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.

My First Father's Day

Well if you weren't able to guess already, we were able to get pregnant.  The swimmers we had frozen before I had chemo apparently thawed out just fine.  However, my "friends" (and I use that term rather loosely) were quick to point out that they could have given me any sample and I wouldn't know the difference until the baby comes out.  After all, you go the the "bank" they give you just a regular insulated coffee mug with a little test tube inside with your name on it.  It seems like for as much as we paid for me to look at their dirty magazines and practice a little self abuse, they would come up with something a little nicer than some cheap looking insulated coffee mug like you get at trade shows for free from vendors you never heard of.

We were actually visiting at my parents' house when we found out the swimmers reached their target.  My parents were overjoyed, which is surprising because people normally have totally different reactions if somebody shoves a urine soaked stick in their face.  It was at this point that it dawned on me that I don't know nothing about birthing no babies.  The coming months were filled with me cramming my head with everything from how to change diapers to how every single thing your child touches, eats, sees, smells, and hears will do irreparable damage to it and make you a bad parent.  So, I will admit, I am one of those parents who is double checking every little thing that comes near my child to make sure it has passed a thirty-four step inspection.

The other thing I didn't know about babies, was apparently you need approximately 43,560 square feet to hold all the items that your new baby will absolutely not be able to live without, use once, then outgrow, and need to be stored for any future babies.  And while we are discussing things I didn't know, when you are buying stuff for a new baby, everything made previous to the point that you arrived at the cash register at the baby store, is very dangerous and should be burned and the ashes locked in a safe and the safe thrown in the ocean (safes are located in Aisle 4 and you don't want to get a used safe).  Personally, I think the baby industry (and there is definitely a baby industry) and the Consumer Product Safety Commission get together twice a week to declare everything that babies had before now, is harmful and must not be used under any conditions.  Which makes perfect sense, otherwise all those cribs, highchairs, and bottles we all grew up on, and apparently survived, would still be in use today, meaning we would not need to buy new ones.  When you tell people you are going out to purchase said new products many older people (i.e. people that bought baby products last year) will say "you can just borrow mine" and you respond "they (whoever that is made up of) say that is unsafe now" and the response is "well it never hurt (insert name here)".

We went through all of the doctors' appointments where you listen to sounds that mimic a cow trotting through mud and pictures that look more like a black and white radar scan of an approaching cold front than any sort of mammal, but yet you still get choked up and excited.  And then there is the time that you stare at the screen, trying to see if the jet stream is going to cause a Nor'Easter when the nurse looks at you and smiles and says that "jet stream" is actually a penis.  Oh the feeling that goes through a future dad when he first sees his son's jet stream.  Already I was thinking of all of the tools I would be buying him and all of the time we would spend working on cars together (although, that probably would have been the case if we were having a girl too).

I will admit, as the big day approached I got more scanxiety even if a scan wasn't imminent.  I had waited so long for a child that I was so paranoid something bad would happen before I would be able to meet him.  And let's face it, less than a year before, I had lost my job, got cancer, and we had a miscarriage in a matter of a couple of months, so I am not unfamiliar with bad luck.  But after a lot of anxiousness and praying we finally were told to check into the hospital.

For anyone unfamiliar with labor, I will try to explain what happens.  You rush to the hospital where your wife seems to be in a lot of pain and there is a lot going on, but on the outside nothing really seems to be happening.  While all this is going on, every single person that is on your hospital floor will walk into your room, shove his or her hand underneath your wife's gown and loudly shout out a random measurement ("6 cm!", "80%!!", "10/6!", "less than 12 parsecs!!").  I think even the kid that delivered our food shouted out "THX1138!" before she left.  All I know about these random numbers and measurements was the baby was still bigger than that.  So, after close to a day of "labor" that only seemed to produce an exhausted wife and goop that I wasn't sure was pre-baby goop or left over lube from the constant measuring, the doctor gets down and looks like she is trying loosen an oil filter on a Honda and says,"Well, he's not going to fit, but you can still push for another hour if you want."  Although I liked our doctors there, that has to be one of the dumbest statements I have ever heard in my life!  As you can imagine, my wife was over the whole push-measure-push-lube-push-measure-measure-measure-push routine.  So it was off to surgery.

I walk into the operating room after they had prepped my wife and I see her laid out on a table, tubes here and there, a curtain, and a line drawn across her stomach.  The doctor said, "You can stand here on this side of the curtain as we cut or..."  I don't remember anything after the "or" because I really didn't care what was on the other side of the curtain as long as I was on that side of it.  I was even more glad I had chose that side after the procedure started.  I don't know what they were doing on their side of the curtain, but on my side of the curtain my wife was being pushed and shoved around on the table like she was the little girl from the Exorcist (minus the head spinning around).  Finally the shaking stopped and they walked around the side of the curtain with...a purple baby.  The comments my "friends" made about switched samples are running through my head and I search my memory for any purple family members (although there was that one distant aunt...), but after a quick wipe down he became the most beautiful, non-purple baby I have ever seen.  Any doubts of grabbing the wrong coffee mug at the sperm bank, were gone for good when one pediatrician at the hospital told us that our new baby was tongue-tied and this would lead to a lifetime of speech impediments, difficulty eating, crossed eyes, sloppy trumpet playing, inability to make friends, receding hairline...basically he was going to turn out like Quasimodo without the musical ability.  This caused a huge smile on my wife's face and mine.  Not because we wanted my son subjected to a lifetime of being a social pariah, but because I am tongue-tied and although sometimes I may have the problems the doctor foretold, it is not from being tongue-tied.  It was like a little sign from God saying "See, now you know for sure he is your son."

In fact, I think every single part of that experience was a blessing.  I used to think Father's Day was just another holiday where you give people stuff (or realize you forgot to buy stuff to give to people until the last minute).  But today I have had to hide my emotions as I played with my son, thinking about how much happened to get him here and how hard I am going to fight to be around as he grows up.  And one last thing on being a father after having testicular cancer/chemo, the procedures and processes involved in making this happen are very expensive.  I had contacted Livestrong during our efforts and received a long list of organizations willing to help make our miracle happen, many of them offering their services for free.  The earlier you contact these organizations the better, as many want to help from the very start.  Luckily for us, we were able to have our miracle without needing to use these organizations.  But, we are keeping all of the doctors' bills to show him anytime he asks for anything expensive.

Summer's Here, Time To Hurt Yourself!

The past couple of days, I have had every intention of hurting myself.  No not in one of those cries for help sort of ways, but just in pushing my self more and more to get back to normal.  I still haven't tackled the dangling a push mower down the ditch yet.  I am really afraid that may undo all the healing I have been doing, so when I do finally get around to attempting it, I will do it as gingerly as one can dangle a push mower down a ditch without simultaneously chopping off body parts.  Just the fact that the engine starts to cut out because the mower is at such an extreme angle that it can't get gas, shows that maybe this isn't a recommended use of this particular mower.

However, that wasn't a problem yesterday.  I had intended to do it, but secretly hoped something would come up to keep me from having to do it, and luckily plenty of things did.  I spent some of the early part of the day helping my good friend with the project we are tackling.  After that I waited for a HVAC company that claims "1 hour service" to call me back....that's been about 36 hours ago, and I am still waiting for a call back on the message I left.  The reason, our thermostat decided that when the air conditioner kicks on, the house will cool down like it is supposed to, but the temperature reading will go UP!  And that keeps the air conditioner on.  You notice this when you look at the thermostat and it reads 87, while the other thermometer in the house reads 72 (and that is the real disparity in numbers we had when we first noticed the problem).  A little research on the company turned up information that all electronic thermostats from this particular company do this.  I won't mention their name because I don't want to embarrass Honeywell.  I finally called in to our HVAC company through a different line (not a repair line) and asked them if they could fix this.  They said yes they would replace it...in five days.  I asked if they carried any other brands than the one they installed and they didn't.  Frustrated I decided to runaway from the problem and went out to mow some of the muddy areas of the yard with the riding mower.

