I’m not doing well.
Believe me, that’s a sentence I hoped never to write. However, I’ve no choice, unless I wish to kick the truth aside.
Not doing well. That’s why it has been so long since my last entry in this blog. I now spend almost all my time in bed, so tired I can hardly walk, weak, uninterested in any food other than chocolate ice cream.
I want to write. Not just this blog. I have a novel to rewrite and, of more importance, my memoir. I try to write. But I can’t really. My memory is fouled by chemotherapy. Not just my memory of dates and names but my memory of spelling, of dates, of real happenings in my life.
As bad as I feel, as skinny as I am thanks to chemo, there’s still hope that I’ll get past the treatments and have a year or so to feel better and write and maybe head up to Virginia or someplace with Lynne. I hope that happens.
Now, though, I need to stop writing. I’m too tired.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Times Seem to be Changing
I’m embarrassed. Almost a full month ago, I said my plan was to write this blog more often, even if it meant writing shorter blog-entries.
I haven’t.
I guess I should not have said anything.
The problem is that I’ve been feeling terrible for the past few weeks. It’s all been due to the cancer and the chemo. My weight fell down to about 115 pounds and I’ve been exhausted all day, every day. I’ve had no appetite and some transient pain. As a consequence, I’ve had no real desire to write. Anything.
My typical day started about 5:20 when I woke, had coffee, took pills, shaved and dressed then went to a 7 a.m. A.A. meeting that ends at 8. Typically, I drove home (about a mile) and almost immediately hopped into bed so I could fall asleep. Most of the days I’ve been spending in bed, sleeping or reading. I usually got up at about 5 p.m., ate something for dinner, then watched T.V. with Lynne until about 8:30 when I went to bed.
The last two days have been different. I’ve had no chemo in about three weeks. Instead, I started taking chemo pills yesterday. I’ve felt pretty good. For two days. Yesterday, I was able to have breakfast with Mark Ford, a true friend. The eggs were good but Mark looked sad every time he looked at me. Still, the most recent days have been the best I’ve had in months. God willing, I may be able to start writing again.
I hope so.
I haven’t.
I guess I should not have said anything.
The problem is that I’ve been feeling terrible for the past few weeks. It’s all been due to the cancer and the chemo. My weight fell down to about 115 pounds and I’ve been exhausted all day, every day. I’ve had no appetite and some transient pain. As a consequence, I’ve had no real desire to write. Anything.
My typical day started about 5:20 when I woke, had coffee, took pills, shaved and dressed then went to a 7 a.m. A.A. meeting that ends at 8. Typically, I drove home (about a mile) and almost immediately hopped into bed so I could fall asleep. Most of the days I’ve been spending in bed, sleeping or reading. I usually got up at about 5 p.m., ate something for dinner, then watched T.V. with Lynne until about 8:30 when I went to bed.
The last two days have been different. I’ve had no chemo in about three weeks. Instead, I started taking chemo pills yesterday. I’ve felt pretty good. For two days. Yesterday, I was able to have breakfast with Mark Ford, a true friend. The eggs were good but Mark looked sad every time he looked at me. Still, the most recent days have been the best I’ve had in months. God willing, I may be able to start writing again.
I hope so.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Lynne
I’ve decided to change my approach to this blog. My new plan is to write shorter entries when I’m able.
In the past few months, as my cancer has grown stronger and I’ve grown significantly weaker, I’ve written less and less. Now my hope is that I’ll be able to write brief entries much more often.
Anyway.
Yesterday was Wednesday, Lynne’s birthday. As a rule, we’ve celebrated her birthdays in large ways. There have been lots of gifts, some classy flowers, and dinner in some restaurant she enjoys.
Not this year. She ordered her birthday presents online, with my blessing. And we weren’t able – as we always do – to have an evening meal at a restaurant. Instead, she cooked spaghetti.
I ordered her some flowers which were delivered late in the day. She loved the flowers and a letter I wrote on the computer telling her how important she is to me and how wonderful our life together has been.
I have a terrible feeling that this is the last of her birthdays we’ll share. I don’t like that but I figured it was going to happen this year or next.
In the past few months, as my cancer has grown stronger and I’ve grown significantly weaker, I’ve written less and less. Now my hope is that I’ll be able to write brief entries much more often.
Anyway.
Yesterday was Wednesday, Lynne’s birthday. As a rule, we’ve celebrated her birthdays in large ways. There have been lots of gifts, some classy flowers, and dinner in some restaurant she enjoys.
Not this year. She ordered her birthday presents online, with my blessing. And we weren’t able – as we always do – to have an evening meal at a restaurant. Instead, she cooked spaghetti.
I ordered her some flowers which were delivered late in the day. She loved the flowers and a letter I wrote on the computer telling her how important she is to me and how wonderful our life together has been.
I have a terrible feeling that this is the last of her birthdays we’ll share. I don’t like that but I figured it was going to happen this year or next.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My Oldest Son
Roughly 28 years ago, on a Summer morning, I kissed my sons Dylan and Eamon good bye as they slept in their little beds in a home I shared with the woman who was my second wife. They didn’t wake and that was fine with me. I was, I knew, on my way to the county sheriff’s office, jail, and eventually prison. I also knew my wife – Cathy – would divorce me and do what she could to make sure that she and my sons would never have to be part of my life again.
I kissed the two kids goodbye and almost ran a mile or so from our house to a bar on a big highway passing through New Port Richey, a joint only a half-mile or so from the county sheriff’s office. I didn’t have a great deal of money but I did have enough to get drunk and that’s exactly what I wanted.
For the next three hours, I sat in the bar drinking vodka and grapefruit juice, my favorite early morning kicker. I smoked and joked and listened to the juke box and tried to pick up an old Cuban woman and drank and drank and drank. Finally, I ran out of money. I sat there for a moment wishing I had the guts to kill myself and then, knowing I had no real choice to do anything different, I left the bar and walked to the sheriff’s office.
I was drunk enough that I stumbled and fell in the parking area outside the office. Some officer knelt over me, thinking I might have been hurt, and then saw to it that I was immediately locked in a holding cell. From there, after three days of terrible withdrawal, I was shipped to the county jail in Dade City and, eventually, the state prison system. All because of little crimes I committed when I was drunk.
What crimes?
How about this? I forged five checks for a total of $30…all cashed at a bar where I spent a lot of time drinking. Anyway, this cost me a five-year sentence – that worked out to right at two-and-a-half behind bars.
Anyway. I figured for years, many years, that I’d never see my sons again. Cathy divorced me and I didn’t blame her. I still wasn’t much of a prize. She moved west to a place I don’t know and lived in a way I have no reason to understand. Once, though, one time after my time in prison, I was able to meet Dylan and Eamon again. It wasn’t much of a visit. Just two hours with two little boys who really had no reason to give a damn. That was a long time ago.
Then, about four years ago, things started to change. Eamon, my younger son, wanted to know me. We met and spent time together. He got married and since then I’ve grown to know his wife and, now, their little son, my grandson, the cutest kid ever born.
We see each other when we can. We love each other and we say it. I love his wife, Jennifer, and their baby boy, Ayden. But I haven’t seen Dylan, my first child, even once, for one moment, in a string of more than 20 years.
A couple of years ago we began sending rare e-mails. Eventually, he called and we spoke briefly. We grew slowly closer, not real close, but closer.
Sunday, I got to see him, his wife and his beautiful daughter, Chloe. My ex-wife Cathy was there too, along with her husband and Eamon's wife and child. This wasn't really expected. We were together for an afternoon. We talked a bit and had a couple of pictures taken. Before he left, I got to embrace him. I told him I love him and he didn’t answer but that’s okay. At least I saw him and talked with him and held him. I was with my first son. After all these years. Isn’t that something?
I kissed the two kids goodbye and almost ran a mile or so from our house to a bar on a big highway passing through New Port Richey, a joint only a half-mile or so from the county sheriff’s office. I didn’t have a great deal of money but I did have enough to get drunk and that’s exactly what I wanted.
For the next three hours, I sat in the bar drinking vodka and grapefruit juice, my favorite early morning kicker. I smoked and joked and listened to the juke box and tried to pick up an old Cuban woman and drank and drank and drank. Finally, I ran out of money. I sat there for a moment wishing I had the guts to kill myself and then, knowing I had no real choice to do anything different, I left the bar and walked to the sheriff’s office.
I was drunk enough that I stumbled and fell in the parking area outside the office. Some officer knelt over me, thinking I might have been hurt, and then saw to it that I was immediately locked in a holding cell. From there, after three days of terrible withdrawal, I was shipped to the county jail in Dade City and, eventually, the state prison system. All because of little crimes I committed when I was drunk.
What crimes?
How about this? I forged five checks for a total of $30…all cashed at a bar where I spent a lot of time drinking. Anyway, this cost me a five-year sentence – that worked out to right at two-and-a-half behind bars.
Anyway. I figured for years, many years, that I’d never see my sons again. Cathy divorced me and I didn’t blame her. I still wasn’t much of a prize. She moved west to a place I don’t know and lived in a way I have no reason to understand. Once, though, one time after my time in prison, I was able to meet Dylan and Eamon again. It wasn’t much of a visit. Just two hours with two little boys who really had no reason to give a damn. That was a long time ago.
Then, about four years ago, things started to change. Eamon, my younger son, wanted to know me. We met and spent time together. He got married and since then I’ve grown to know his wife and, now, their little son, my grandson, the cutest kid ever born.
We see each other when we can. We love each other and we say it. I love his wife, Jennifer, and their baby boy, Ayden. But I haven’t seen Dylan, my first child, even once, for one moment, in a string of more than 20 years.
A couple of years ago we began sending rare e-mails. Eventually, he called and we spoke briefly. We grew slowly closer, not real close, but closer.
Sunday, I got to see him, his wife and his beautiful daughter, Chloe. My ex-wife Cathy was there too, along with her husband and Eamon's wife and child. This wasn't really expected. We were together for an afternoon. We talked a bit and had a couple of pictures taken. Before he left, I got to embrace him. I told him I love him and he didn’t answer but that’s okay. At least I saw him and talked with him and held him. I was with my first son. After all these years. Isn’t that something?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Bad News
The last time I contributed to this blog, I felt pretty good. I was convinced I’d be able to start writing regularly, creating needed chapters for my two in-the-works books and writing pages I want to leave for my grandson and granddaughter.
Too bad. I can barely write at all.
