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.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Monday, November 16, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
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:
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.
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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Formerly The Year of Death, http://theyearofdeath.blogspot.com/
On the eve of The Day of the Dead, I've changed the name of The Year of Death.It's Halloween.
And Karla keeps stealing the Milk Duds and the Skittles.
Trick or treat.
Tomorrow is El Día de los Muertos. It's shorter than The Year, but it keeps coming back.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Exercise Makes You Happy, Even if You're a Radiated Mouse
ScienceDaily (Oct. 19, 2009) — Exercise is a key factor in improving both memory and mood after whole-brain radiation treatments in rodents, according to data presented by Duke University scientists at the Society for Neuroscience meeting.
Now wouldn't you know it? Memory and mood can be helped by exercise. Even after radiation. Even in rodents.
So saith the neuroscientists; thus saith the lord.
"This is the first demonstration that exercise can prevent a decline in memory after whole-brain radiation treatment," said lead researcher and graduate student Sarah Wong-Goodrich of the Duke Department of Psychology and Neuroscience.
Exercise appears to actually protect against the loss of memory and the increase in depressive-like behaviors, Wong-Goodrich said.
"Once a patient gets a doctor's clearance, I think exercise is a good thing during whole-brain radiation," he [Researcher Lee W. Jones, Ph.D.] said. "I think telling patients to take it easy is the worst advice we can give, because we know they will become deconditioned physically, and this study shows exercise potentially could provide cognitive and psychological benefits."
This work was supported by grants from the National Institutes of Health and the Duke University Comprehensive Cancer Center.
We had to study mickey on a grant and we couldn't just survey human patients?
Yes, I think this was a mousy project and I hope too much money wasn't wasted on it. (There was an article in the New York Times this past summer saying projects had to be silly like this to win the lottery.)
How'd I remember that?
I tell you this: I was about to get on the elliptical. And I's gwanna get on it anyways. Cuz I wanna remember things like a rat.
Now wouldn't you know it? Memory and mood can be helped by exercise. Even after radiation. Even in rodents.
So saith the neuroscientists; thus saith the lord.
"This is the first demonstration that exercise can prevent a decline in memory after whole-brain radiation treatment," said lead researcher and graduate student Sarah Wong-Goodrich of the Duke Department of Psychology and Neuroscience.
Exercise appears to actually protect against the loss of memory and the increase in depressive-like behaviors, Wong-Goodrich said.
"Once a patient gets a doctor's clearance, I think exercise is a good thing during whole-brain radiation," he [Researcher Lee W. Jones, Ph.D.] said. "I think telling patients to take it easy is the worst advice we can give, because we know they will become deconditioned physically, and this study shows exercise potentially could provide cognitive and psychological benefits."
This work was supported by grants from the National Institutes of Health and the Duke University Comprehensive Cancer Center.
We had to study mickey on a grant and we couldn't just survey human patients?
Yes, I think this was a mousy project and I hope too much money wasn't wasted on it. (There was an article in the New York Times this past summer saying projects had to be silly like this to win the lottery.)
How'd I remember that?
I tell you this: I was about to get on the elliptical. And I's gwanna get on it anyways. Cuz I wanna remember things like a rat.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Can You Really Be Friends With Your Neuro-Oncologist?
I don't think I can be friends with my neuro-oncologist. You think I'm being silly?
She's saved your life, you say? She's intelligent; she's pretty. Why can't she be your friend?
Because I don't think we could really be friends.
When we're together, in the same room, like we were today, just hours ago, I'm so focused on the images of my brain that shine behind her that I can't pay attention to the words she says.
I mean, I can only pay attention to my brain. All 16 images of them. This hole here, that hole there, the white, the black, the white, and so on.
If we ever bumped into each other at a Cubs game or a play, my words would stumble. And she'd think it was a seizure.
But it wouldn't be the kind she was used to reading about, no, it would be an outrotextbook kind but she wouldn't accept that as an excuse.
She called me a boring patient today, I think. Because I had a stable MRI. And that was the sweetest thing she ever said.
She's saved your life, you say? She's intelligent; she's pretty. Why can't she be your friend?
Because I don't think we could really be friends.
When we're together, in the same room, like we were today, just hours ago, I'm so focused on the images of my brain that shine behind her that I can't pay attention to the words she says.
I mean, I can only pay attention to my brain. All 16 images of them. This hole here, that hole there, the white, the black, the white, and so on.
If we ever bumped into each other at a Cubs game or a play, my words would stumble. And she'd think it was a seizure.
But it wouldn't be the kind she was used to reading about, no, it would be an outrotextbook kind but she wouldn't accept that as an excuse.
She called me a boring patient today, I think. Because I had a stable MRI. And that was the sweetest thing she ever said.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Yom Kippur, and Papa Smiled
For years this Jew worked on the Jewish holidays because he never even thought about belief.
And then came cancer. Again. And then he met the rabbi.
For the last two years, I think, I've done the go to the night time service then go to work the next day strategy. Uno steppo at el timo, I call it.
Then I got the call. The rabbi would like to honor you by having you carry the Torah around in the procession Monday morning, said the old woman's voice.
And I had to think about it. And now that I think about it, I wonder if it was a test. Was it by the rabbi? By Papa? By god?
And as I walked around, carrying the heavy, holy scrolls, I felt like I was the rock star I had never become. Everyone reached out to touch and kiss what I had in my arms on this most important day.
The temperature plummeted last night. The wind blew trashcan lids in the alleys. Our seven foot tall sunflowers were bent over and bouncing and no longer yellow and standing tall.
And all of us in the temple were begging for forgiveness and asking to get written in the book of life. For one more year at least. One more year of life and love.
When I listened to Rabbi Doug chant from that Torah that I had just carried around the temple for everyone to kiss, I saw my grandfather and grandmother, and my Uncle Mitch in the room as angels, and they danced next to the rabbi with 11,000 more.
When Karla and I made it home after a near-four hour service, we stopped at Whole Foods, and picked up gluten free cupcakes with thick white frosting. Once home, we gave each other toasts as if we were drinking martinis, and broke our fasts with sweet cupcakes and a kiss.
And then came cancer. Again. And then he met the rabbi.
For the last two years, I think, I've done the go to the night time service then go to work the next day strategy. Uno steppo at el timo, I call it.
Then I got the call. The rabbi would like to honor you by having you carry the Torah around in the procession Monday morning, said the old woman's voice.
And I had to think about it. And now that I think about it, I wonder if it was a test. Was it by the rabbi? By Papa? By god?
And as I walked around, carrying the heavy, holy scrolls, I felt like I was the rock star I had never become. Everyone reached out to touch and kiss what I had in my arms on this most important day.
The temperature plummeted last night. The wind blew trashcan lids in the alleys. Our seven foot tall sunflowers were bent over and bouncing and no longer yellow and standing tall.
And all of us in the temple were begging for forgiveness and asking to get written in the book of life. For one more year at least. One more year of life and love.
When I listened to Rabbi Doug chant from that Torah that I had just carried around the temple for everyone to kiss, I saw my grandfather and grandmother, and my Uncle Mitch in the room as angels, and they danced next to the rabbi with 11,000 more.
When Karla and I made it home after a near-four hour service, we stopped at Whole Foods, and picked up gluten free cupcakes with thick white frosting. Once home, we gave each other toasts as if we were drinking martinis, and broke our fasts with sweet cupcakes and a kiss.
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