Now our mower is an commercial grade mower that we had to buy because someone keeps running into stuff bending the deck on regular mowers.  I won't say who that someone is, but it's not me and it's probably my wife.  Because of this, the mower weighs 1400 lbs. (about 650Kg) and because of its massive weight it gets stuck if there is any amount of moisture on the ground.  While attempting to mow the parts of the yard that were too wet before, I hit a puddle or moss or gnat pee, whatever it was, the mower became hopelessly stuck.  Now for reasons that I won't go into right now, I am the only one currently able to run this mower, so there was no one to drive the mower while I attempted to pull it out.  So I did one any red blooded American male would do that has a Jeep and at least one ball (which I barely qualify for), I hooked up the Jeep and dropped it in four wheel drive low and jerked the crap out of it.  You may have seen in the news where the day was .25 seconds shorter yesterday, that's because the massive torque of my Jeep pulling out this mower actually stopped the Earth's rotation for a brief moment.  After these shenanigans were done, it was pretty much too late to attempt the ditch mowing/incision ripping yesterday.

So today I got up and went to a hardware store to find a thermostat that didn't have "Honeywell" stamped on it.  I found one and then had to pick up a bag of concrete for another project we are doing.  I found the correct type of concrete (for the record, there are approximately 75 different types of concrete and no matter what your project, there will be exactly 1 (one) bag that kinda fits what you are needing to do, and it will be on a very high shelf).  I look straight at the bag...literally, because someone at Home Depot decided that this particular type of concrete needed to be about five feet in the air, and it dawned on me as I read "80 lbs." on the side of the bag that:  A) I haven't lifted 80 lbs. since my surgery, I am officially supposed to be closer to 30lbs., and B) I can't bring the Jeep in to help me with this one.  I briefly thought about asking for help, but two things occurred to me:  1) Guys are not supposed to ask for any sort of help whatsoever in a hardware store unless it is a veiled attempt to prove they know more than the person they are talking to, and 2) I have about as much chance of finding and employee at Home Depot to help me as I do of finding the Loch Ness Monster, Elvis, Jimmy Hoffa, and  a regular cast member from Alf.  Now Andrea Elson did walk by while I was contemplating the next move, but without Elvis, Jimmy, and Nessie she wouldn't have been much help.  So I did what any self respecting guy would do, I picked up the bag anyway, rather than get help, and waited for the "pop" down below.  I firmly grabbed the bag and just as gracefully has a Olympic weight lifter clean and jerks 1000 lbs., I put the concrete in the cart...OK, it was less like an Olympic weight lifter and more like a out of shape fat guy struggling to lift more weight than he lifted in eight months (outside of Golden Corral) all the while trying not drag the bag (which they for some reason make out of paper just slightly thicker than tissue paper) over anything that might snag it, causing it to burst open cartoonishly burying my feet in 80 lbs. of concrete, while at the same time trying to keep me from bursting open cartoonishly burying my feet in a large pile of my intestines.  Unfortunately for the person watching me on the security camera I was able to load the concrete without any comic mishaps (yes, they actually have a sign in the concrete section pointing to the security camera, maybe that is a sign you are way understaffed if someone can grab an 80 lbs. bag of concrete and no one notices nor is able to catch someone fleeing with 80 lbs. of concrete).

Eventually, I made it home and the first thing I had to do, with the air conditioner running like an out of control Trane, was replace the thermostat.  The thermostat contains slightly more wires than the Space Shuttle, except with fewer directions.  After approximately 47 hours of cursing, reading, taking a Spanish course, reading the other manual, taking a Hindi course, calling tech support, and some Eeny Meeny Miney Mo, I was able to hook up the thermostat with a minimum amount of smoke and sparks.  As I was wrapping up, a large storm hit, effectively ending my mowing/stomach shredding/toe slicing plans for the day.

I don't know if the events keeping me from mowing the ditch are a bit of Divine Intervention or just me being lazy and slow, but I will welcome the postponements no matter what the reasons.  I just don't know what I am going to break to get out of it tomorrow...

There's More To Recovery Than Just Recovery...

Today I spent the morning with a good friend who is recovering from her own serious health condition.  We got into a conversation about how hard it is to recover from a serious illness, not necessarily physically but mentally as well.  There are so many aspects to recovery that get overlooked because caregivers are focused on, well recovery, but just physical.  The medical profession seems to think if they fixed your ailment, you're done.

One thing I noticed since my cancer diagnosis, is before I found out I had cancer, I did routine checks for testicular cancer.  I had a doctor in 1998 tell me it would be a good idea to check and I did the checks often, sometimes twice or more a day depending on how many other people were in the pool at the time, but every since I found the cancer, I hardly check.  The ironic thing is, I have about half as much to check after the cancer, so you would think it would be easier to check now.  However, I could probably count the times I have checked since then on one hand...not that hand the other one, the non-checking hand.  I don't know why, but I have developed an aversion to checking myself since I had actually found something.  Luckily, since I still manage to see one professional or another approximately every forty three minutes, I am getting checked enough right now by other people, so I don't need to worry about it, my family doctor, my urologist, my oncologist, my friend's overly curious dog, that TSA guy behind me in line at Arby's the other day, well at least I think it was a TSA uniform, or it could have been a bus driver's uniform, who ever it was he was very gentle and paid for my Arby-Q.  I brought this issue up at my cancer support group to see if any other of the self examiners had the same mental block after diagnosis, but unfortunately the breast cancer survivors weren't there that day.  There were a few prostate cancer survivors, but they didn't look flexible enough to perform self exams.

When down physically for so long, it takes a while to get back in the swing of things.  The doctors pretty much force you to be a couch potato through weight restrictions and other warnings of dyer consequences if you overexert.  After weeks, or even months, of continuously watching daytime TV, it's hard to get back into a routine of getting up, moving around, and even concentrating on anything that doesn't involve paternity testing, especially during Oprah's last season!  And even when you do start to move about and get braver and braver, there can be certain obstacles in your daily life that look insurmountable.  As part of my mowing routine, I have to dangle a push mower down a very steep embankment about five feet, pull it back up, and try to keep my toes out of the way the whole time I am struggling with it.  This is something that leaves me physically drained and crippled on a good day, I will admit, I am scared to death to do it when I still haven't been released to do that sort of thing from the doctor that performed my surgery.

Then there is just the mental recovery.  Believe it or not, you feel like your brain gets flabby from not being used while you were recovering.  I tried to keep my brain sharp by first reading Yahoo articles on-line, then working my way up to on-line versions of magazines, then newspapers, and even tried to read a few books on-line.  It was months into my recovery before I realized I had just been looking at porn the whole time, which I would stop, but I am not quite done with this article.  The point being, when you brain isn't working as hard as it had in the past, it takes a while to be able to stare at a computer screen for hours on end again (especially if there is no porn on that computer screen).

One last part of mental recovery I will mention, kinda relates to one of the first things I mentioned, and that is the fear that you are not quite well yet, or that it will come back.  There is a reason that until recently, oncologists would never use the word "cured" they would just say "remission".  I don't know that I will ever get over the fear that the cancer isn't quite gone, or that it's hiding somewhere else, or that it's just not big enough to show up on tests yet, or that it's lying dormant, or, or, or, or....with so much of cancer being an unknown, how do we as patients feel secure in our "cured" diagnoses?  And am I sure our families/caregivers/support networks have the same fears, whether they will verbalize them or not.

I guess in many ways, recovering  from a serious illness is like a "recovering alcoholic".  Sure, Bill W. never plans on having another drink, but he knows that threat is always lurking in the background.  In much the same way, I don't ever plan on having cancer again, but I know there is a possibility, however slight, that it  could be hiding somewhere.  Maybe I should do some more internet "reading" and a self-exam just to make sure there's no cancer left.

Taking A Houseplant, Worms, And My Wife On A Roadtrip

One of the things I have done for my wife in the past is take her on surprise trips.  In fact, my proposal to her was a surprise trip to Niagara Falls, where for the balance of the trip, rather than enjoy the beauty of the natural wonder, she stared at her recently acquired ring, studying to see if I remembered all the specifics she told me to make sure it had.  Since then I have surprised her with other trips like a trip to Holiday World (which has FREE Pepsi products!!!) and the Mothman Festival in Point Pleasant, West Virginia.  OK, so the quality of the surprise trips has definitely been declining.  Anyway, a very good friend had offered me her lakeside cabin for the weekend.  I call it a cabin, but it is more the size of an Army barracks, except the cabin can sleep more people.