For about 35 years before I grew sick, I spent basically every day writing. After a history as a newspaper reporter and editor and a long time as a magazine editor, I found an opportunity to write at home. I worked mornings creating marketing copy for one of the nation’s champion direct mail companies. Every afternoon, after a rest, I’d turn my full attention to working on one of the non-fiction books I found attractive. I’ve written without anything like breaks longer than just a few days. I produced thousands of words of direct marketing copy ever day along with at least one thousand words for whatever book I was working on.
No more.
This blog copy has already taken four days. I’m not going to give up. I try to work on my books. I plan to add to my blog at least every two weeks. Wish me luck.
Too bad. I can barely write at all.
For about 35 years before I grew sick, I spent basically every day writing. After a history as a newspaper reporter and editor and a long time as a magazine editor, I found an opportunity to write at home. I worked mornings creating marketing copy for one of the nation’s champion direct mail companies. Every afternoon, after a rest, I’d turn my full attention to working on one of the non-fiction books I found attractive. I’ve written without anything like breaks longer than just a few days. I produced thousands of words of direct marketing copy ever day along with at least one thousand words for whatever book I was working on.
No more.
This blog copy has already taken four days. I’m not going to give up. I try to work on my books. I plan to add to my blog at least every two weeks. Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Back to Work
I feel okay today.
Now, there’s a statement I honestly feared I’d never make again. But I do. Feel good, or at least pretty good.
Just two days ago, I honestly thought I would never feel worse. I was tired, shaky, nauseous, breathless and too weak to walk…the way I’d pretty much felt for the last couple of months, only worse. I figured it went with the territory.
My wife drove me to the VA for my regularly scheduled chemotherapy session.
It didn’t work out. As soon as a nurse took my vital signs, I was hurried to the ER. My blood pressure was 70/42. That’s low.
I’m not going to go into the diagnosis except to say that low blood pressure was partly a result of the cardio surgery I had a couple of weeks ago and partly caused by the fact that I was taking medicine that had been prescribed a year ago to lower my blood pressure. I wasn’t drinking enough liquids.
Anyway, I spent the day in the ER, on my back on a stretcher-bed with an IV something stuck in my chemotherapy port. By the late afternoon, I felt pretty good, able to walk. Yesterday was good and so is today.
Over the last few weeks – since my mother died – I’ve not been able to write much of anything. Oh, a lot of that inability stemmed from my physical condition but a lot of it was a reaction to my mom’s death. It just seemed that I couldn’t get my thoughts off my mother, largely because I hadn’t been able to visit her before her passing.
Stretched out in the hospital two days ago, though, I had something of a breakthrough. I realized, that my mother would be appreciative of my sadness, appreciative that I missed her and was going to keep missing her. She would have been enraged, though, if I allowed that perfectly natural sorrow to stand between myself and the writing I still want to do before my own death. "Stop it!" she’d say. "Get back to the computer. Show me you loved me by writing a good book."
My mother was proud of me. I know that. She was happy and proud and thankful that I’d fought my way from a terribly sick and sad and drunken life to a decent life. A life that included her and also includes a wife and my grown up children and my grandchildren. A life that includes some success as an author. A life filled with friends I’ve made since I took my last drink. But she wants me to finish the writing I started two years ago because she knows that’s what will make this period of my life make some kind of sense.
Now, there’s a statement I honestly feared I’d never make again. But I do. Feel good, or at least pretty good.
Just two days ago, I honestly thought I would never feel worse. I was tired, shaky, nauseous, breathless and too weak to walk…the way I’d pretty much felt for the last couple of months, only worse. I figured it went with the territory.
My wife drove me to the VA for my regularly scheduled chemotherapy session.
It didn’t work out. As soon as a nurse took my vital signs, I was hurried to the ER. My blood pressure was 70/42. That’s low.
I’m not going to go into the diagnosis except to say that low blood pressure was partly a result of the cardio surgery I had a couple of weeks ago and partly caused by the fact that I was taking medicine that had been prescribed a year ago to lower my blood pressure. I wasn’t drinking enough liquids.
Anyway, I spent the day in the ER, on my back on a stretcher-bed with an IV something stuck in my chemotherapy port. By the late afternoon, I felt pretty good, able to walk. Yesterday was good and so is today.
Over the last few weeks – since my mother died – I’ve not been able to write much of anything. Oh, a lot of that inability stemmed from my physical condition but a lot of it was a reaction to my mom’s death. It just seemed that I couldn’t get my thoughts off my mother, largely because I hadn’t been able to visit her before her passing.
Stretched out in the hospital two days ago, though, I had something of a breakthrough. I realized, that my mother would be appreciative of my sadness, appreciative that I missed her and was going to keep missing her. She would have been enraged, though, if I allowed that perfectly natural sorrow to stand between myself and the writing I still want to do before my own death. "Stop it!" she’d say. "Get back to the computer. Show me you loved me by writing a good book."
My mother was proud of me. I know that. She was happy and proud and thankful that I’d fought my way from a terribly sick and sad and drunken life to a decent life. A life that included her and also includes a wife and my grown up children and my grandchildren. A life that includes some success as an author. A life filled with friends I’ve made since I took my last drink. But she wants me to finish the writing I started two years ago because she knows that’s what will make this period of my life make some kind of sense.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Mom, Again
It’s been a while since I wrote anything at all. I was sicker than usual for a time and ultimately had to undergo vascular surgery at the VA hospital in Miami. I was – and still am – so weak I can barely walk.
Not long after the surgery, my mother died.
I wasn’t surprised. She was 92 years old. She’d been ill and weak. I do wish I’d not been sick so I could have made my way up to Clearwater on Florida’s West Coast to see her one more time before she slipped away. But it didn’t work out that way.
My brother Patrick told me about her death. She told him, he said, she was ready to go. His daughter, Maura, told me my mother had said the same thing. My mother said she was tired. She said she wanted to be with my father who died about a decade ago. "No more," she said. Then she stopped eating and stopped taking her meds.
I can understand. I really can.
It’s easy for me to imagine my mom on her deathbed, quiet, unmoving, her eyes closed. For a time after her death, that’s the way I thought of her. Then I stopped. Now, when I think of her, I remember the last time I saw her, a couple of months ago. We sat at the table in her family room, talking about politics and my work and laughing a lot. She told stories about family in Ireland and friends in Chicago.
The last night I was with her, ready to drive home very early in the morning, we embraced. She kissed my cheek and I kissed hers. We told each other to be safe. "I love you, Mom," I said. She said the same to me. When we pulled apart, I could see her eyes were wet with tears. She smiled and nodded her head. I knew what she was saying with that smile and nod. That’s what I’ll remember.
Not long after the surgery, my mother died.
I wasn’t surprised. She was 92 years old. She’d been ill and weak. I do wish I’d not been sick so I could have made my way up to Clearwater on Florida’s West Coast to see her one more time before she slipped away. But it didn’t work out that way.
My brother Patrick told me about her death. She told him, he said, she was ready to go. His daughter, Maura, told me my mother had said the same thing. My mother said she was tired. She said she wanted to be with my father who died about a decade ago. "No more," she said. Then she stopped eating and stopped taking her meds.
I can understand. I really can.
It’s easy for me to imagine my mom on her deathbed, quiet, unmoving, her eyes closed. For a time after her death, that’s the way I thought of her. Then I stopped. Now, when I think of her, I remember the last time I saw her, a couple of months ago. We sat at the table in her family room, talking about politics and my work and laughing a lot. She told stories about family in Ireland and friends in Chicago.
The last night I was with her, ready to drive home very early in the morning, we embraced. She kissed my cheek and I kissed hers. We told each other to be safe. "I love you, Mom," I said. She said the same to me. When we pulled apart, I could see her eyes were wet with tears. She smiled and nodded her head. I knew what she was saying with that smile and nod. That’s what I’ll remember.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Mom and Me
My mother is in rehab now. She had surgery about a week ago and is already up, walking (with help), and dealing with her granddaughter’s death about as well as can be expected.
I call her on the phone a couple of times a day. I wish I could get up there, but I’m too sick from the chemo. Yesterday, when I called and asked for mom, a nurse told me she was in the beauty parlor. For reasons that have nothing at all to do with beauty, that was the best news I’d had in while.
# # #
Not surprisingly, I’ve been getting some psychiatric and psychological help for about a year now. It was recommended by one of my chemotherapy nurses after I spent a long chemo session talking about my feelings.
The psychiatrist, whom I really like and admire, doesn’t have me stretch out on a couch or anything like that. We talk for a bit and he makes comments, but he’s really more involved in prescribing drugs than in anything like psychotherapy, and that’s okay with me.
I was in therapy once, for one session. The doctor made a big deal out of telling me I could tell him anything at all and it wouldn’t bother him, and that sounded good to me. So I told him something. I don’t remember what it was (this was about 40 years ago) but it must have been pretty bad because when I looked at the shrink his face was twisted with disgust.
So much for that.
This may come as a surprise to most who know me, but I’m not crazy, or not really crazy. I don’t want to take my own life or harm anybody else, I don’t hear voices, and I have no ideas at all that I am Napoleon or Captain Hook or Al Capone.
I guess that means I don’t really need to see a shrink. What I do need is help dealing with the things are happening in my life, to me and – even more – to people I love. I am sad and sometimes scared. I’m angry. I can’t sleep without aid. I have no energy to speak of. My memory is full of troublesome holes. But I’m not crazy.
That’s where Linda comes in. I call her my therapist though the VA gives her some other title.
She and I have a good relationship. I see her at least twice a month and I am able to tell her the truth without worrying about her judgments. We like each other. She’s helped me accept the truth and know that my feelings are to be expected and are justified.
I saw her last week and when I told her about my mother’s hospitalization and my niece’s suicide she didn’t hide her reaction or retain her professional detachment. She blurted a short sentence that you might expect to hear from a carpenter after he hammers his thumb.
I started to weep, something I’ve been doing a lot of in the last few days. She simply let me cry. And that was okay. I told her what I was feeling and she nodded and she said, "Of course you’re sad and frightened and angry. You should be."
She also told me I needed to focus more on myself. I know the truth of that. I have to take care of myself.
I’m not trying to sound like a candidate for sainthood. But she’s right. I haven’t been thinking about myself…at least not as much as I usually do. "Be nice to yourself," Linda said.
To be honest, right now there aren’t many ways I can be nice to myself. I’ve no appetite to speak of. I don't drink anymore. I can’t go sailing or walking. My libido has left town.
