Garage Diem

After something like a bt hits you, you're supposed to appreciate every moment. Seize the day! Don't waste time and stuff.

So after I ate a mushroom and cheese and garlic omelet this afternoon while watching the Cubs vs. the Cards, I hit our garage. And for the first time ever since moving in over seven years ago, I cleaned it.

I carried heavy stuff into the enormous dumpster in front. I threw little stuff into the garbage cans in back. I put whatever people might want into the alley.

And I rearranged things--little garden items here, bigger tools against the walls, car stuff on the other side. And I swept swept swept ancient poison and dirt that inhaling must have been like smoking half a bag of Drums.

and when i was done
all i wanted
was a shower and a beer
and if Karla were here
she would kill me
and I'd say
all I was missing was a boombox
playing the smiths or something
stop me if you think you've heard this one before

maybe tomorrow i'll take care of the attic
if I'm not too sore

Maybe I Should Change the Title? Celebrate!

I was up late last night reading a blog. I never do that. But I read somewhere else yesterday about a certain fellow alumnus that had a blog re: a certain issue. Karla's in Amsterdam on biz--poor thing, and I miss the Belgian chocolate out of her, no matter how much she may enjoy it out there--so I felt I had to stay up and check this thing out.

Well I kept on reading and I got so inspired and shocked by the similarities, I blog-responded the writer. I never do that. So just in case she visits this space, and just in case others do, too, know this: I had my first post-chemo MRI a couple weeks ago. And it was great. Yes I was nervous and I don't know why cuz we knew the attitude to go in there with.

But let's be real.

And this is real: the results were great. Life is great. Karla is great. Love is great. And you know who/what/where/when/why else is great?

As we say w/the rabbi, as I say every morning, every night, a few times a day: el na ri fa na la, thank you lord for healing and continuing to heal me always, amen.

By the way, on the way home from that long MRI/results afternoon, we did what we always do to celebrate: pints of Guinness at Galvin's. Prescribed, I believe.

Boy's Funeral Saturday; Sunday, Old Man's Death

birds they be feastin after 2 days of showers
and death there be 2 now in 24 hours:
yesterday's funeral, myles was just four
near the next state, on the south side so far
and in that state, the next day, a man near a century
lived in a town of three hundred fifty
breathed his last laughing breath when they pulled the plastic plugs
and the grave plot he's saved, they'll soon begin to dig
so in between there's some jewboy who wants to live live live live
cuz he recognizes life and he's in love love love love
and at the same time this death stuff make him why? what? huh? why?
cuz the 4 year old had a brain tumor especially
but i will live & love cuz i ain't forgettin
the songs they sang with myles' coffin open
and the travelin that ol' grandpa ron did when
there was no bullshit worldwide web to check in
(nonetheless i'll take my travel writer
and do my damned best to excite her
and introduce her to a rabbi & love
while she kisses my flowers with life)

written 4.26.09

Myles

His name was Myles, not was, but is, and he wasn't even five years old but he died yesterday morning after spending the last nine months or so in the hospital. Yes, it was a brain tumor.

I saw him in rehab when this whole thing had started, it was last summer and we could all see Lake Michigan from his ninth floor window downtown. It was a sunny day, we were all smiling, Myles, too, even his also young roommate who I can still see today.

Why can I still see him, with my terrible memory? Even with that hole in my head from that surgery from the last century?

Myles, I see your face, too. I see your smile. If I were angry, I'd wonder why. But I work with your grandmother, Myles. And she came to work today. She was dressed in black over her sweet Jesus-loving black skin, and when I hugged her tight for ten seconds that seemed like a minute, I couldn't be angry at anyone about anything.

But I am sorry, so, so sorry that this kind of peace came so, so early.

Questions, Answers, and Whiskey Celebrations

Two weeks ago I had a good MRI. The thing hasn't disappeared or anything but things have been stable for a while. Here's to radiation. Here's to Temodar.

Or is it?

Cuz what did what? Get it? I did them both at the same time over two years ago, continued with the chemo thing, so who's to get the trophy?

Besides me, that is. Cuz I'm still here. Still here with love and the ability to write such gushy words as that too.

So back to the song: How many rounds of chemo can this Jewish boxer swallow, how many pills can he stand? The answer my friend, is no one really knows, cuz this stuff ain't been out long enough for anyone to be too sure.

It's always up to you, patients; it's always up to you. And the people you ask, and what your doctor tells you, and what your uncle the doctor tells you, and what the rabbi tells you, and what your parents tell you, and what your sister tells you, and what you hear inside, what you hear inside, enough's enough, enough's enough, not because you can't take it anymore cuz you can but because the poison's done all it can now and you have overcome this fucking monster, you hear me? I have overcome you, fucking dead armless grendel, and a decision has been made and on next Monday night instead of beginning to take the poison we will celebrate with Maker's Mark, straight up; we will celebrate with whiskey, god, and love.

Musicowackia

I should also let y'all know I'm written about in Oliver Sacks' big hit Musicophilia. O, that pen pal pal of mine. Check out chapter two of that cool book of his and you can read more details on our communicadoship.

I sent Dr. Sacks a copy of The Year of Death about a month ago. I doubt he'd ever follow the link and read it online.

And what if he responds? In a good way? With one of those sentences or two that you find on the cover or back cover like he's done hundreds of times already? Do you think he even writes them? Or does his assistant write those, too?

Out of the Blogger Closet? Eric's Brain Tumor Blog?

OK, OK. I see this book is out called The Adventures of Cancer Bitch by Sandi Wisenberg. What kind of an idea is that? A Jewish cancer blog book??? Maybe I should start shopping mine as The Spiritual Enterprise of a Brain Tumor Schmuck?