Two months ago I started planning this trip as a cool, cheap thing an unemployed cancer patient can do for his wife's birthday.  It required me to make all sorts of plans, cover stories, basenji babysitters, and secret acquisitions of everything from the keys to the place and groceries to worms (for fishing).  This kept me a lot busier than I had thought it would.  Everyday last week it seemed I was running around gathering stuff between the hours that my wife left for work and before she came home.  I had to run around, buy food and supplies, and get back into my regular lounging-around-the-house clothes by the time she got home so she wouldn't realize I was running around all day buying worms.

My plan went fairly well and she even bought my cover story, that we were going to see my grandma in the nursing home.  That story was actually too believable.  While I was mowing the lawn the night before our departure, my wife baked a fancy cake and bought a houseplant all for my dear grandma that we weren't actually going to see.  So, being the resourceful person that I am, since this trip was a surprise birthday trip, I grabbed some candles and decided she just baked her own birthday cake.  Now in the past, I have tricked family members into wrapping their own presents, this is the first time I had someone bake their own cake.

The good news is, my wife was happily surprised and not mad that she baked a fancy cake...for herself, and a cute houseplant got to go on a road trip.  The place we stayed was huge!  At first it was overwhelming and even deciding what bedroom to sleep in resulted in an hour long dilemma.  The irony was, that with this gigantic lake house at our disposal, we basically only really hung out in two rooms.  Even though the fishing was non-productive this weekend, I was able to sneak her favorite camera into the car, so what she didn't catch in fish, she made up for in pictures.

As for me, the topography surrounding a house built on a slope next to a lake and some in progress repairs on the front porch, compounded by the amount of stuff we had to haul in and out, really stressed my incision.  In my usual stubbornness, I didn't bother to take any precautions as I was rappelling down to the cabin from the car with loads of luggage and groceries...and worms.  After climbing up and down the hill, loading and unloading the car, and fishing, and just walking to the lake, luckily, I feel great.  So, even though this was a trip for my wife, it ended up being a boost for my own morale as well.  One more sign that this cancer stuff is getting further and further behind me.

So, I don't have to sneak around buying worms anymore, and I don't have to worry about all the people that were in on my wife's surprise trip slipping up and spilling the beans.  I did a bunch of stuff I shouldn't have physically this weekend, and I am none the worse for it.  Although with the storms, it wasn't the best trip, but it was still pretty good!

Stop Babying Me...In A Few Days!

Lately my post-cancer frustration has been people babying me.  I know by the occasional tickle along my waist that I am still not 100% healed, but I feel better than I have since the surgery.  I have been using my abdominal brace less and less and been exerting myself more and more.

The lack of a brace wasn't necessarily intentional.  I tends to get in the way, especially if you are doing any bending or sitting.  Which since my major source of activity lately has been climbing in my boat, sitting down in front of the hydraulics while cussing, crying, and praying that they work, the brace had to go.  There is another odd side effect with the brace.  The brace, which looks a lot like a back brace, completely takes any pain away from my abdomen, but ironically kills my back.  Another reason I have been wearing it less and less.

Two incidents have triggered these feelings about feeling babied.  Our neighbor was over the other day who still primarily heats with wood.  I said I was about to cut down some trees and if he wanted the firewood I would leave the logs for him, otherwise I would hack it all up and haul it away to burn, something we have done many times in the past. He said he would help when he was able.  I said I wasn't asking for the help, I just wanted to know if he wanted the wood.  He again said he would and he could help.  This back and forth went on several times, and I think he finally caught on that all I was asking is if he wanted the wood, I hope.

The second incident, a very good friend of mine who has been super supportive since all this happened, went to the hardware store with me.  I needed to pick up a fifty pound (ninety kilogram) jug of sand for some sandblasting I need to do.  When the employee brought it out, he snatched it up before I could grab it.  I said he didn't need to do that, but he refused to let me carry it.  Now me being me, I was tempted to say I needed another one and see if he would carry that one too, and if he did, I would have kept going.  But I didn't.  This friend has made it a point to check in on me regularly and I can't fault him for that.

So, with that being said, the past few days I have been whining while laying around the house all day wanting to be babied.  While driving to meet another friend last week for lunch, I heard an all too familiar sound from the backseat.  My Jeep has a known problem where the power windows just decide one day that they give up.  The sound I heard was the wind whistling through the window that was sliding down with each bump (of which there are quite a few from the endless assault of salt trucks).  When I turned in my Jeep for warranty, they informed me that since it was the second time this has happened to me, the warranty required them to replace all four.  Great news!  Except that I hadn't planned on sitting around the waiting room quite that long.  So, at some point during my four hour stay there, someone decided they would like to share the plague with me (or a nasty cold, one or the other).

The past few days have involved me single-handedly raising Kleenex's stock sales by over 50% (stock prices not verified) and walking around trying to remember when I swallowed a small melon whole, because it was obviously caught in my throat.  It has been a while since I have had just a plain old cold, and I don't remember them making me this miserable before.   Maybe I was always this puny.  All I know, is I guess this will prepare me for whenever we do have a child, since I hear those little germ factories bring you a new malady every week.

So, I hope to be healthy again in the next day or so.  I am not feeling too bad right now.  I hope to fix those damn hydraulics on my boat soon.  And hopefully people will see I am getting stronger after my surgery as well, and go back to treating me like crap.  Well, maybe not completely like crap, just not like a baby...unless I have a cold.

How To Gut Your Past And Hurt Your Gut

The outside temperature was bitter cold and I didn't feel too bad, so I finally decided to head up to my shop and clean out snake alley.  Overall things went OK, I might even say better than expected.

I felt like I was preparing to board the space shuttle, it took about fifteen minutes to get ready.  I wore thermal socks, a pair of pants, a pair of ski pants over them, a shirt, a sweatshirt, insulated steel toe boots, then it's time to put on the abdominal brace, then a jacket, then another jacket, then a balaclava, then put on my hood, then my gloves, then the handwarmers inside the gloves, and then I am ready...to pee.  So I peel everything off, pee and start all over again.

Working in the shop wasn't too bad.  I actually had to unzip my jacket and switched from my balaclava to a hat. With the amount of snakeskins I found originally I had expected to find them throughout the area I was working in, but they were just at the front.  It appears that it is just one rat bastard snake messing with me.  Every year I try to make the area less and less hospitable for the serpents, but yet they still manage to sneak in.  I think I finally found the place they are getting in at.  So, between giving them less places to hang out, I hope that blocking the spot they come in at will really aggravate them enough that they decide to go somewhere else, maybe your house.  I don't care as long as it isn't where I am.

The area I was cleaning up was what I refer to as the "Engine Room".  Yes, I have some many spare motors that I have a room in my shop dedicated to them.  Besides having a bunch of engines in this room, I also have all the trappings of my bachelor life.  After being up there for ten years, I have come to the revelation that I am not going to use that stuff anytime soon, plus some of it is ruined, and when I get divorced, my nineteen year-old girlfriend(s) will probably want different stuff anyway.  I had about ten of those plastic tote box thingys to go through.  I had three piles:  keep, donate, throw away.  When I was done I had three boxes of keep, three of recycle, one donate, and about eight garbage bags of throw away.  Yes, I will probably be sued by the garbage man tomorrow.

There were some pleasant surprises though.  For some reason, anything I place in this part of my shop seems to mildew almost immediately.  It's like a little Bermuda Triangle for mold.  It doesn't really hurt the engines, because I coat them with Vaseline before they are stored (it's an old racers' trick).  The only problem was when initially buying the family size economy five gallon bucket of Vaseline, explaining to my wife what my intentions for that much Vaseline were.  When I opened up case after case, most of the stuff I cared about was mildew free!  There were things I thought were going to be ruined that were just fine.  There were other things that I thought I had lost, because I didn't remember putting them in these cases, that I found.  And still other things that I had just plain forgot about.  What I also found were more things to sell on ebay, things that I have already been selling well.