But I can read.
So I went online and ordered two of Garrison Keillor’s books – the only ones I didn’t already have in the stack by my bed.
The books arrived yesterday and I’ve already devoured one. It was wonderful to spend time in Lake Woebegon instead of in my own head.
I call her on the phone a couple of times a day. I wish I could get up there, but I’m too sick from the chemo. Yesterday, when I called and asked for mom, a nurse told me she was in the beauty parlor. For reasons that have nothing at all to do with beauty, that was the best news I’d had in while.
# # #
Not surprisingly, I’ve been getting some psychiatric and psychological help for about a year now. It was recommended by one of my chemotherapy nurses after I spent a long chemo session talking about my feelings.
The psychiatrist, whom I really like and admire, doesn’t have me stretch out on a couch or anything like that. We talk for a bit and he makes comments, but he’s really more involved in prescribing drugs than in anything like psychotherapy, and that’s okay with me.
I was in therapy once, for one session. The doctor made a big deal out of telling me I could tell him anything at all and it wouldn’t bother him, and that sounded good to me. So I told him something. I don’t remember what it was (this was about 40 years ago) but it must have been pretty bad because when I looked at the shrink his face was twisted with disgust.
So much for that.
This may come as a surprise to most who know me, but I’m not crazy, or not really crazy. I don’t want to take my own life or harm anybody else, I don’t hear voices, and I have no ideas at all that I am Napoleon or Captain Hook or Al Capone.
I guess that means I don’t really need to see a shrink. What I do need is help dealing with the things are happening in my life, to me and – even more – to people I love. I am sad and sometimes scared. I’m angry. I can’t sleep without aid. I have no energy to speak of. My memory is full of troublesome holes. But I’m not crazy.
That’s where Linda comes in. I call her my therapist though the VA gives her some other title.
She and I have a good relationship. I see her at least twice a month and I am able to tell her the truth without worrying about her judgments. We like each other. She’s helped me accept the truth and know that my feelings are to be expected and are justified.
I saw her last week and when I told her about my mother’s hospitalization and my niece’s suicide she didn’t hide her reaction or retain her professional detachment. She blurted a short sentence that you might expect to hear from a carpenter after he hammers his thumb.
I started to weep, something I’ve been doing a lot of in the last few days. She simply let me cry. And that was okay. I told her what I was feeling and she nodded and she said, "Of course you’re sad and frightened and angry. You should be."
She also told me I needed to focus more on myself. I know the truth of that. I have to take care of myself.
I’m not trying to sound like a candidate for sainthood. But she’s right. I haven’t been thinking about myself…at least not as much as I usually do. "Be nice to yourself," Linda said.
To be honest, right now there aren’t many ways I can be nice to myself. I’ve no appetite to speak of. I don't drink anymore. I can’t go sailing or walking. My libido has left town.
But I can read.
So I went online and ordered two of Garrison Keillor’s books – the only ones I didn’t already have in the stack by my bed.
The books arrived yesterday and I’ve already devoured one. It was wonderful to spend time in Lake Woebegon instead of in my own head.
Friday, July 3, 2009
The Worst Year Ever
I’m going to say it started 12 months ago. That might not be correct. It may have been 13 months or maybe just 51 weeks or so. To keep things simple, I put the beginning at a year ago. I mean the beginning of the worst year ever.
I have cancer, of course. Terminal cancer. And I’ve had it longer than a year. About two-and-a-half years would be correct. It’s not surprising that the cancer is much worse now that I’ve been ill as long as I have. I get chemotherapy pretty regularly and it’s as bad as you’ve heard. That, too, has gotten worse in the last year.
Then there’s my brother, my older brother, Kevin. He had a stroke this last year. A one-time football player and a long-distance bike rider, he’s now stuck in a wheel chair, barely able to stand, unable to use his right arm. His dental practice? Kaput. My kid brother had cancer, now in remission. Lynne was ill, in and out of hospital several times. And now my mother's in the hospital with a broken hip and some strange mental condition that makes it impossible for her to clearly verbalize her thoughts.
This was exactly how far I’d written in this blog/journal entry a couple of days ago when my phone rang. It was my niece, my kid brother's daughter, calling from Clearwater. At first I thought she was calling about my mother. She wasn’t. She called to tell me that another of my nieces, Monica, had visited my mom for several hours, left my mother’s room to go to mom’s house, where she, Monica, was staying. Everything seemed fine. It wasn’t. For some reason I guess we’ll never know, Monica – an attorney, a beautiful young woman, smart and funny, much loved by her family – went into my mother’s bathroom and hanged herself.
What can I say or write? I feel terrible for my big brother, Kevin, and for Monica’s mother Mary Anne and her stepmother, Roz. I feel terrible for Monica’s brothers and sisters and cousins. I tremble at the thought of what this horrible news will do to my mother and am only writing this because I know she has no access to this blog.
I want to curse. I try to pray and I can’t except to tell my Higher Power that I’ve had enough, the family has had enough, leave us alone, please!
I talked to a priest yesterday, Father Bob. He went to Jesuit High School in Tampa with me and now serves at my mother’s parish. He said that his belief was that when someone took her own life, she was saying: "God, I’m in so much pain and trouble I simply can’t take it any more. I’m turning it over to you." That terrible last act, then, becomes a sort of prayer. Maybe someday that thought will really help. I can see how it could. For now, it doesn’t. I’m sad, terribly sad, and confused and frightened and angry that my niece, that wonderful girl I held on my lap and loved and whom my mom loved almost beyond belief, would do this miserable thing apparently without thought or care of what it could do to my mother, her grandmother and the rest of her family.
What I thought was the worst year of my life when I started this blog, became, in an instant, immeasurably worse.
I like to act as if I discover lessons in the situations I face. Lessons that teach me, and perhaps you, something about life or death or love or family or something worth thinking about. There’s no lesson here. None. None at all.
I have cancer, of course. Terminal cancer. And I’ve had it longer than a year. About two-and-a-half years would be correct. It’s not surprising that the cancer is much worse now that I’ve been ill as long as I have. I get chemotherapy pretty regularly and it’s as bad as you’ve heard. That, too, has gotten worse in the last year.
Then there’s my brother, my older brother, Kevin. He had a stroke this last year. A one-time football player and a long-distance bike rider, he’s now stuck in a wheel chair, barely able to stand, unable to use his right arm. His dental practice? Kaput. My kid brother had cancer, now in remission. Lynne was ill, in and out of hospital several times. And now my mother's in the hospital with a broken hip and some strange mental condition that makes it impossible for her to clearly verbalize her thoughts.
This was exactly how far I’d written in this blog/journal entry a couple of days ago when my phone rang. It was my niece, my kid brother's daughter, calling from Clearwater. At first I thought she was calling about my mother. She wasn’t. She called to tell me that another of my nieces, Monica, had visited my mom for several hours, left my mother’s room to go to mom’s house, where she, Monica, was staying. Everything seemed fine. It wasn’t. For some reason I guess we’ll never know, Monica – an attorney, a beautiful young woman, smart and funny, much loved by her family – went into my mother’s bathroom and hanged herself.
What can I say or write? I feel terrible for my big brother, Kevin, and for Monica’s mother Mary Anne and her stepmother, Roz. I feel terrible for Monica’s brothers and sisters and cousins. I tremble at the thought of what this horrible news will do to my mother and am only writing this because I know she has no access to this blog.
I want to curse. I try to pray and I can’t except to tell my Higher Power that I’ve had enough, the family has had enough, leave us alone, please!
I talked to a priest yesterday, Father Bob. He went to Jesuit High School in Tampa with me and now serves at my mother’s parish. He said that his belief was that when someone took her own life, she was saying: "God, I’m in so much pain and trouble I simply can’t take it any more. I’m turning it over to you." That terrible last act, then, becomes a sort of prayer. Maybe someday that thought will really help. I can see how it could. For now, it doesn’t. I’m sad, terribly sad, and confused and frightened and angry that my niece, that wonderful girl I held on my lap and loved and whom my mom loved almost beyond belief, would do this miserable thing apparently without thought or care of what it could do to my mother, her grandmother and the rest of her family.
What I thought was the worst year of my life when I started this blog, became, in an instant, immeasurably worse.
I like to act as if I discover lessons in the situations I face. Lessons that teach me, and perhaps you, something about life or death or love or family or something worth thinking about. There’s no lesson here. None. None at all.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
MJ and DI
My mother got out of the hospital last Friday (June 26), went home and broke her hip on Saturday. She somehow survived Sunday but was back in the hospital on Monday. She had surgery today (July 1) and somehow expects to be walking within a week.
At least that’s the news I got from my mother and my brother up in Clearwater. I never heard of anything like that, but, hey, it sounds good to me.
I had chemo this morning. It wasn’t bad but early in the drive home my tight lower lip went completely numb. It only took an instant for the lip to go from being normal to tingling, as if I’d been given a big pain-killer shot in a dentist’s office.
I know I should have turned back to the hospital, but I didn’t. I just wanted to go home.
I know it wasn’t the right thing to do. It worked out though. Not long after I walked into the apartment, the lip felt fine.
So far, so good. Mom seems to be okay and I’m here.
Meanwhile, I wish everybody would stop talking about Michael Jackson, his money, his DNA, his drug habit, and everything else.
I feel bad for Farrah Fawcett Major’s loved ones and followers. Thanks to The King of Pop, her passing has hardly been noticed.
The same thing happened to Mother Theresa (now Blessed Theresa of Calcutta) after her death in 1997. Diana, the Princess of Wales, died just a few days earlier and news of her passing in a brutal auto accident in Paris put the Roman Catholic nun at the back of most newspapers.
I don't know why, but this stuff bothers me. In a way, though, I enjoy it. It takes my mind off me and my mom for a bit and gives me something new to complain about.
At least that’s the news I got from my mother and my brother up in Clearwater. I never heard of anything like that, but, hey, it sounds good to me.
I had chemo this morning. It wasn’t bad but early in the drive home my tight lower lip went completely numb. It only took an instant for the lip to go from being normal to tingling, as if I’d been given a big pain-killer shot in a dentist’s office.
I know I should have turned back to the hospital, but I didn’t. I just wanted to go home.
I know it wasn’t the right thing to do. It worked out though. Not long after I walked into the apartment, the lip felt fine.
So far, so good. Mom seems to be okay and I’m here.
