke is so overdone at the point, I will just say that it is proper etiquette that we are free to speak in there knowing that the person we are talking about will never hear that we said we are being abused because I still don't have the PRS guitar.  Plus if all the non-cancers knew all the cancer secrets, everyone would want cancer.  Did you know if you show your tumor at Sizzler, your meal is half off?  You are also asked to leave immediately (especially if you are like me and have testicular cancer) so it is best to do it towards the end of the meal.  Unfortunately we don't have any Sizzler's here so I can't use that benefit.  There are many more cancer secrets, but I have already said too much.

But the one thing that our conversation really reminded me about yesterday, is that we all hate cancer treatment.  There are certain tests we all take that we all dread.  There are parts of our treatment that we all dread.  And every single one of us hates the waits.  I had a conversation one day with a gastro-intestinal pre-med student who said that they take turns doing procedures on each other (endoscopes, barium X-rays, etc.) so that they not only know how to do the procedure, but that they know what the patients are experiencing as well.  I think that spoiled me.  More than likely, your oncologist is not going to know exactly what it is like to be in your shoes.  They can tell you what they have heard or read  about chemo, or radiation, or even the surgeries, but they probably don't know.  And that is where getting together with others and talking about your experiences, and knowing you aren't the only one, really helps.

So now I am left with a myriad of emotions.  Part of me kind of wishes the groups are always that small, because I really enjoyed yesterday.  On the other hand, although some of my favorite people from group were there, there was at least one missing.  I used to think I may not go anymore after I am given the all clear.  One of my favorites (that was missing yesterday) has been coming for years after he was given the all clear.  And after yesterday, I think I understand why.  So, I will wait for next Thursday, where I can commiserate with other cancer patients that don't have American made PRS guitars, and find out where else we can get dining discounts.