I finished just as it was getting dark outside.  With help from the abdominal brace, I managed to make it through the whole ordeal with out any reinjury of my surgery, it was just every other part of my body that hurts.  I don't know why it feels like I have been on a bike for five hours, when I didn't have a chance to sit down at all, but every single part of my body hurts.  I came down to the house, very slowly and groaning, and jumped in the shower.  As the hot water from the shower defrosted my blubber, I started to loosen up a little. The pains subsided just a bit, and I toweled off...that's is when I somehow managed to pull my incision.  I don't know how I could do all the twisting, tugging, pulling, moaning, whining, and snake detesting without any problem, but the simple act of toweling off manage to hurt it.  I guess I will just drip dry from now on.

So, I feel good that I finished a project that I have been wanting to do for a long time.  I am glad I was able to rescue a few mementos of my bachelor life and clean out my engine room.  I am hurting all over, but I think my incision isn't hurting as bad as it has in the past.  Hopefully tomorrow the tightness and soreness of the rest of my body will mask the pain in my incision.

Fears Subsided But Validated

I met a friend for lunch today.  She is a fairly good friend and she asked how my appointments went yesterday.  I told her about how the nurse mistakenly told me my swimmers were OK and how my wife and I thought it was OK to start trying for baby again and her face went pale.  Luckily (?) we are not preggers right now, so I don't have to worry about any damage done from my chemo cooked swimmers.  But her reaction today showed me that maybe I wasn't over reacting yesterday.  It is one thing if God gives you a special needs child, it is another thing to do something that caused your child to be a special needs child.  That is why most of us don't smoke, drink, do drugs, bungi jump, work in nuclear power plants, or watch Jersey Shore while pregnant.  I can't imagine the amount of guilt I would have had if we had a child that was born facing challenges their whole life because of something I had done, i.e. chemo side effects (knowingly or unknowingly).  So, I am feeling a little better about that issue today.

Other bad news I almost got was that our dear rescue basenji darted out the front door when a delivery driver came to drop off a package.  My wife and I were both gone at the time so it had the potential to be a very bad situation.  Luckily it was very cold and snowy yesterday so she ran all the way from the front door to the back door to be let back in.  She made it back there before my mother-in-law could even put on her coat to go chase after her.  I guess it is a good thing that African dogs don't have much fur, otherwise she may have tried to stay out longer.

Daisy the abused and neglected basenji paid me back this morning  for her little excursion by eating part of a stuff toy causing the stuff toy to re-emerge while I was trying to sleep...three different times.  The mistake I made was telling my wife and mother-in-law about it.  To understand why that was a mistake I will run through my first waking moments today.  I wake up to the unmistakable noise of a dog puking, and knowing I am too late to do anything about it.  I lay my head down in disgust, not wanting to deal with it, then I hear that same sound again, but this time I am awake so I am able to throw a dog blanket under her to keep it off the carpet, and success!  I lay back on the bed to revel in my success, when I hear a third mess being created and instantly deposited on the carpet.  I drag myself out of bed, walk the dogs in the bitter cold, then come in to clean up the messes.  I come out from my cleaning just to get asked to explain everything in detail to my mother-in-law.  I finally think I am done talking about dog regurgitation, when my wife calls.  I mention Daisy ate another stuff toy, with the usual outcome, and I again get asked about time, coordinates, etc.  And now for some reason I am writing about it...

I did briefly try out my "abdominal brace" today while I walked the dogs, and it actually works very well and allows me to walk normally.  I don't know if I will use it out in public or not.  It would have a rather slimming effect the way it compresses the gut to hold everything in place, except that the adjustable scaffolding in the back, the contraption that allows it to brace, is a huge bulge that sticks out so much it won't even fit under clothes.  I guess I will have to find a long jacket.  I plan to use the brace tomorrow as I take advantage of the bitter cold and clean out the snake haunts in my shop and hopefully leave them with nowhere to hang out anymore.

So that is my life about now.  It's just a rootin' tootin', doggy pukin', snakepit bootin', workshop lootin', Daisy losin' 'n' return to roostin', tummy boostin', no swimmer shootin' kinda week.

Apparently, My Swimmers Should Stay In The Shallow End...

Today was my scan and my urologist appointment.  Two things I wouldn't necessarily say I was looking forward to, but I was anxious to get them out of the way.

With the foretold doom and gloom from the purveyors of precipitation prediction, I left the house a half an hour early and with all the inclement weather...I ended up at my doctor's office an hour early.  I am not sure where I drove through a time shifting wormhole, I think I should have taken a left turn at Albuquerque, but whatever the reason, I suddenly had an hour to kill.  Luckily my scan orders weren't for any specific time and the hospital was less than a mile from the urologist office.  I thought an hour would be more than enough time to get irradiated.  I forgot, however, about hospital bureaucracy.  After all the red tape and going to this desk, then that one, then the other one, I flew into my urologist's office with less than five minutes to spare.  I don't get the scan results until I talk to my oncologist next Friday, but the lady didn't have the "Oh, crap!" look on her face when she looked at them that the nurse that did my ultrasound had on her face when they found the cancer.  I am taking that as a good sign.

While signing in at the urologist's office, the receptionist was asking the usual litany of questions, among them was if I had a procedure done.  I wasn't sure what she meant or why she was asking (maybe it looked like I had lost weight in the groinal area) so I said I had the one procedure in September.  She responded by asking if that was the only procedure.  I stated that I only had one left, so there wasn't too many more procedures he could do.

I go back to the exam room and tell the doctor of the problems I have been having.  First he discussed the results of my testosterone level test.  He said I am at the bottom end of normal, which isn't bad considering I  have only half of the production facilities.  Next, he looked at the area that my general practitioner had suspected that a stitch trying to push its way out.  He grabbed a package containing some fierce looking tweezers, and digging around down there, pulled out a stitch!  It was like a magic trick...that hurts and bleeds a little.  Next we addressed the thorn in my side ever since the operation (figuratively and literally).  He came up with two scenarios.  Option one is that I could have scar tissue that is constantly building up, and for some reason the walking is breaking it apart causing the pain.  I am still not sure I understand that explanation, which is probably why he gave it to me to shut me up and get me to quit whining.  The other thing that could be happening is that my stitches are dissolving.  Apparently they dissolve at different speeds in different bodies, and the fact that he pulled one out of me today is evidence that they haven't dissolved completely yet.  He says as these stitches are starting to dissolve they get weaker and break, which could be that "popping" feeling I have been experiencing.  The only solution he had for me was an "abdominal brace" to use just when I plan on doing a lot of walking, since every time it has let loose, I have been doing a lot of walking.

So I went to Wal-Mart, which in itself is a lot of walking, and found their assortment of braces and supports.  Most focus on the back, but I did find an abdominal one under a pile of dust.  It basically looks like a back brace that has been slid around to the front and had $10 added on to the price tag.  I haven't really walked with it yet, since I was already hurting pretty bad from walking around trying to find it, but I did try it on.  Basically, you strap on this elastic and velcro thing fairly snugly.  Then, there is a ring that you pull and through a complex series of cables, pulleys, and winches in the back, it supplies the added support.  I must say, just from walking around a little bit to test it tonight, it feels really good.  I am just fortunate that this is happening in the winter, where I have heavy jackets to cover up this contraption!  My wife says is looks like some S & M mechanism.  I will admit I am not that up on S & M paraphernalia, so I guess I have some research to do the next time I can't sleep.

There is one final bit that I have left out about today.  The urologist discussed the last test I took and I will admit, it has me more than a little bummed, even on the verge of depressed.  When I went to read my dirty magazines, the nurse called and said I didn't have many swimmers, but I had swimmers.  I specifically remember asking her, if they were good swimmers and she said they were.  Today, I found out that was not the case.  I don't have many swimmers, and a good portion of the ones I do have are not very good ones.  I don't remember the exact term he used, I just know as he was describing them, I am thinking of little sperm swimming in neverending circles, a few ramming repeatedly into random objects, and other sperm just wiggling around aimlessly screaming "I want a juice box!".  The good news is that I am producing the little guys so the chemo didn't shut down the factory.  However, it appears that the factory hasn't yet been retooled after the chemo (pun intended), and that I haven't completely gotten rid of the affected guys yet.  It can take as long as seventy two days for the little guys to regenerate, so he wants me to wait another three months, and test again.  And I am definitely NOT supposed to try to have kids in the mean time.