Meanwhile, I wish everybody would stop talking about Michael Jackson, his money, his DNA, his drug habit, and everything else.
I feel bad for Farrah Fawcett Major’s loved ones and followers. Thanks to The King of Pop, her passing has hardly been noticed.
The same thing happened to Mother Theresa (now Blessed Theresa of Calcutta) after her death in 1997. Diana, the Princess of Wales, died just a few days earlier and news of her passing in a brutal auto accident in Paris put the Roman Catholic nun at the back of most newspapers.
I don't know why, but this stuff bothers me. In a way, though, I enjoy it. It takes my mind off me and my mom for a bit and gives me something new to complain about.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Mom, Again
My mother is home from the hospital. The doctors wanted her to stay a few more days, but she vetoed that idea and checked herself out on Friday. It seems she has three very small growths in the left hemisphere of her brain.
The growths, it seems, are little, nasty offspring of a larger, older cancer somewhere in my mother’s body. The experts don’t know where that older, primary cancer is lurking.
This sounds strange, I know, but it seems it is not rare for cancer cells to be found of undetermined origin. The doctors might, they say, find out if Mom was willing to undergo a lot of tests. She’s not and I understand completely.
She’ll be getting some outpatient, radiology treatment for the next couple of weeks and then, as much as is possible, go back to the routine life of a 92-year-old woman.
I just spoke with her on the phone. Her speech is still a bit confused and confusing, but better than it was. She’s in bed, tired, she said, but okay.
A lot of people who don’t know Mary Doherty have been praying for her. Friends in the fellowship. Women I know at the grocery store. A barber I visited on Thursday. Lynne’s many friends. Worshipers at three churches, maybe four.
The prayers seem to be working.
Here’s what I mean:
My mother is still able to do the New York Times crossword puzzle, an activity she truly loves. She has a tough time talking – making all the words she actually says match the words she’s thinking when she speaks – but there seems to be no cleft between her thinking and writing.
That may be a miracle.
That’s all I’m going to write about my mother, at least for a time.
The growths, it seems, are little, nasty offspring of a larger, older cancer somewhere in my mother’s body. The experts don’t know where that older, primary cancer is lurking.
This sounds strange, I know, but it seems it is not rare for cancer cells to be found of undetermined origin. The doctors might, they say, find out if Mom was willing to undergo a lot of tests. She’s not and I understand completely.
She’ll be getting some outpatient, radiology treatment for the next couple of weeks and then, as much as is possible, go back to the routine life of a 92-year-old woman.
I just spoke with her on the phone. Her speech is still a bit confused and confusing, but better than it was. She’s in bed, tired, she said, but okay.
A lot of people who don’t know Mary Doherty have been praying for her. Friends in the fellowship. Women I know at the grocery store. A barber I visited on Thursday. Lynne’s many friends. Worshipers at three churches, maybe four.
The prayers seem to be working.
Here’s what I mean:
My mother is still able to do the New York Times crossword puzzle, an activity she truly loves. She has a tough time talking – making all the words she actually says match the words she’s thinking when she speaks – but there seems to be no cleft between her thinking and writing.
That may be a miracle.
That’s all I’m going to write about my mother, at least for a time.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Mom
My phone rang yesterday afternoon. It was my brother, Pat, the lawyer in Clearwater. He called with the news that my mother was in the hospital. I wasn't really surprised. You see, my ninety-two year old mom has recently been a bit confused when she and I spoke on the phone. For the last few weeks, she seemed always to be searching for words, sometimes saying things that didn’t make sense.
I’d already talked to Pat about her problem. He sees her almost every day. He had noticed the same things but knew there was no way we could force her to go to a doctor, at least not yet. He said he would watch her carefully, but for now he would let it pass. I agreed.
We were wrong.
My mom, Mary, telephoned Pat in mid-morning yesterday. When she spoke, nothing she said made any kind of sense at all. Oh, she was able to talk, and to say real words, but the words she said had nothing to do with anything. She might want to say mailbox and instead, she’d say ice cream bar or puppy dog.
And she was terrified.
Pat took mom to the hospital in town where the doctors quickly diagnosed her problem as something called aphasia.
Pat explained what aphasia really is, but I didn’t get it. I was too worried about my mother and wondering what the hell I should do. Later, after we hung up, I looked it up online and discovered that it is a language disturbance caused by a lesion of the brain, making an individual partially or totally impaired in her ability to speak, write, or comprehend the meaning of spoken or written words.
Mom was held overnight. I spent most of the night worrying, sure she was either going to die or end her life in a nursing home. Some time around midnight, I decided to reschedule my next chemo so Lynne and I could rush up to be with her.
This morning, I found out that aphasia often cures itself and doesn’t last a long time. In fact, my mother is already somewhat better. A few moments ago, she and I spoke on the phone and even laughed together. Some of what she said didn’t make sense but that was okay and it will probably pass. She even thinks she’ll be able to keep working the New York Times crossword each day and that’s a relief.
So I feel better today. And that’s good. You see, I’ve been having a rough go since my last chemotherapy. It’s more than two weeks now and I am just starting to feel good enough to want to write anything at all. My appetite has returned enough that I don’t have to force everything down my throat and I'm not forced to spend the entirety of each day in bed.
Of course, my mother knew I’d been having a rough time, so before we quit talking, she asked me how I was doing. I told her I felt okay. I also told her Lynne and I would be up to visit her as soon as possible.
My mother asked me if I have any more chemo scheduled and I told her I did, in just a week, and she told me not to worry about her, that she would be fine.
"Hell," she said, "just stay home and take care of your damn self for a while."
I laughed.
Now, you might think that rough language was caused by my mom’s bout of aphasia. It wasn’t.
That’s the way my mother – a bright or maybe brilliant retired English teacher/librarian – talks.
Not always, but sometimes and only with me. She once explained to me that she talks that way because she’s retired, never in a classroom or library, and she gets to cuss a bit when she feels like it.
When I heard her words, I really felt relief because I truly knew she was already recovering.
Damn, it made me feel good.
I’d already talked to Pat about her problem. He sees her almost every day. He had noticed the same things but knew there was no way we could force her to go to a doctor, at least not yet. He said he would watch her carefully, but for now he would let it pass. I agreed.
We were wrong.
My mom, Mary, telephoned Pat in mid-morning yesterday. When she spoke, nothing she said made any kind of sense at all. Oh, she was able to talk, and to say real words, but the words she said had nothing to do with anything. She might want to say mailbox and instead, she’d say ice cream bar or puppy dog.
And she was terrified.
Pat took mom to the hospital in town where the doctors quickly diagnosed her problem as something called aphasia.
Pat explained what aphasia really is, but I didn’t get it. I was too worried about my mother and wondering what the hell I should do. Later, after we hung up, I looked it up online and discovered that it is a language disturbance caused by a lesion of the brain, making an individual partially or totally impaired in her ability to speak, write, or comprehend the meaning of spoken or written words.
Mom was held overnight. I spent most of the night worrying, sure she was either going to die or end her life in a nursing home. Some time around midnight, I decided to reschedule my next chemo so Lynne and I could rush up to be with her.
This morning, I found out that aphasia often cures itself and doesn’t last a long time. In fact, my mother is already somewhat better. A few moments ago, she and I spoke on the phone and even laughed together. Some of what she said didn’t make sense but that was okay and it will probably pass. She even thinks she’ll be able to keep working the New York Times crossword each day and that’s a relief.
So I feel better today. And that’s good. You see, I’ve been having a rough go since my last chemotherapy. It’s more than two weeks now and I am just starting to feel good enough to want to write anything at all. My appetite has returned enough that I don’t have to force everything down my throat and I'm not forced to spend the entirety of each day in bed.
Of course, my mother knew I’d been having a rough time, so before we quit talking, she asked me how I was doing. I told her I felt okay. I also told her Lynne and I would be up to visit her as soon as possible.
My mother asked me if I have any more chemo scheduled and I told her I did, in just a week, and she told me not to worry about her, that she would be fine.
"Hell," she said, "just stay home and take care of your damn self for a while."
I laughed.
Now, you might think that rough language was caused by my mom’s bout of aphasia. It wasn’t.
That’s the way my mother – a bright or maybe brilliant retired English teacher/librarian – talks.
Not always, but sometimes and only with me. She once explained to me that she talks that way because she’s retired, never in a classroom or library, and she gets to cuss a bit when she feels like it.
When I heard her words, I really felt relief because I truly knew she was already recovering.
Damn, it made me feel good.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Father's Day
The last week was rough. Not surprising in any way since it was a post-chemo week. I spent much time in bed reading. I had no opportunity to get any new books, so I flipped through the pages of volumes I read and enjoyed earlier, but didn’t much remember. I watched parts of a couple of Cubs games on television and didn’t much care who won. Tried to eat and enjoy food and couldn’t.
A bad week, right?
Yes. Except for one thing.
On Thursday, I got a father’s day card from Dylan, my elder son. The card – also signed by his wife, Mickie, and daughter, Chloe – included the word "love."
I’ve know I’ve written a bit in this blog about my alcoholism and my background as a usually drunken loser. If you ever wondered just how bad I was, how bad I treated people in my life, consider this:
The father’s day card I got yesterday is the first, the very first, father’s day card I ever received. I never expected it.
When I left the home I shared with the two boys and their mother, Cathy, Dylan was 3 and Eamon was 1. I didn’t see either of the boys again or even speak with them or write them letters until a time about seven years after my departure when we met very briefly and very nervously. The boys, aged 10 and eight at the time, didn’t really want anything to do with me and I don’t blame them.
After that meeting, we basically had nothing to do with each other until just a few years back.
Now they’re married, each of them, and each of them is a father. Neither boy drinks, and I know each is doing a hell of a lot better than I did.
The thing that’s tough is that I loved my sons. I loved Cathy, as well. I had a problem, though, because I couldn’t live the love I felt. I drank instead. Oh, I’d stay sober for a time, sober enough to temporarily save the marriage or a job. But I always ended up in some gin mill or low life hillbilly bar, drinking. And when I drank, I got drunk damn near every day I can remember.
Think about that for a moment. It makes it hard to be a father or a husband.
I got lucky with Eamon a few years back. He and I met and had a chance to talk. We started using the telephone to stay in touch. After a bit of time, we spoke about our love for each other. I was invited to his wedding and though I couldn’t go because of my illness, he understood. Since then, I’ve met his wife, Jennifer, and cuddled my grandson, Aidyn. Wow.
