Fuck You, Ortho-McNeil Janssen. And Insurance Companies, too.

Once upon a time I used to have seizures.  Brain tumors might cause 'em, y'know.

The neurologist, Dr. B and I, we rolled the dice with different pills and my head.  Maybe this combo will work, he said.

A lot of times, they didn't.

So we kept adding this and that, more and more Topamax, let's try that.  And one day, yes one day, it worked.

And I worked.  And I still work.  And I pay for insurance.  And I used to pay $60 every 3 months for the magical drug.  Not much, I know.  But think about how else I paid.

Then one day, see, the Generic Costume entered.  What's the difference, right?

According to Dr. B, a big one.  No way, he say.  With this drug, stick with the real thing.  The one that works.  So I told Caremark, my insurance drug company, those exact words.

Fine, they said, just pay for it.

Huh?

And it jumped from $60 to $832.  Three months later it was $916.  And today, three months later, it's $1082.

I want to try the generic, but my doctor's against it.  Karla's against it.  Even Rabbi Doug's against it.  And considering how much money they're fucking me for, I'm sure Ortho-McNeil Janssen and Caremark are against it, too.

Find Great Ways to Eat Cheap Food

Cool enough to have an ipod?  Check out Chicago Cheap Eats by clicking on that cool app logo below.  Spend less than a buck and discover six dozen-plus ways to eat and drink in a beautiful cheap way.

OK.  I'm biased.  It's created by Karla, my PFL.  And even the cool logo is created by our friend Ray.

But subjectivity doth not exist.  Don't you forget it.

A Successful Update

Monday Karla met me after work and we drove to the hospital.  We waited in the waiting room.  And waited.  Then my name was called and I was escorted to the newer, fancier MRI.

This one'll pick up anything, said the technician.

The booms and the bangs and the stops and the starts accompanied my kabbalah prayers; it was an orchestral chant sung by a machine brain and a choir.

We drove home and I ellipticized.


Tuesday Karla met me after work and we drove to the hospital.  We waited in the doctor's office.  And waited.  This always seems like forever.  Results please, results.  The door's closed.  It's a small room.  Bigger than the MRI maybe, but not while we're waiting.

We pray.  Sometimes out loud, or out quiet, often to ourselves.  Keep seeing her in your head walking into the room saying everything's better than ever--that's what the rabbi says--keep seeing her in your head walking into the room saying it's gone.

So we do that.  Then she knocks on the door.  And she walks in the room and says everything's OK.  She shows us the MRI on the screen, compares this to that, blah blah blah; confirms my prescription amounts, blah blah blah; asks me how long I've been off chemo and says wow.

Is that good to hear wow from your doctor?

Yes.

We met friends at a bar, the same bar we always go to celebrate the victory, and with cheers, I say, with cheers, el na rifa na la.

P.S.  Yesterday a friend shared good news re: her own brain MRI this week.  K and I toasted her last night with our Friday night martini.  Among other thankses.  Wow.

Friday thru Sunday drinks; Sunday thru Tuesday MRI plans

Friday night was martini night.  Our toast had a hint of Hebrew.

Last night we had a cocktail post-theater with performers whose writing and talent inspire me to call Miki this week and start something new.  My fingers are itching.

And this afternoon we shared wine with the rabbi and discussed his current healing book plans among other things.  Then he healed me.  Completely.  El na rifa na la.

Last MRI we saw Rabbi Doug on Sunday, got the MRI on Monday, and the results on Tuesday.  This MRI's plans are the same.

MRI tomorrow after work.  Results the day after, after work.  Then wine--or whiskey--or whatever after the results.  In celebration.  And with a toast to Rabbi Doug.

Looking back on '09, A Cheesy Sonnet

Forgive me for beginning this new year with a cheesy sonnet, but here it is.  Happy new year to anyone who may stumble upon this.

20 o 9 included stuff that’s gone
like chemo, but that’s not to say ‘twas wrong
in fact, must’ve been right, cuz me still here
after taking that poison 4-plus years
but it’s more than poison, let’s talk about god
el na rifa na la, the light of the lord
is my soul—i chant it maybe 25
times a day—one of the reasons i’m still alive?
yes, exercise; yes, eating right; yes, sleeping
enough hours; but you know what’s keeping me
here through it all—winter, spring, summer, fall—
true love that radiates beauty like stars
radiates energy that never leaves scars
may our new decade bring love that heals.

I Spoke to Her Yesterday After Her Breasts Were Removed

I called my buddy to see how his wife was doing.  She had her breasts removed a couple days ago.

She didn't even have cancer in them.  Not yet, anyway.  But some kind of test, and looking at her family history, had the doctors tell her We suggest removal.

Karla and I said a healing prayer for her on Friday, the day of her surgery.  We toasted her good health with our Friday night martini.  And yesterday, Sunday, when I asked how she was doing, he said OK, then he put her on the phone.

I didn't expect to talk to her.  I wasn't ready.  I was, um, nervous.  I was wearing a sweatshirt and I began to sweat.  I'm only saying this now to get it out there because I'm a guy and I spoke to a woman who had just had her two breasts surgically removed 48 hours earlier--breasts that didn't even have anything wrong with them--yet.  We spoke and I paced back and forth but I swear it was great to hear her voice.

She told me how she told her kids.  And I can't imagine hearing such news from my mom as a thirteen year old boy.

She told me about the discomfort.  And as a guy I can't imagine that kind of discomfort in that part of the body.

But enough of this stuff.  I told you how I felt last night when I spoke to her and I know she's brave for what she went through.

El na rifa na la.  Thank you, lord, for healing x.

Last Week's NYT Was Abbey Road

Look at this picture:













Does it remind you of this one?













The top is from last Sunday's New York Times' cover story about M.D. Anderson Center in Houston and it's called "A Place Where Cancer is the Norm." The 2nd one is Abbey Road.

I thought of the Beatles with my cup of black coffee as I read about the hospital dedicated to all kinds of cancer. And today, the following Sunday, as I go through my ritual of throwing away the previous Sunday's NYT to replace it with today's, I think of Abbey Road again.

And I look up the song titles. And I see how they fit:

• "Something" (cancer)

• "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" (bang bang, MSH came down upon her head--radiation? surgery?)

• "(She's So Heavy)"

• "Here Comes the Sun" (this is the Kabbalah and Love part from the Hare Krishna guitar whiz who died from cancer. including brain.)

• "You Never Give Me Your Money" (the opposite of the truth when it comes to the health insurance companies and pharmaceutical industry, esp. when it comes to cancer)

• "Mean Mr. Mustard" (see above)

• "Golden Slumbers", "Carry that Weight", and "The End" (it's all too obvious, those three)

Ah, music. Music and cancer. Music and cancer and a photograph in the New York Times. Over coffee. On a Sunday morning. When I'm supposed to be resting.

You say you want a revolution? Too bad. That's the White Album.