First of all, I know this wasn't a big setback.  We have frozen guys, and it isn't out of the ordinary at all for the little guys to be affected like this.  When the factory starts pumping out quality product again, the baby making attempts can resume.  What I will admit was absolutely devastating to me today was that two weeks ago the nurse told me I was good to go.  When you hear so much bad news, the good news really lifts you up, and to get told today that what the nurse told me was incorrect seemed like it knocked me down lower than I was before.  I know it shouldn't bother me.  It is a minor set back.  But it is bothering me.  A lot.  Four months from now, I should be able to move on with our plans for baby making.  It is just that I thought I had a bulk of this cancer crap behind me, and today I get told I have this Klingon that won't get off my butt.

Trying to always find the bright side in everything, I admit it was kind of tough today.  I was just blindsided by that news.  The one thing that kept me from really getting down in the dumps was I had told my good buddy Willie before today that I would stop by his house that is within a mile of my doctor's office.  As usual, Willie cheered me up with random fire department stories and tales of the latest thing he hid from his wife and got busted on.  It worked out well that I saw him within five minutes of the news today.  I guess one of the few bright spots is by May, there should be some new magazines in the jerkatorium for my next test.

The Nutrition Paradox

Even before all of this cancer crap, my wife had been urging me to eat better.  Although that was kinda thrown out the window during chemo, when I was supposed to just eat anything (or in my case everything), now she is coming down on me hard about finding better food to eat...and then she beats me.  OK, I am joking about one of those things.

In some instances, I have been working towards a healthier lifestyle.  I have greatly increased my water intake, until I had the recent bout of hurting myself.  I haven't been drinking as much water since I hurt myself Saturday because more water equals more peeing, which means more walking to the bathroom, which means more hurting.  I would continue to drink lots of water, but my wife hid the little porta-john thingy they gave us at the hospital after my surgery.  Many people have said I should cut back on my Pepsi intake, however I don't agree with them, and neither do Pepsi's stockholders.  But I have been cutting back.  As I mentioned, I have been drinking more water, and instead of Pepsi, I try to drink healthier stuff like root beer and Big Red.  I am assuming the Red in Big Red comes from some healthy fruit.  And I think Pepsi should count as a vegetable serving anyway, because it says "corn" right there on the label, and corn is a vegetable.

Which leads me to the servings count.  One thing I have been doing since chemo is drinking a very large glass of orange juice first thing every morning.  And a serving the size I drink in the morning counts as two fruit servings.  To keep from messing with my stomach I only drink the "Low Acid" orange juice.  I also make sure it is the "No Pulp" version from Tropicana.  It has to be from Tropicana, because it is made in Bradenton, Florida, which means a few times a year when I am down there, I can drive by there and give them the "stink-eye" to make sure they are doing everything correctly.  So far, it's working.  And Tropicana is owned by Pepsi, and we all know that they only make quality products.  I am also eating at least one banana a day, so we are up to three servings of fruit.

Now is where the serving sizes get a little sketchy.  I have been snacking on carrot slices, which come in a giant bag.  It says there are only five servings in that bag, which I find hard to believe.  If I ate carrots in those quantities I would get so orange I would be mistaken for a Jersey Shore cast member (provided I was also a alcoholic whore).  Despite what it says on the bag, I am counting it as a serving.  Then there are olives.  I can't find out whether those are counted as a serving of vegetables or not.  I only eat the green ones, and the people preaching that health crap are always talking about eating green stuff.  I say it is a vegetable and since I eat several queen olives while I cook lunch, I am counting it as another serving.

Next we have the gray area fruits and vegetables.  First up, my wife tries to claim raisins don't count as a fruit.  I say they most certainly do count as a fruit.  After all, they are just dried grapes and grapes are a fruit, so why aren't dried grapes covered in chocolate a fruit?  I did mention they were chocolate covered raisins, right?  Not that it matters.  My wife's argument is that the chocolate negates the benefits of the raisin.  The way I look at it, people will order a salad, slice fried chicken strips and throw them on top, then drench the whole thing in ranch dressing and call that a healthy meal, I think a raisin, that happens to be covered in its BFF chocolate, is just as healthy.  My live in nutritionist/warden also claims that a potato is not a vegetable.  I don't know what she thinks it is.  It is not an animal or a mineral, which according to my 20Q game, only leaves one thing.  And I eat that particular vegetable all day long, as fries, tater tots, and chips.  Not too mention that some of the chips I eat are CORN chips, and corn is a vegetable too.  I have argued several times that I eat more servings of fruits and vegetable than she does.

By my math, I am intaking approximately fifty servings of fruits and vegetables a day.  If anything maybe I should cut back and not eat so many carrots (just in case being orange turns you into a drunken slut).  The bottom line is I am trying to be a healthier Tommy.  And after all, the doctors and nutritionists are constantly changing their minds on what is good and what is bad.  One day it's meat is bad, the next day it's carbs that are.  First no alcohol, then it's good for your heart (not that I can do anything about that one since I can't drink).  Used to be eggs were good, then bad, now they may be good again in certain situations.  Everything with nutrition seems to be an oxymoron.  Things have changed just since I have started going through my cancer ordeal.  On one hand they say to eat pecans, almonds, and cashews, but the FIRST thing they told me to do when I was diagnosed with cancer was cut back on my nuts...

I Can't Wait For The Urologist...

I can't wait for my urologist (who was also my surgeon) appointment this week.  No, not because of the slap and tickle I will inevitably have to experience as soon as I get in his office.  I am hoping I will get an answer to why no matter how long it has been since my surgery, my incision just never seems to heal.

Today we took the abused basenji to her class that is supposed to break her out of her shell.  On the way back we decided to reward her for her hour of torture by taking her for a walk in the park.  I was a little gun shy about the whole thing after hurting myself so bad in Florida.  But that has been well over a month, and I haven't hurt myself that bad since.  However, we didn't get too far in to our walk before I felt something happening.  My wife asked if I was OK, and knowing how much I could potentially be hurting myself, I did the guy thing and said I was fine.  I don't think it took her too long to tell I was lying.  I think it was walking like an off balance Weeble Wobble that gave me away.

I think the best way to describe what happens is to compare it to taking a Band-Aid off.  You know how when a Band-Aid is on, most of the time you aren't even aware it is there.  Occasionally, your Band-Aid will catch on something while you are changing clothes or something, just giving you a little reminder that it is there, but not really hurting.  When it is time you take off your Band-Aid you start to peel it back and it doesn't hurt too bad, UNTIL you get to the point that you have to just rip it off because it is going to hurt no matter what you do from that point on.

Ever since my surgery, on a good day, my incision feels like wearing a Band-Aid.  Occasionally, I have a little tenderness there along my waistline where the incision is, but most of the time, I don't even notice it.  When I start doing too much physical activity it is like I am brushing against the Band-Aid.  Sometimes, I can feel the incision about to let loose, like today, where while walking, it was like I had pulled the the Band-Aid, but if I took one wrong step, the Band-Aid would be completely ripped off and leave me laying around for another two weeks.

I am tired of living like this.  There seems to be no rhyme or reason to when I get to that Band-Aid ripping point.  I can Wii up a storm with only a slight irritation, but I start walking on uneven terrain, and the effects are almost immediate.  However, when it let loose in Florida I was walking on the pavement, but I had been rolling around under a car for hours earlier.  I would have thought it would have pulled apart when I was practicing yoga underneath a Highlander, not when I was just walking minding my own business.  I don't like walking around through life like I am in a minefield, and I don't know when I am going to step on the one that will send shockwaves through my body.  It is bad enough just avoiding the minefield of poop during dog walks.

So, I am hoping this week's appointment will give me answers.  I don't care if he says I have to have another operation, use a walker, wear a girdle, sit around in traction, or drive a Rascal scooter through Key West getting stuck on curbs (that one was just for you, sisters), at this point I will do it.  Unfortunately, the first option they always offer is painkillers, which I always refuse, because I don't want to mask what is going on, I want to be healed!  Until I get an answer I will just keep tiptoe-limping through life praying that my next step is not onto a landmine that rips off my Band-Aid.

Juggled And Poked At The Urologist's Office

Today was another big day in my recovery.  I had the last post surgery follow-up appointment with my surgeon/urologist.  I had some good news, and some not so good news that I am taking as good news.