I wasn’t so lucky with Dylan. We sent each other e-mails and spoke briefly on the phone, but he was distant. So was his wife and my granddaughter. They live in Colorado and there was no way for us to meet each other so we stayed apart. A couple of times, on the phone, I told him I loved him but he didn’t respond. Not at all.
That’s why the Father’s day card is a big deal. He also said he and his wife would come to Florida as soon as they could. If so, I’ll get to see my beautiful granddaughter and maybe, just maybe, get to hug her at least for a moment.
I talked to my younger brother, Pat, after I got the father’s day card. Like me, he said it was really great that I’d have caring contact with my two boys. The were, he said, truly good young men. He’d know better than I would because when they were young, he had more contact with them than I ever did.
I’m glad Pat helped them when he could. I’m glad their mother, Cathy, was as good a woman as she was and is. I’m glad their stepfather was the stand-up man he was. And I’m really glad my sons and I have at least a little contact, for however long it lasts.
A bad week, right?
Yes. Except for one thing.
On Thursday, I got a father’s day card from Dylan, my elder son. The card – also signed by his wife, Mickie, and daughter, Chloe – included the word "love."
I’ve know I’ve written a bit in this blog about my alcoholism and my background as a usually drunken loser. If you ever wondered just how bad I was, how bad I treated people in my life, consider this:
The father’s day card I got yesterday is the first, the very first, father’s day card I ever received. I never expected it.
When I left the home I shared with the two boys and their mother, Cathy, Dylan was 3 and Eamon was 1. I didn’t see either of the boys again or even speak with them or write them letters until a time about seven years after my departure when we met very briefly and very nervously. The boys, aged 10 and eight at the time, didn’t really want anything to do with me and I don’t blame them.
After that meeting, we basically had nothing to do with each other until just a few years back.
Now they’re married, each of them, and each of them is a father. Neither boy drinks, and I know each is doing a hell of a lot better than I did.
The thing that’s tough is that I loved my sons. I loved Cathy, as well. I had a problem, though, because I couldn’t live the love I felt. I drank instead. Oh, I’d stay sober for a time, sober enough to temporarily save the marriage or a job. But I always ended up in some gin mill or low life hillbilly bar, drinking. And when I drank, I got drunk damn near every day I can remember.
Think about that for a moment. It makes it hard to be a father or a husband.
I got lucky with Eamon a few years back. He and I met and had a chance to talk. We started using the telephone to stay in touch. After a bit of time, we spoke about our love for each other. I was invited to his wedding and though I couldn’t go because of my illness, he understood. Since then, I’ve met his wife, Jennifer, and cuddled my grandson, Aidyn. Wow.
I wasn’t so lucky with Dylan. We sent each other e-mails and spoke briefly on the phone, but he was distant. So was his wife and my granddaughter. They live in Colorado and there was no way for us to meet each other so we stayed apart. A couple of times, on the phone, I told him I loved him but he didn’t respond. Not at all.
That’s why the Father’s day card is a big deal. He also said he and his wife would come to Florida as soon as they could. If so, I’ll get to see my beautiful granddaughter and maybe, just maybe, get to hug her at least for a moment.
I talked to my younger brother, Pat, after I got the father’s day card. Like me, he said it was really great that I’d have caring contact with my two boys. The were, he said, truly good young men. He’d know better than I would because when they were young, he had more contact with them than I ever did.
I’m glad Pat helped them when he could. I’m glad their mother, Cathy, was as good a woman as she was and is. I’m glad their stepfather was the stand-up man he was. And I’m really glad my sons and I have at least a little contact, for however long it lasts.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Lack of Memory
It’s Tuesday. Chemotherapy yesterday so I’m not feeling wonderful. I am, however, feeling a hell of a lot better than I might be feeling, so I’m thankful.
I know I’ve written a bit about memories lately. Not a lot, but a bit. I’ve even mentioned that one of my side-effects from chemotherapy, a relatively recent one, is that my memory is nowhere near as encompassing as it was last month. And it’s nowhere good as, say, six months ago.
Online, I’ve read that loss of memory is a not unusual side-effect involved in several types of chemotherapy and, when I’ve mentioned it to my doc or to the nurses who shoot the chemicals into my blood system, they haven't been surprised in the least.
I’d like to say it’s really bothering me, and it is sometimes. A couple of times at fellowship meetings, when I’ve started to say something I consider really meaningful and important, I’ve gotten in mid-paragraph and my mind has gone completely blank. That embarrasses me but seems not particularly bothering to my listeners.
I’ve also run into serious problems working the New York Times crossword puzzle, a near-daily challenge I’ve given myself for almost 30 years. In the past, I never bothered working the Monday puzzle because that’s the easiest of the week. Infrequently, I’ve been stumped by a Thursday puzzle (usually the trickiest) and, a few times, by the big Sunday puzzle. That all changed about two months ago when I found myself unable to solve almost any Times puzzle. Even the Monday ones.
That’s disheartening. It is specially bothersome since my mother and I talk on the phone each evening, and, for years, one of the things we chatted about was that day’s crossword experience. No more. She is kind enough not even to bring it up.
And, of course, the lack of memory sometimes causes difficulties when I’m working on my memoir.
There is at least one benefit, though.
You see, I’ve discovered that my memory of books I’ve recently read is terrible. In fact, I can read a book…put it down for a couple of weeks and then pick it up and start reading it again. Oh, it may seem familiar but not very.
Saturday, Lynne and I went to our local Kroch’s to look around. I found a memoir written by a journalist-alcoholic, picked it up, looked at it and found it interesting. So I bought it.
I finished reading the book - Drunkard - yesterday. As I read it I had, again and again, the sense that it was not new to me. Three or four times, I got out of bed (my constant reading location these days), and searched my bookcases and stacks of books and books dumped in the corners of my room, figuring I’d find a copy of Drunkard I’d read a couple of months ago, finished, and not recognized in the book store.
I didn’t.
Until this morning. I could not find one of the shoes I needed to go outside. Finally, I knelt by my bed and lowered my head to search. I found the shoe. But I also found a copy of the book, a bit dusty, but the same book.
Of course, there’s a downside here. I spent money I didn’t need to spend. But, think about this for a moment. If I plan correctly I can take five or six books, or maybe 15 or 20 books I really enjoy and stack them on the floor next to my bed. I can work my way through the stack one book at a time, carefully arranging the books I’ve read in a new stack on the other side of my bed. The second stack, of course, would have to be arranged in reverse. It could be done though, couldn’t it?
I would save hundreds of dollars a year. And I would consistently be reading something I enjoy.
Right now, in fact, I’m reading one of Garrison Keillor’s books and loving it. I know I’ve read it before. There’s no doubt. In fact, I read it last month. As I turn the pages, I feel a slight sense that I’m revisiting prpse, but not a strong enough sense to diminish my pleasure.
I’m okay, then, with my memory loss. For now. I do hope it doesn’t get any worse. I’d hate to start forgetting names. If I do, and we meet, I hope you understand, whatever your name is.
I know I’ve written a bit about memories lately. Not a lot, but a bit. I’ve even mentioned that one of my side-effects from chemotherapy, a relatively recent one, is that my memory is nowhere near as encompassing as it was last month. And it’s nowhere good as, say, six months ago.
Online, I’ve read that loss of memory is a not unusual side-effect involved in several types of chemotherapy and, when I’ve mentioned it to my doc or to the nurses who shoot the chemicals into my blood system, they haven't been surprised in the least.
I’d like to say it’s really bothering me, and it is sometimes. A couple of times at fellowship meetings, when I’ve started to say something I consider really meaningful and important, I’ve gotten in mid-paragraph and my mind has gone completely blank. That embarrasses me but seems not particularly bothering to my listeners.
I’ve also run into serious problems working the New York Times crossword puzzle, a near-daily challenge I’ve given myself for almost 30 years. In the past, I never bothered working the Monday puzzle because that’s the easiest of the week. Infrequently, I’ve been stumped by a Thursday puzzle (usually the trickiest) and, a few times, by the big Sunday puzzle. That all changed about two months ago when I found myself unable to solve almost any Times puzzle. Even the Monday ones.
That’s disheartening. It is specially bothersome since my mother and I talk on the phone each evening, and, for years, one of the things we chatted about was that day’s crossword experience. No more. She is kind enough not even to bring it up.
And, of course, the lack of memory sometimes causes difficulties when I’m working on my memoir.
There is at least one benefit, though.
You see, I’ve discovered that my memory of books I’ve recently read is terrible. In fact, I can read a book…put it down for a couple of weeks and then pick it up and start reading it again. Oh, it may seem familiar but not very.
Saturday, Lynne and I went to our local Kroch’s to look around. I found a memoir written by a journalist-alcoholic, picked it up, looked at it and found it interesting. So I bought it.
I finished reading the book - Drunkard - yesterday. As I read it I had, again and again, the sense that it was not new to me. Three or four times, I got out of bed (my constant reading location these days), and searched my bookcases and stacks of books and books dumped in the corners of my room, figuring I’d find a copy of Drunkard I’d read a couple of months ago, finished, and not recognized in the book store.
I didn’t.
Until this morning. I could not find one of the shoes I needed to go outside. Finally, I knelt by my bed and lowered my head to search. I found the shoe. But I also found a copy of the book, a bit dusty, but the same book.
Of course, there’s a downside here. I spent money I didn’t need to spend. But, think about this for a moment. If I plan correctly I can take five or six books, or maybe 15 or 20 books I really enjoy and stack them on the floor next to my bed. I can work my way through the stack one book at a time, carefully arranging the books I’ve read in a new stack on the other side of my bed. The second stack, of course, would have to be arranged in reverse. It could be done though, couldn’t it?
I would save hundreds of dollars a year. And I would consistently be reading something I enjoy.
Right now, in fact, I’m reading one of Garrison Keillor’s books and loving it. I know I’ve read it before. There’s no doubt. In fact, I read it last month. As I turn the pages, I feel a slight sense that I’m revisiting prpse, but not a strong enough sense to diminish my pleasure.
I’m okay, then, with my memory loss. For now. I do hope it doesn’t get any worse. I’d hate to start forgetting names. If I do, and we meet, I hope you understand, whatever your name is.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Pal
I’m sick of being sick. I’m also sick of writing about being sick and talking about all the stuff that goes with being sick.
This is the right kind of day for me to feel this way because this is one of the days just before chemotherapy when I’m able and allowed to feel pretty good.