The urologist was very nice and took a lot of time to answer our questions today.  Of course he had to check his handy work.  To be honest, my goodies have been fondled so much over the past few months I just kind of block it out at this point.  I don't remember what he did or what he said.  I guess I just go to my happy place in my mind.  Some people go to their happy place by remembering their favorite Christmas as a child, or by thinking about being on a warm sunny beach, I just imagine that my goodies are being cupped by a man in a white coat...I guess don't have a very good imagination for my happy place.  He asks how I am doing (after I pull my pants back up) and I answer honestly that I feel like a disgusting, lazy, slob.  I say I am still trying to fight this chemo fatigue, and if I lift anything over a certain weight or twist a certain way I still feel that "tickle" in my incision.  He says something surprising, that I probably will feel that tickle for another month and not to push it.  He basically said to stay away from weights for a while.  I didn't ask about the Shake Weight, because to ask about it would be admitting that I have one, but it seems to be my only option for the time being.  He did clear me to do whatever cardio I want.  That is the good news.  The bad news is that now I am expected to do cardio.

The doctor answered all of our assorted questions, including the ones we had for other doctors but asked him anyway.  He then told me to check my swimmers in a month to see if chemo killed them or not.  They gave me the option of going to the place I went to make my "deposit" or another place (both hospitals, not just in some alley).  I wanted to opt for the other place, because I have already seen all of the getting-in-the-mood literature at the first place and was hoping to see something new.  My wife didn't like my idea and wouldn't let me do that.  Lastly they needed to draw blood from me.  This is usually quite an adventure because my veins like to squirm and roll around when the needle comes at them.  I have been spoiled by the phlebotomists at the oncologist's office because all they do is draw blood all day and they are very good at it.  At the urologist it was people that are normal nurses that happen to be asked to stick people now and then.  First of all, I swear they must use different needle suppliers, because at the oncologist the needle slips in so smooth you think you are still being wiped off with the alcohol pad.  At the urologist, each and every needle feels like it is rusty, bent, and broken off and I watched them take it out of a new package three different times!  The first nurse jabbed the needle in and moved it around like she was churning butter or trying to shift a Mack truck.  When she started drawing blood from places other than through the needle she gave up and passed me off to another nurse.  This nurse was much nicer and talked very calmly, politely, and apologetically as she jabbed the needle into me again and again and churned butter and shifted a Mack truck (they must have gone to the same school).  I was just about to ask if we could do this another time, seeing as how my veins have about as much holes in them now as a clarinet, when she finally got some blood to get into the vial.  I am assuming it was my blood, but as vigorously as she was sticking and moving she may have actually gone through me and poked herself.

Finally we scheduled my next appointment for sometime in January.  I say sometime, because as I was trying to focus on my calendar to pick a day, the nurse kept spitting out possibilities and my wife kept talking about my other appointments as well.  Between trying to focus on three different stimuli (my calendar, the nurse, and my wife) all I could do was just say yes on the first day I heard that wasn't already highlighted in my calendar. The nurse asked if I wanted it written down, which I most certainly did, because I have no idea what anyone said.  My wife decided to keep talking about how I should have made it the same day as one of my other doctor's appointments, which is what I was trying to look up when everyone was asking me so many questions that I couldn't look it up.  For all I know it may be the same day or even time as another appointment, I still am not sure what the heck went on at the counter, I just went to my "happy place" again (that doctor has such soft hands).

All in all it was a good day.  I didn't really want to be told I was still on limited duty, but on the other hand I know I am not just being a fat, lazy, slob.  I am being a fat, lazy, slob that is not supposed to lift too much.  Tomorrow I will start to work on some cardio and maybe step up my Shake Weighting.  I should probably get some rest now, that twelve minutes of exercise tomorrow will really take a toll on me.

Healing In Jeep Country

Today I tried to push myself a little further.  Still coming out of the chemo funk, I started the day off again by taking the basenjis on a long walk around the yard.  Benny wasn't quite chasing as many invisible rabbits as he had yesterday, so he was only bouncing around at the speed of sound rather than the speed of light.

During the last storm, one of our apple trees split in two.  Yesterday my mother in law discussed taking it up to the burning pile.  Her idea was to cut it up into pieces, pick the pieces up, throw the pieces into the lawn tractor's trailer (which means the pieces would be only slightly larger than a loaf of french bread), take the trailer loads up to the burning pile (which since the trailer has the capacity of a five gallon bucket would be approximately 134.5 trips), pick up the pieces out of the trailer, and throw them all the burning pile.  This would involve me running the chainsaw, which I am still afraid of.  As I have said before, motions that require me to move in one direction haven't seemed to bother my surgery.  Motions that require multiple directions, such as holding back a ricocheting basenji, do tend to put stress on my stitches.  Holding a chainsaw up in the air, moving it back and forth, and fighting the kickbacks and dodging the tree as the weight shifts as it twists and turns on the ground, would probably not be the wisest thing for me to do just yet.  So, my solution was hook the Jeep to the tree, drag the whole darn thing up to the burning pile where it's out of sight, wait until we get enough rain to actually be able to burn the burning pile (which will be a long time) at which point I will be able to hold the chainsaw, make a few cuts and just lean large pieces against the pile.  She wasn't on board with my idea, because she didn't think of it.  So as we discuss which is easier, otherwise known as why we should do it her way, she happens to mention that we can't do it today because she has a doctor's appointment.  BINGO!

So, while my mother in law is at her doctor's appointment, I hook my tow strap up to the tree.  There is one limb buried in the ground from the fall that I will have to do something with before I hook up to it.  I carefully put my weight into the tow strap, and after rocking the tree a couple of times the limb snaps and the tree lays flat on the ground, and more importantly, I don't feel any sharp pains in my side or groinal area from pulling on a tree.  I then get the Jeep and pull into position.  I go to put it into the very powerful Four Wheel Low.  Jeep must deem this way too powerful to actually use, because first you have to put your transmission in neutral, then you have to let the  Jeep roll very slowly, then grab the transfer case handle and move it down, sideways, diagonally, and down again before you actually engage Four Wheel Low (I am not making that up).  I imagine corn mazes are easier to negotiate than shifting in to Four Wheel Low.  I then start to back up, when the transfer case pops out of Four Wheel Low.  I guess I didn't correctly navigate the maze.  I again, shift, push, twist, angle, curse, shove, and pop, and now Four Wheel Low is engaged.  I back down the hill to the tree, which I swear was moving, because no matter how many times I backed up, I was always about four inches from hooking up to it.  I finally hook up (pray) and start up the hill.  The Jeep chugs on like it's not a problem at all.

Now there is a reason Jeep makes it so hard to get into Four Wheel Low.  The top speed is around twenty miles an hour in low, which isn't that fast, but you could run over the cast and audience of the View and not even notice, or pull half an apple tree without a problem.  I get the tree to the burning pile and unhook.  I feel good that I finally did something!  I decided I will put all my gear back together later on today when I wash the Jeep.  I go back to the house to cook lunch.  My mother in law comes home, glad to see the tree is gone and still wonders why we didn't do the multiple cuts, multiple trips, and multiple handling of each chunk of tree that she suggested.  

Feeling good that I have done so much already today, I decide to take a break before I wash the car...until it's dark.  BUT, I managed to stay awake all day, and that is an improvement.  And I did do some physical activity today which is also an improvement.  I am getting back to myself slowly but surely.  I am sure I will get the car washed tomorrow, provided the U.S. Forest Service doesn't call me asking me to pull some Sequoia's out of the ground.

Being A One Nut Wonder Has Its Benefits

Ever since my nutectomy, my gastro-intestinal system has gone cattywampus (it's a medical term).  That has become very evident over the weekend.  Without going into too much detail, let's just say I have gotten a lot of reading done this weekend...and nothing else...nothing...just reading...a lot of reading...only reading.  Usually just the opposite is the case.  I mean, I get a lot of reading done, but I am usually multi-tasking at the same time.  No multi-tasking at all this weekend.  I tried one of the usual ways to get things going, drinking lots of liquids, which only resulted in waking up every fifteen minutes to either pee, or unproductively read.  Anyway, my GI doctor and have been trying to get my medications adjusted, with little luck.  We completely cut one medication out and have cut way back on the other.  Even that seems to be too much.  And then something dawned on me.