That’s all that I want to write about cancer, for today.
I’m sitting here – at the big desk in my room – thinking about the past and the times I had fun. I’ve no idea why I get some of the good memories I get when I get them. My best thought is that the good memories, the ones that make me smile, are gifts from whomever to allow me to forget about where I’m at and what I'm facing right now.
I just remembered my sixth birthday when my dad came home from work and I ran to meet him in our basement because I knew he’d have a present for me. He was dressed, as always in cold weather, in heavy boots and a workman’s pants and a sweater under a thick U.S. Navy peacoat guaranteed to keep him warm. His work clothes, as always, were covered with dust that settled on him as he loaded or unloaded grain from a Chicago River cargo vessel.
I don’t remember what I said but I’m pretty sure it was something like "Daddy!" I guess he smiled. What I do remember is him sliding his big left hand into his huge peacoat pocket and me standing still, waiting to see just what he brought me as a birthday present. I hoped it was some kind of toy, maybe even the slingshot I’d wanted ever since I’d spied a drawing of one on the back of a comic book.
I held my breath for a moment, then yelped as he pulled from his pocket a tiny, black and white puppy just big enough to fill his hand. The dog barked once or twice, then whimpered, then kicked all four legs as my dad held it so I could grab it for myself.
My father had found the dog, he said, below deck on some ship that had spent time in Alaska. "I think she’s a husky," he said.
I named the dog "Pal." Not because that was a great dog’s name but because it was the name of the dog in a book I was reading for school. It made no difference to me that Pal was a boy dog’s name while the dog I was holding was a little girl. I didn’t care a bit.
We, the family, had Pal for a dozen years. At first, she was my dog then, as time passed, she became the family’s dog who always seemed fondest of the stevedore who’d carried her off the cargo ship.
It’s enjoyable thinking about that part of my past. Hey, it’s enjoyable thinking about anything other than you-know-what. So I’m going to stop right here.
This is the right kind of day for me to feel this way because this is one of the days just before chemotherapy when I’m able and allowed to feel pretty good.
That’s all that I want to write about cancer, for today.
I’m sitting here – at the big desk in my room – thinking about the past and the times I had fun. I’ve no idea why I get some of the good memories I get when I get them. My best thought is that the good memories, the ones that make me smile, are gifts from whomever to allow me to forget about where I’m at and what I'm facing right now.
I just remembered my sixth birthday when my dad came home from work and I ran to meet him in our basement because I knew he’d have a present for me. He was dressed, as always in cold weather, in heavy boots and a workman’s pants and a sweater under a thick U.S. Navy peacoat guaranteed to keep him warm. His work clothes, as always, were covered with dust that settled on him as he loaded or unloaded grain from a Chicago River cargo vessel.
I don’t remember what I said but I’m pretty sure it was something like "Daddy!" I guess he smiled. What I do remember is him sliding his big left hand into his huge peacoat pocket and me standing still, waiting to see just what he brought me as a birthday present. I hoped it was some kind of toy, maybe even the slingshot I’d wanted ever since I’d spied a drawing of one on the back of a comic book.
I held my breath for a moment, then yelped as he pulled from his pocket a tiny, black and white puppy just big enough to fill his hand. The dog barked once or twice, then whimpered, then kicked all four legs as my dad held it so I could grab it for myself.
My father had found the dog, he said, below deck on some ship that had spent time in Alaska. "I think she’s a husky," he said.
I named the dog "Pal." Not because that was a great dog’s name but because it was the name of the dog in a book I was reading for school. It made no difference to me that Pal was a boy dog’s name while the dog I was holding was a little girl. I didn’t care a bit.
We, the family, had Pal for a dozen years. At first, she was my dog then, as time passed, she became the family’s dog who always seemed fondest of the stevedore who’d carried her off the cargo ship.
It’s enjoyable thinking about that part of my past. Hey, it’s enjoyable thinking about anything other than you-know-what. So I’m going to stop right here.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Anniversary
I was honored at one of my fellowship meetings on the last Saturday of last month. At least that’s the way I look at it.
You see, last month marked my 14th year without any beer or booze or even wine. That may not sound like much to you, but trust me, it is.
Fourteen years.
And I made this last year in the face of some true trials and tribulations. My own illness. Lynne’s problems. Fear. Loneliness, at times. Pain and exhaustion.
Once, just once in this period, I thought seriously about getting drunk. I can’t tell you what brought it on because it would hurt someone I don’t want to hurt. Trust me, though, I was in a place, going through serious troubles that filled me with pain and terror and anger. I was driving my car when this happened. I didn’t think about taking a drink. I’m not that kind of drinker. My thoughts were a bit more serious.
"Screw this sobriety. Let’s go get a quart of vodka and get all f##@*d up!"
That’s what I thought.
Instead, I pulled my car off a highway and onto the road’s shoulder. I closed my eyes and managed to say a prayer to a higher power I’m not sure about and who – if he’s around – has pissed me off. I do that, sometimes. And I guess he (or she) wanted to give me a break. The desire left. Quick.
That may sound like nothing to you.
It ain’t. It’s a big deal. For me, anyway, it’s a real big deal.
It would have been wonderful if I could have sat in the celebratory fellowship gathering a few days ago and thought about making 14 more years. That would have been great. After all, I’ve enjoyed looking forward in my life, thinking about things I might accomplish, trips I might take, new things I could learn. But I can’t do that any longer.
Hell, I don’t know for sure how long I’ll be around. I’m not a pessimist, but trust me. I don’t think very often about what I’ll be doing five years from now or ten years from now or fifteen. But I do make plans for the more immediate future.
I think of writing I’d like to do. I think of taking a trip to St. Augustine with Lynne. The last time we were there was like a honeymoon. I plan to see my mother and brothers some time soon. I hope I get to see a granddaughter I’ve never seen. And so on.
At the fellowship meeting where I was congratulated on my fourteen years of sobriety, I was given a brass medallion and asked to say a few words to the others in the room. In the past, I haven’t made a big deal out of my anniversary. This time, though, I felt like I should.
I hugged my friend who handed me the card. I thanked everybody in the room. And then I thought for a moment. I wondered what I might say. Then I put into words my biggest hope for the future.
"I sure as hell hope I stand here a year from now and celebrate my fifteenth anniversary without booze."
That’s what I said and for now that’s the most important future desire I can have.
You see, last month marked my 14th year without any beer or booze or even wine. That may not sound like much to you, but trust me, it is.
Fourteen years.
And I made this last year in the face of some true trials and tribulations. My own illness. Lynne’s problems. Fear. Loneliness, at times. Pain and exhaustion.
Once, just once in this period, I thought seriously about getting drunk. I can’t tell you what brought it on because it would hurt someone I don’t want to hurt. Trust me, though, I was in a place, going through serious troubles that filled me with pain and terror and anger. I was driving my car when this happened. I didn’t think about taking a drink. I’m not that kind of drinker. My thoughts were a bit more serious.
"Screw this sobriety. Let’s go get a quart of vodka and get all f##@*d up!"
That’s what I thought.
Instead, I pulled my car off a highway and onto the road’s shoulder. I closed my eyes and managed to say a prayer to a higher power I’m not sure about and who – if he’s around – has pissed me off. I do that, sometimes. And I guess he (or she) wanted to give me a break. The desire left. Quick.
That may sound like nothing to you.
It ain’t. It’s a big deal. For me, anyway, it’s a real big deal.
It would have been wonderful if I could have sat in the celebratory fellowship gathering a few days ago and thought about making 14 more years. That would have been great. After all, I’ve enjoyed looking forward in my life, thinking about things I might accomplish, trips I might take, new things I could learn. But I can’t do that any longer.
Hell, I don’t know for sure how long I’ll be around. I’m not a pessimist, but trust me. I don’t think very often about what I’ll be doing five years from now or ten years from now or fifteen. But I do make plans for the more immediate future.
I think of writing I’d like to do. I think of taking a trip to St. Augustine with Lynne. The last time we were there was like a honeymoon. I plan to see my mother and brothers some time soon. I hope I get to see a granddaughter I’ve never seen. And so on.
At the fellowship meeting where I was congratulated on my fourteen years of sobriety, I was given a brass medallion and asked to say a few words to the others in the room. In the past, I haven’t made a big deal out of my anniversary. This time, though, I felt like I should.
I hugged my friend who handed me the card. I thanked everybody in the room. And then I thought for a moment. I wondered what I might say. Then I put into words my biggest hope for the future.
"I sure as hell hope I stand here a year from now and celebrate my fifteenth anniversary without booze."
That’s what I said and for now that’s the most important future desire I can have.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Hopes
I’m tired. It’s chemo and it’s cancer. These days, I wake up every morning when my alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. For many years – more than a dozen – I needed no alarm. In the old days, I always woke right at 3 a.m. I made a pot of coffee and started working on the freelance work I did to pay our rent and put food on the table.
Nowadays, I’m lucky if I have enough energy to work for a couple of hours in the afternoon.
Though I’m tired, I simply can’t sleep all day every day, so I spend a lot of time looking at a big, flat-screen television that’s about eight feet from my pillows. Sometimes, I watch shows I’ve already seen a few times. Those are always some version of "Law and Order" or one of the shows about Dr. House and his crew.
Sometimes, now, I’ll watch the Cubs play ball. I’ve been a Cub’s fan for more than four decades. My Cub cheers started in 1967, when I was a student at Chicago’s Art Institute, living just two blocks from Wrigley Field.
The Cubs were slotted by just about everybody to win the National League title this year, possibly to win the World Series. Lately, they’ve been playing terribly. They’ve lost eight straight.
I have mixed feelings about the Cubs’ losing streak. Well, really about their chances this year. You see, the last time the Cubbies were in the series was 1945, the year I was born.
The last time the Cubs won the whole shooting match was 1908. Just over a century ago.
So there’s a part of me hoping the team gets on the right track this year and wins all the games it needs to win to be the champs of the world.
There’s another part of me, though.
That part has promised me, myself, that I can’t die until the Cubs win the whole shooting match.
To be frank, that part of me has felt pretty good as the Cubs lost. If they don’t win the series, maybe, just maybe, there will be something inside me that will hold my cancer off, at least for another year.
We’ll see, right?
(After I wrote this, the Cubs won two games against the Pirates. I have mixed feelings. I guess all I can do is see what happens, right?)
Nowadays, I’m lucky if I have enough energy to work for a couple of hours in the afternoon.
Though I’m tired, I simply can’t sleep all day every day, so I spend a lot of time looking at a big, flat-screen television that’s about eight feet from my pillows. Sometimes, I watch shows I’ve already seen a few times. Those are always some version of "Law and Order" or one of the shows about Dr. House and his crew.
Sometimes, now, I’ll watch the Cubs play ball. I’ve been a Cub’s fan for more than four decades. My Cub cheers started in 1967, when I was a student at Chicago’s Art Institute, living just two blocks from Wrigley Field.
The Cubs were slotted by just about everybody to win the National League title this year, possibly to win the World Series. Lately, they’ve been playing terribly. They’ve lost eight straight.
I have mixed feelings about the Cubs’ losing streak. Well, really about their chances this year. You see, the last time the Cubbies were in the series was 1945, the year I was born.
The last time the Cubs won the whole shooting match was 1908. Just over a century ago.
So there’s a part of me hoping the team gets on the right track this year and wins all the games it needs to win to be the champs of the world.
There’s another part of me, though.
That part has promised me, myself, that I can’t die until the Cubs win the whole shooting match.
To be frank, that part of me has felt pretty good as the Cubs lost. If they don’t win the series, maybe, just maybe, there will be something inside me that will hold my cancer off, at least for another year.
We’ll see, right?
(After I wrote this, the Cubs won two games against the Pirates. I have mixed feelings. I guess all I can do is see what happens, right?)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Memories
I had chemotherapy on Monday.
I planned to write this on Tuesday. I couldn’t.
Now, it's late Wedesday, so here goes.
As always, my doctor was a lot like Dr. House in the television show. Heavier and older, but every bit as succinct. His news was only so-so. I may be able to write twelve months worth of blogs, or six months or so. Maybe less, if something happens he doesn’t foresee. He just can’t promise.
The nurses in the oncology department were kind as they usually are. The treatment was quick and not too rough. I felt pretty nauseous by the time I made it home, and tired, but not too nasty. That’ll come later.
I had an e-mail waiting from Mickey, my older son’s wife. A wonderful e-mail including a bunch of photos of Chloe, my beautiful, five-year-old granddaughter, and Dylan, the son I haven’t seen in twenty-something years.
I believe that sentence needs to be explained (if possible).
Years ago, when I was an active alcoholic, I treated my wife of the time, Catherine, terribly in every way imaginable. I loved her, and she loved me, but my love was drowned by booze and hers was understandably eradicated by my actions.
For a time, briefly, we had a few on-and-off passable years. I was sober enough to father two sons. Dylan and Eamon.
Because of my actions, illegal and dismaying, I spent some time behind county and finally state bars not long after Eamon was born and Dylan was three. Behind bars, I received little mail. My father wrote to me once a month, but wouldn’t use my name, only my prisoner number. The biggest letter I ever got was a formal divorce from Cathy. I don’t blame her at all. Not a bit. I think of her fondly, remember her as a young woman undeserving of any pain, badly hurt by a sick man.
Anyway, because of my actions I only saw my sons together once, for half a day, after my release. We met in Clearwater. We went to one of the big fishing piers and to a mall where the boys had ice cream cones. That was it until about five years ago. Since then, I’ve seen Eamon a couple of times. He was in the service. He got out and went to work. Then he married Jennifer, as nice a girl as any that ever drew breath. They had a son, Aidyn, and I was blessed enough to hold him in my arms for a few moments.
That’s a memory that can still make me weep.
Dylan and I have spoken on the telephone a few times, sent e-mails and a few letters. His wife, Mickie, has sent me a ton of pictures of Chloe. I have six hanging over my desk along with an equal number of Aidyn.
I’m always glad to hear from my sons or their wives. Mickey and I have never spoken, however she’s sent me quite a few e-mails. The one I got yesterday was really pleasant. Enjoyable. She said Dylan and she read this blog from time to time. That made me feel good. Then she said I was an "incredible" writer. That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long time.
Mickey, I love you.
For some reason, later, as I rested in my bed, the television on but without any volume, I began thinking of the days of almost sixty years ago, when was I right around Chloe’s age.
I didn’t remember much.
I remember sitting on a steam radiator in my bedroom, looking out a window at the snow falling on Chapel Avenue on Chicago’s south side.
I remember going to mass with my mother and going with her and my brothers on the elevated train to the Loop and walking into Marshall Field’s department store.
I remember my mom buying me a book when I was ill and me in bed struggling my way through Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses.
I couldn’t read much in those days, only some of the easiest poems. The shortest ones. Hey, I was only five.
I just looked the book up on line. I’d like to lie and say I remember some of the poems, but I don’t. Maybe I did before the chemo started. Anyway, I do remember my mom giving me the book and me in bed turning pages. It’s one of my favorite memories.
What else do I remember? I remember getting lost on a foggy day when I had to walk home alone from the first grade at Our Lady of Peace School. I remember having to go to the bathroom and walking up to knock on the front door of a bungalow. A lady answered my knock.
"I’m lost," I said. "I’m lost and I have to poop."
She saved me and after I pooped she walked me home, about a quarter of a block from her house.
Those are the kind of things I remember. Not much more. I have pictures given to me by my mom, pictures of me walking with my father, of me dressed in a white suit to receive my first communion, of me in a uniform to assist a priest during mass. I don’t remember those events, those days.
There are later years, many later years, I don’t remember at all. That’s a blessing, I think.
I hope my grandson and granddaughter do better than I do in terms of memory. Of course, in the old days, my days, pictures were taken with a little square camera. The black and white pics were only slightly larger than postage stamps. Nowadays, pictures end up on computers. Thousands of pictures that should tell clear stories for decades. When Aidyn and Chloe see themselves in color pictures big as a computer screen they’ll probably remember more that I do.
I really, truly hope that all their memories are better than mine.
I planned to write this on Tuesday. I couldn’t.
Now, it's late Wedesday, so here goes.
As always, my doctor was a lot like Dr. House in the television show. Heavier and older, but every bit as succinct. His news was only so-so. I may be able to write twelve months worth of blogs, or six months or so. Maybe less, if something happens he doesn’t foresee. He just can’t promise.
The nurses in the oncology department were kind as they usually are. The treatment was quick and not too rough. I felt pretty nauseous by the time I made it home, and tired, but not too nasty. That’ll come later.
I had an e-mail waiting from Mickey, my older son’s wife. A wonderful e-mail including a bunch of photos of Chloe, my beautiful, five-year-old granddaughter, and Dylan, the son I haven’t seen in twenty-something years.
I believe that sentence needs to be explained (if possible).
Years ago, when I was an active alcoholic, I treated my wife of the time, Catherine, terribly in every way imaginable. I loved her, and she loved me, but my love was drowned by booze and hers was understandably eradicated by my actions.
For a time, briefly, we had a few on-and-off passable years. I was sober enough to father two sons. Dylan and Eamon.
Because of my actions, illegal and dismaying, I spent some time behind county and finally state bars not long after Eamon was born and Dylan was three. Behind bars, I received little mail. My father wrote to me once a month, but wouldn’t use my name, only my prisoner number. The biggest letter I ever got was a formal divorce from Cathy. I don’t blame her at all. Not a bit. I think of her fondly, remember her as a young woman undeserving of any pain, badly hurt by a sick man.
Anyway, because of my actions I only saw my sons together once, for half a day, after my release. We met in Clearwater. We went to one of the big fishing piers and to a mall where the boys had ice cream cones. That was it until about five years ago. Since then, I’ve seen Eamon a couple of times. He was in the service. He got out and went to work. Then he married Jennifer, as nice a girl as any that ever drew breath. They had a son, Aidyn, and I was blessed enough to hold him in my arms for a few moments.
That’s a memory that can still make me weep.
Dylan and I have spoken on the telephone a few times, sent e-mails and a few letters. His wife, Mickie, has sent me a ton of pictures of Chloe. I have six hanging over my desk along with an equal number of Aidyn.
I’m always glad to hear from my sons or their wives. Mickey and I have never spoken, however she’s sent me quite a few e-mails. The one I got yesterday was really pleasant. Enjoyable. She said Dylan and she read this blog from time to time. That made me feel good. Then she said I was an "incredible" writer. That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long time.
Mickey, I love you.
For some reason, later, as I rested in my bed, the television on but without any volume, I began thinking of the days of almost sixty years ago, when was I right around Chloe’s age.
I didn’t remember much.
I remember sitting on a steam radiator in my bedroom, looking out a window at the snow falling on Chapel Avenue on Chicago’s south side.
I remember going to mass with my mother and going with her and my brothers on the elevated train to the Loop and walking into Marshall Field’s department store.
I remember my mom buying me a book when I was ill and me in bed struggling my way through Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses.
I couldn’t read much in those days, only some of the easiest poems. The shortest ones. Hey, I was only five.
I just looked the book up on line. I’d like to lie and say I remember some of the poems, but I don’t. Maybe I did before the chemo started. Anyway, I do remember my mom giving me the book and me in bed turning pages. It’s one of my favorite memories.
What else do I remember? I remember getting lost on a foggy day when I had to walk home alone from the first grade at Our Lady of Peace School. I remember having to go to the bathroom and walking up to knock on the front door of a bungalow. A lady answered my knock.
"I’m lost," I said. "I’m lost and I have to poop."
She saved me and after I pooped she walked me home, about a quarter of a block from her house.
Those are the kind of things I remember. Not much more. I have pictures given to me by my mom, pictures of me walking with my father, of me dressed in a white suit to receive my first communion, of me in a uniform to assist a priest during mass. I don’t remember those events, those days.
There are later years, many later years, I don’t remember at all. That’s a blessing, I think.
I hope my grandson and granddaughter do better than I do in terms of memory. Of course, in the old days, my days, pictures were taken with a little square camera. The black and white pics were only slightly larger than postage stamps. Nowadays, pictures end up on computers. Thousands of pictures that should tell clear stories for decades. When Aidyn and Chloe see themselves in color pictures big as a computer screen they’ll probably remember more that I do.
I really, truly hope that all their memories are better than mine.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Food
I’ve been receiving chemotherapy for almost three years now. This means I get chemical mixes shot into an "injection port" stuck beneath my outer skin about three inches below my right clavicle every so often.
One of the side-effects of the last couple of the chemicals I received – at least in my case – has been an almost complete loss of appetite. For about six months, food I knew to be good, food I had cooked for years, suddenly tasted bad or strange or just nasty. Spaghetti…roast beef…cheeseburgers…cheese and crackers…salmon…bacon and eggs…almost everything I’d long enjoyed simply tasted like garbage.