I asked myself what has changed since all of this happened.  I have lost my job.  I have gotten cancer.  I have had surgery.  I am going through chemotherapy.  The first thing to rule out would be stress, of course not having a job to answer to does cut down on stress levels, but at the same time being out of a job and having cancer tends to stress one out pretty good.  As for the chemo, these latest GI symptoms started showing up before I started chemo.  That leaves one thing (literally and figuratively), the surgery.  My testosterone levels were cut in half with the surgery.  So, that is where I went to the internet to do a little research...very careful research, using only medical terms and making sure the pages didn't have pictures.  It turns out that doctors are investigating a link between high testosterone levels and GI problems like mine.  A-HA!  The problem is that most men are not willing to have a nutectomy just to see on the off chance that this makes them feel better.  Lucky for them, I happened to cut my testosterone levels and get the results for them.  I "took one for the team", well technically I guess the doctors took one from me for the team.  That makes me a testicular martyr, and I feel I should be heralded as such.  Who knows, because of what I went through, men may be asked in the future "Would you rather poop too much or keep both of your balls?".  You know, seeing it written down doesn't make my new research sound near as noble.  But there are other ways to lower testosterone levels, without resorting to getting rid of one of the twins.  You could join a theater company, or watch Oprah, or become a hairdresser, or rent Sex and the City, or drive a Mini, or a Miata, or a VW Bug convertible, or play softball...oops, that last one was a way to increase testosterone in women.  But all joking and offensive stereotypes and prejudices aside (no matter how true they are), there are medications that can lower testosterone levels (and I am not just talking about Appletinis and Cosmos).  On a serious note, there is a link to testosterone levels and "mens'" cancers so in some cases the testosterone levels are knocked down to prevent cancer from reoccurring.

Where does this leave me?  Well, luckily I have a doctor that is very open to new research.  One of the beautiful things about the internet (no, not porn) is that those of us that were previously scattered around the globe with various maladies, now have a way to get together and compare notes.  My stomach surgery is generally so successful that people quit going to the GI doctor, so side effect research ends there.  However, several of us Nissen procedure people got to talking on the internet and we were developing reactive hypoglycemia.  I told my doctor about it, who was very interested, and developed a game plan for me to deal with it, now that we suspect what mechanism is causing it.  I am anxious to talk to him about this latest thing that I have stumbled upon.  Usually when I mention something I have read on the internet he is familiar with it (except for that Richard Gere/gerbil thing, I thought everyone had heard about that), and anxious to see some facts that back them up.  Losing half of your testosterone production and feeling more like a regular pooping person are some pretty interesting results (don't worry, not interesting enough for me to document photographically).  Don't get me wrong though, I still have other GI issues, this doesn't mean I am going to run out to Chipotle, stuff in some Indian food, and top it off with some wasabi and a ghost chili.  But it does give me hope that as a side effect from this cancer stuff, I may be one step closer to being a normal person...with one testicle...and stomach surgery that left wire in my stomach...and an incredibly pathetic mustache.  Well at least as close to normal as someone like me can get.

Scared To Be Normal

Tomorrow I will have to act like a real person.  I say act, because I don't see the oncologist until Friday and the urologist a week from Monday, so they will have to be the ones to officially call me a person again.  But tomorrow, I go through a lot of the motions a person goes through.  For the first time since I was initially diagnosed with cancer (8/31/10, you never forget the date you were diagnosed) I will be out on my own, all day.  I have thus far only been out for short periods of time or with a chaperon.  You know someone to drive when I feel tired (which has been most of the past three weeks), someone to tell me that is too heavy and I shouldn't try to lift it, someone to say they told me so when I am holding myself in pain after lifting it, and someone generally to provide physical and moral support.  That also means I won't have my wife around tomorrow to persuade that McDonald's sausage biscuits and hashbrowns are full of protein and that the oncologist suggest that we get some on the way to the blood test.  She also won't be there later in the morning when I claim that the oncologist said I was in dire need of Dunkin' Donuts to keep my strength up.

On one hand I am actually excited about tomorrow.  I get to meet with a volunteer group I strongly believe in.  I will hopefully hear something on one of the jobs I applied for.  I get to meet a friend for lunch.  And I get to go to my cancer group.  The problem is, each of those things are spaced just far enough apart in time and distance, that it won't make any sense for me to come home in between.  So, I will leave the house at 8:30am and won't get home until about 7pm.  That's almost like having a job...except that I won't be getting paid, I will actually be enjoying what I am doing, and if anyone starts yelling at me or treating me like crap, I can get up and walk away with no repercussions.

The downside is, I should probably try to stay awake for the whole day.  That is a giant step in my life right now.  It probably wouldn't look good napping during lunch or while talking about volunteer leadership.  However, the good thing about cancer group, is if I take a nap there, every other person in the room will understand.  I know this because it frequently happens during group...coincidently it's usually when I am talking.  But that truly is my biggest fear tomorrow, and I am honestly afraid, that I just won't have the stamina to make it through the whole day.  As much as my cabin fear has been bothering me, I don't know that I am ready to be out of the nest out on my own.  After all, I got winded eating a piece of cake today.

But that is not my only apprehension about tomorrow.  My Mo' looks absolutely pathetic.  It didn't take much for me to remember why I never got the urge to grow one before.  Again, at group I am not too worried about it, because everyone will know why I am growing it and some may be doing it themselves.  It is everyone else I may encounter throughout the day.  I wish I had a t-shirt that says "Yes, I know I have a ridiculous, pathetic mustache.  It is for a good cause.  Ask me about Movember".  But I don't.  So, as I go to the restaurant tomorrow to meet my friend, it is very likely that the fifteen year old cleaning the tables will have a thicker, better looking mustache than me, and I am afraid that she will make fun of me for it when she picks my head up off of the plate to take it away.  I guess on one hand, I could blame the fact that I have half the testosterone that I did pre-surgery.  However, if I do that, I may have to explain why, which will be good for the Movember movement to talk about testicular cancer, but I don't know that I should walk around tomorrow telling everyone I see about my balls...er, ball.

So that's where I am at.  I have to get up at a normal hour.  I have to stay awake all day.  I have to walk around with less hair on my lip than an old lady.  And I have to keep it together, because after all, this means I am almost back to normal, and that is kind of an emotional thing to deal with as well.  There is part of me that is dying to get back to normal, and a certain part that is scared and not sure if I am ready yet.  Oh and if Murphy's Law exists, I did some research and people on my chemo, tend to lose their hair between the third and fourth week, which pretty much starts tomorrow.  So, if I am going to lose it, I am sure it will fall out during my volunteer meeting or lunch, either of which are going to make a very awkward scene.  Hopefully I will have enough strength at the end of the day tomorrow to tell how things went.

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.

Me and My Boat Hate Cancer

Today was like the past few.  I woke up having to pee, having to drink, and just as tired as when I went to bed. I am doing a little better today though.  I only had to take one nap.  Although the cabin fever is driving me crazy, I can't seem to find the energy to do much anyway.  The best solution I can come up with is that someone tie me up like a marionette and move my arms and legs for me.  If that happens, there are all kinds of places to go and things I would like to do.

But there was one thing I had to do.  Supposedly the temperature is going to flirt with the freezing mark tomorrow.  I have been putting off winterizing one of the boats and still didn't want to do it today, but I have put to much work into it to have it ruined now.  This boat isn't huge by most standards, but on its trailer, it comes up to my chest.  This is a little bit of a problem for a guy that is still recovering from having his abdomen sliced open.  On one hand it seems like my surgery was a lifetime ago (and I guess in a sense it was), but I still feel the tug on that side when I make certain movements, and I actually won't get the all clear for my surgery for another two weeks.  I gather my tools and antifreeze and very carefully manage to climb into my boat, trying to only put the strain on the unsliced portion of my body, while keeping my sliced up part straight and slowly angling it up and over the side of the boat.  I finally manage to get in, with just a slight pull on my incision, I slide the boat cover off to give me plenty of room to work, and I get ready to settle down next to the engine when I see...all of my tools still sitting on the table.  I now have to get back out of the boat, which is actually more difficult, and I use the fat-kid-getting-out-of-the-swimming-pool approach.  I get on my stomach, spin to swing my legs over, I have to stop and think which leg has to go first, because at one point all of my weight will be put on one leg, and if I put it on the wrong leg, I will end up putting all of my weight on my butt on the concrete.  I shimmy down in a move that would have made James Brown proud (and I think at one point during the maneuver I actually did end up jumping back and kissing myself...at least I hope that was myself).  I gather everything and place it on the back of the boat and start to board again looking like a drunk gymnast on the uneven bars.  The good news is, the actual winterizing went surprisingly easy.  I closed the boat back up, put my tools away, and start to get a little down.

See, this boat has been a three year project.  I was one mechanical piece away from having it on the water.  Life being what it is, all summer I struggled to find time to finish the last little bit.  When I was laid off, my immediate thought was to finish it up while on severance and waiting for a job and this project would be finally be done.  Then I got cancer.  It is times like these that make you really hate the disease.  I have said before I feel like cancer took two months of my summer, and it took this too.  The part that really bothers me is work inside the boat has to be done at certain temperatures.  If it is too cold, you can crack the fiberglass just by getting into it while it's on the trailer.  As I am shutting my shop back up, I got mad, I got depressed, I got sweaty, and I got tired again.  Now I am even more mad.  I can't even get mad without getting winded!

After a two or three hour nap, my parents call.  During the conversation, they mention they are looking for another vehicle.  I get mad at cancer again.  I had planned on getting one of my spare vehicles rebuilt for them after the boat.  The reality of the situation is, that if I had finished the boat, I probably would have spent too much time on it the rest of the summer to finish that vehicle for them, but that isn't the point.  The point is because of cancer I will never know.  For the past two months, cancer has controlled what I can do, where I can go, what I can eat and drink, when I sleep, when I stay awake, just about every aspect of my life and I am getting really (curse word) tired of it!!!  Even when I get furious about it and want to do something, all I can summon the energy to do is nap.

Tomorrow, I go to my cancer group.  It can be a depressing setting sometimes, but I still walk out of there feeling better.  It really is what it advertises to be, just a place where you and your cancer colleagues can talk about how you are feeling and how to deal with it.  My only apprehension about going tomorrow, is I have some errands I would like to run as well.  I am afraid to do my errands, because at the rate I have been going I will be exhausted by group.  Again, cancer is acting like a helicopter parent.  You aren't going to the music store and the bike shop before group are you?  You may get tired.  And you better take a jacket, it is supposed to be a little chilly tomorrow and you know how you get when you are fighting cancer... 

The only bright spot of today is that I am still tired, because I did limit myself to one nap.  I have been fretting over getting the boat winterized, so at least that is one thing I don't have to worry about now.  So maybe, with a little less on my mind and still being tired, I will go to sleep before 3am.  And tomorrow I will get to talk to the people at the cancer clubhouse.  If I can run two or three errands on the way, it will be a good day.

Which Is More Tiring, Chemo or the Shake Weight?

CHEMO IS KICKING MY BUTT!!!  I was doing great yesterday.  In fact, long about our third hour at the hospital yesterday, even though the nurse wasn't there for me, she did mention that she used to work with chemo patients.  Since we had plenty of time to just sit around waiting, I decided to pick her brain.  I told her how great I had been feeling physically and asking if it was normal.  The nurse said some people aren't affected by chemo much, some feel affects gradually, and some it comes on all of a sudden.  She also said how important it was to stay away from sick people.  She says this as we are in our third hour in a hospital.  I don't know if you are aware, but there are four places sick people like to go, hospitals, elementary schools, anywhere with a buffet, and cruise ships (I imagine the sick people go to the cruise ships because of the buffets).  The only saving grace was for about an hour and a half of our hospital stay, we were in a room by ourselves.

Fast forward twelve hours and I am waking up dying of thirst again, except this time things are a little different.  It feels like I gargled with sand in my sleep.  Now, ever since my diagnosis I have been having some strange dreams.  The other night I had a dream that I had lost all my hair that was so vivid I woke up and touched my head and looked at the pillow because I was so sure that it really happened.  However, I don't think that I have taken up sleep gargling, especially with sand.  I guess there is a possibility since basenjis are African dogs and both of ours are originally from Florida, there is a chance that sleeping in various yoga positions between these two downward-facing dogs that some residual sand fell into my throat.  I would hope that we are bathing them a little better than that.  I have the increasing thirst (up to about a gallon and three quarts a day at this point), I have the scratchy throat, and then half way through the day, I feel like I just finished a marathon.  Well at least I assume it feels like after you run a marathon, except without the feeling that I have accomplished something.

And speaking of not accomplishing anything, that is exactly what is driving me crazy at this point.  We are getting to the point in my chemo treatment where by blood count is bottoming out, so I am pretty much grounded at this point, and unlike being grounded in high school I didn't get to do anything fun and stupid to warrant it.  Sitting around the house is definitely giving me cabin fever.  I sort of hurt myself on the elliptical machine yesterday, and running from the car into the hospital yesterday to check on my wife shook some things that haven't been shaken for a while and I am feeling it today.  OK, now when I say running, keep in mind I am a little more than a month out from my surgery, so what felt like a run to me, was probably like that horrible race-walking thing that was popular for about ten minutes in the nineties before everyone realized how ridiculous it looks to run like you are trying to get to the restroom after eating spoiled Mexican food leftovers.  Since I can't seem to concentrate enough right now to read anything, I have been watching hours on end of daytime television and today I caved in...I bought something I saw that was sold on TV.  I bought a Shake Weight.

We have a decent collection of exercise equipment here at the house.  We have a weight machine, lots of free weights, an elliptical machine, exercise bikes, an ab machine, and a rower.  The rower, ab machine, and weights all put too much stress on my still healing incision from my nutectomy.  The elliptical machine ended up hurting that area as well, but not too seriously.  And obviously, with the trauma that has befallen my crotchal area, I am more than just a little afraid to hop on anything with a bicycle seat right now.  So, outside of the Wii, I haven't been getting any exercise at all.  The Shake Weight looked so cheesy and lame, it didn't seem like there was any possible way it could actually hurt anything, and maybe I would feel like I did something.  Let me just set two things straight, I bought the MEN'S Shake Weight and I don't for a second think that this thing is going to make me look anything like the guys in the commercial or on the box.  But it will have me doing something except walking to the next room for new water bottles all day.  So as we run an errand today, I did it.  I walked over to where they were and I picked one up, and felt immediately embarrassed.  I look like crap.  Because of the surgery, I am still walking around in public in pants with elastic waistbands.  What if people think that I actually believe the commercials?!?!  Of course we were in a large mega-store and these things were in the back.  I have to walk all the way to the front, which felt like an approximately seven mile walk, while trying to conceal the identity of what I am carrying.  I would have felt more comfortable carrying tampons, condoms, a Playgirl magazine, and Preparation H.  I had to resist the urge to tell the cashier I was buying it for a "friend" or as a gag gift.  But it's home now and I have been using it.  I don't know if it is doing any good or not, but at least I feel like it is doing something.  Who knows, with the weight I am losing from chemo, and all the time I will be spending in front of the TV doing nothing but Shake Weighting, maybe I will end up looking like the guy in the commercials.  No, not the Shake Weight commercial, the Subway commercials, except I hope I resemble the after photos more than the before.

So here I sit, feeling like crap, shaking overpriced crap, and watching crap on TV.  I just am counting the days (3) until I bottom out on my blood count, because I know after that it is all about getting better and feeling better.  It's good to know the end is in sight.  And I am taking comfort that I am not the dumbest person in the world.  The dumbest person in the world would be whoever the "Warning" sticker on the Shake Weight was printed for.  "Keep Shake Weight at least 6 inches away from your face while exercising."  They wouldn't have to put that on there unless at least one person hadn't already Shake Weighted their jaw.  Personally I say leave the sticker off and let's get some natural selection happening here.  At least that's what I say now, I may change my tune after I Shake Weight myself a black eye.  Right now I think I will hop off of here, do a few more "reps", drink some more, and collapse into bed.  Maybe I will take my Shake Weight with me...