I was given medicine to build my appetite. It didn’t work. I tried eating things I’d never liked or never tried before, hoping something would be edible. It wasn’t.
The one thing that remained wonderful to me was chocolate. So I drank chocolate nutritional drinks and chocolate milk shakes. I ate candy and cake and chocolate donuts. I believe, truly, if it hadn’t been for chocolate, I probably would have croaked already.
Still, my eating was bad enough that I lost weight. Always slim, I dropped down to about 140 pounds.
Then, about two months ago, things got worse. I wanted nothing to eat. Exhausted, I spent most of my time in bed. I had to force myself to chew food and take drinks that almost always turned me nauseous. I dropped down to lower than 125 pounds.
Suddenly, though, things started to change just a few days ago.
It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemo. I guess that improved my outlook and my appetite. Suddenly, I wanted to eat. Peanut butter and banana and marshmallow sandwiches and eggs and chili and bowls of cereal and (of course) ice cream and sundaes and energy drinks. I ate more already this morning than I usually ate in a full day. I have more strength, more desire to stay out of bed, even a desire to walk. Not only that, but I’ve gained about three pounds in the last three days.
Not bad, hunh?
Now, I’m planning on making a nice dinner for Lynne and myself to enjoy tomorrow. It will be Sunday, so that’s the right thing to do. Maybe a standing rib-roast with roasted spuds and fresh asparagus. Maybe fresh flounder I cook a special way with onion and lemon. Maybe lamb chops. I love those. Maybe duck or chicken. Who knows?
I may as well eat whatever I want tomorrow. It’s been a long, long time since I really looked forward to a meal.
Then, Monday morning, very early, I have chemotherapy again. After a three week break.
Damn. I know I’ll puke before I leave the hospital. I know I won’t want to eat. I have to thank God, though, for the last few days. I hope I can repeat them about three weeks from now.
One of the side-effects of the last couple of the chemicals I received – at least in my case – has been an almost complete loss of appetite. For about six months, food I knew to be good, food I had cooked for years, suddenly tasted bad or strange or just nasty. Spaghetti…roast beef…cheeseburgers…cheese and crackers…salmon…bacon and eggs…almost everything I’d long enjoyed simply tasted like garbage.
I was given medicine to build my appetite. It didn’t work. I tried eating things I’d never liked or never tried before, hoping something would be edible. It wasn’t.
The one thing that remained wonderful to me was chocolate. So I drank chocolate nutritional drinks and chocolate milk shakes. I ate candy and cake and chocolate donuts. I believe, truly, if it hadn’t been for chocolate, I probably would have croaked already.
Still, my eating was bad enough that I lost weight. Always slim, I dropped down to about 140 pounds.
Then, about two months ago, things got worse. I wanted nothing to eat. Exhausted, I spent most of my time in bed. I had to force myself to chew food and take drinks that almost always turned me nauseous. I dropped down to lower than 125 pounds.
Suddenly, though, things started to change just a few days ago.
It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemo. I guess that improved my outlook and my appetite. Suddenly, I wanted to eat. Peanut butter and banana and marshmallow sandwiches and eggs and chili and bowls of cereal and (of course) ice cream and sundaes and energy drinks. I ate more already this morning than I usually ate in a full day. I have more strength, more desire to stay out of bed, even a desire to walk. Not only that, but I’ve gained about three pounds in the last three days.
Not bad, hunh?
Now, I’m planning on making a nice dinner for Lynne and myself to enjoy tomorrow. It will be Sunday, so that’s the right thing to do. Maybe a standing rib-roast with roasted spuds and fresh asparagus. Maybe fresh flounder I cook a special way with onion and lemon. Maybe lamb chops. I love those. Maybe duck or chicken. Who knows?
I may as well eat whatever I want tomorrow. It’s been a long, long time since I really looked forward to a meal.
Then, Monday morning, very early, I have chemotherapy again. After a three week break.
Damn. I know I’ll puke before I leave the hospital. I know I won’t want to eat. I have to thank God, though, for the last few days. I hope I can repeat them about three weeks from now.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Mother's Day
This Moher's Day stuff is a day or so early, I know. Not much, but enough to know that it will be on line just in time for my brothers to read it and wish they’d thought of it. My mom won’t read it. She has a computer that she used two or three times about two years ago when it was brand new. Now it’s under her desk, behind the typewriter with which she writes letters. That she bought used about 50 years ago.
I do want to talk about Mom, though.
I think I’ve already said here that she and I have a very special relationship, and we do.
I was adopted as a baby. I was a premature, very sick baby, only about three pounds at birth. My biological mother died in that childbirth. As far as I’m concerned, my biological mother was a wonderful, beautiful, good woman. My dad – whoever he was – was probably in the military as World War II came to an end. Maybe he died doing something heroic.
That’s what I choose to believe.
The people who adopted me – my mom and dad – really thought I’d die. That’s how tiny I was, how sick. But they took me anyway, to give me some love.
My dad is dead now, has been for a long time. I loved him. I love him. But he and I were never really close.
My mom and I were – and are.
Many of my happiest memories are of my mother. I thought she was beautiful and loved it when she’d hold my hand as we walked together. I remember the way she looked when we went to mass as a family and remember her giving me books and telling me, from the time I was a little boy, that I could become a writer if I wanted to.
I remember the late, late night when she learned her dad – my grandfather – had died. My father was working and my mom came to my room and woke me. She was sitting on the floor crying so I got out of bed and hugged her and cried with her and then, later, we went to the kitchen and drank some hot milk and just kind of looked at each other.
I remember her being angry from time to time. I don’t remember her ever hitting me. I do remember her making me stand in a corner for a time and remember my father’s punishments.
Whew.
I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen on Saturdays, listening to the opera broadcast from New York as she did the weekly ironing. I remember sitting on her lap.
She’s 94 now, a retired teacher/librarian. She – whom I remember as being almost 6-feet tall – is tiny. A little bent over. Pretty deaf. And she uses a cane. She also drives, solo, to mass and shopping and to restaurants.
My wife thinks my mom, Mary, should not be allowed to drive. She’s too old. I told Lynne to go up to Clearwater and take my mother’s car keys. I’ll wait here.
My mom reads voraciously. The New York Times and the big New York Review of Books and a couple of other newspapers and more than a dozen magazines and every book she’s interested in. Not novels. Nonfiction. Good stuff.
I talk to my mother every evening at 6 p.m. I make sure she’s okay and we talk about the Times crossword puzzle and we talk about politics and our family and all kinds of things. She tells me what she did and I maybe tell her what I did.
We sound a lot alike, my mother and I. We laugh at the same jokes, find the same political actions disgusting, feel the same way about people we know, like the same food, even curse with a lot of the same words.
We can sit together and not say a damn thing and both know we’re having fun.
Sometimes, when I’m having a tough time, I edit my comments. I can tell how sad she is that I’m sick and I don’t want her to know everything.
I hope she has a good Mother’s Day and wish I had the strength to drive up there. But I don’t and she understands. Lynne and I sent her a beautiful scarf and a book I know she wanted and she already opened the gifts because she never waits these days. She loves the gifts.
Thinking of her as I lay in bed earlier today, I thought how good it would be if she dies before I do. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever admitted in a life that’s been filled, for years, with some terrible actions and reactions. But it’s true.
And guess what. I believe my mother hopes the same thing.
I do want to talk about Mom, though.
I think I’ve already said here that she and I have a very special relationship, and we do.
I was adopted as a baby. I was a premature, very sick baby, only about three pounds at birth. My biological mother died in that childbirth. As far as I’m concerned, my biological mother was a wonderful, beautiful, good woman. My dad – whoever he was – was probably in the military as World War II came to an end. Maybe he died doing something heroic.
That’s what I choose to believe.
The people who adopted me – my mom and dad – really thought I’d die. That’s how tiny I was, how sick. But they took me anyway, to give me some love.
My dad is dead now, has been for a long time. I loved him. I love him. But he and I were never really close.
My mom and I were – and are.
Many of my happiest memories are of my mother. I thought she was beautiful and loved it when she’d hold my hand as we walked together. I remember the way she looked when we went to mass as a family and remember her giving me books and telling me, from the time I was a little boy, that I could become a writer if I wanted to.
I remember the late, late night when she learned her dad – my grandfather – had died. My father was working and my mom came to my room and woke me. She was sitting on the floor crying so I got out of bed and hugged her and cried with her and then, later, we went to the kitchen and drank some hot milk and just kind of looked at each other.
I remember her being angry from time to time. I don’t remember her ever hitting me. I do remember her making me stand in a corner for a time and remember my father’s punishments.
Whew.
I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen on Saturdays, listening to the opera broadcast from New York as she did the weekly ironing. I remember sitting on her lap.
She’s 94 now, a retired teacher/librarian. She – whom I remember as being almost 6-feet tall – is tiny. A little bent over. Pretty deaf. And she uses a cane. She also drives, solo, to mass and shopping and to restaurants.
My wife thinks my mom, Mary, should not be allowed to drive. She’s too old. I told Lynne to go up to Clearwater and take my mother’s car keys. I’ll wait here.
My mom reads voraciously. The New York Times and the big New York Review of Books and a couple of other newspapers and more than a dozen magazines and every book she’s interested in. Not novels. Nonfiction. Good stuff.
I talk to my mother every evening at 6 p.m. I make sure she’s okay and we talk about the Times crossword puzzle and we talk about politics and our family and all kinds of things. She tells me what she did and I maybe tell her what I did.
We sound a lot alike, my mother and I. We laugh at the same jokes, find the same political actions disgusting, feel the same way about people we know, like the same food, even curse with a lot of the same words.
We can sit together and not say a damn thing and both know we’re having fun.
Sometimes, when I’m having a tough time, I edit my comments. I can tell how sad she is that I’m sick and I don’t want her to know everything.
I hope she has a good Mother’s Day and wish I had the strength to drive up there. But I don’t and she understands. Lynne and I sent her a beautiful scarf and a book I know she wanted and she already opened the gifts because she never waits these days. She loves the gifts.
Thinking of her as I lay in bed earlier today, I thought how good it would be if she dies before I do. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever admitted in a life that’s been filled, for years, with some terrible actions and reactions. But it’s true.
And guess what. I believe my mother hopes the same thing.
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