A Good Cup of Jobe

I'm having my first cup of coffee since before I went into the hospital, but it's no fun anymore. For diabetic reasons I've given up flavored creamers, which I love - Mexican Chocolate, Pumpkin Spice (my favorite), Bailey's Irish Cream, Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie, and more.

They tasted so good in the morning while I read, my cat curled up in my lap sound asleep. The comforting aroma, the luxuriant smoothness, the decadent sweetness. But from now on it's me and Mister Milk of the One-Percent.

Yes, I will be tempted, but I've been down this road before. In fact, I will undoubtedly succumb on an occasional weekend and holiday, although they say total abstinence is the best policy.

It seems like, one by one, God is taking away every simple pleasure I have left. Yom Kippur is upon us, which I always thought should be a time for reflection, not atonement, punishment, guilt and fear. I mean, you're being written into the Book of Life and Death, for Christ's sake!

I try to live a moral life. I try to give of my talents freely as best as I am able. I try to not let all the anger inside me overwhelm the love.

Anyway, it's probably time for your second cup, so I'll let you go. Besides, they don't even make Cinnamon-Hazelnut anymore.

Pride Goeth Before A Fall

One more story from the "modesty is in the eye of the beholder" file. I had to explain my unique toileting procedure to the nurses. Two of them worked in tandem to insert the 'magic bullet of health' with an "Are you ready? Here we go. Three... two... one... and liftoff!" This was embarrassing enough, but then a guy from physical therapy came in to lift me onto the commode. They were all fascinated by how I transferred from the bed to the commode, and the therapist pointed out my upper body strength to the nurses. But let me tell you, you cannot pull off the he-man act when you're sitting on the pot with a catheter hanging out between your legs.

A young, cute aide named Carly (they're all young and cute and named Carly) asked if I wanted her to stay with me while I did my business. I told her I thought I'd be fine for a while and she left, but said she'd check in with me. Some time later, she stuck her head in the door to see how I was doing. I replied, "I think I'm having some luck right now." She turned her head back out to the hall and called out, "He's going right now."

Every nurse on the floor piled into the room to behold this awesome spectacle while my wife couldn't even look at me knowing what I was thinking. Although I seem to put everything out there in my writing, I am actually a very private person.

After a quick check revealed that I had indeed accomplished my mission, I asked for a few moments alone. I got myself cleaned up, albeit awkwardly (don't ask), and pushed the call button to signal I was done. Carly and two nurses came in and Carly asked, "Now how do you go about getting clean?" I said, "Oh, I already took care of that."

Carly got a big grin on her face and the three of them looked at each other and I could hear them thinking, "Hey, check out the old guy who can wipe his own ass."

Truly one of my proudest moments.

Ice Chips Are Your Friends

First, let me apologize for being late in starting my Halloween countdown, but I've been living my own horrorshow for the last few days. Sunday morning Shellie and I took a drive along foggy, country roads to our local emergency room. I was felled by a combination of runaway blood sugar levels from the steroids, plunging white cell counts, violent nausea and dehydration from the chemo, and inability to hold down my regular meds for TM pain and spasms. I had an infection and fever. One word of advice,

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!

Sorry, the damn IV alarm went off again. As I was saying, one word of advice is Dilaudid is your friend. I also noticed this morning that a new anti-nausea pill I'm taking, lists one of its side effects as nausea. I was discharged yesterday afternoon at five and I actually had take-out won ton soup for dinner. We watched Wheel and I hit the hay. I had a fairly

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!

Call button. Where the hell's the nurses' call button? Anyway, I had a fairly good night. I didn't have to call Nik or Shellie once, even to help reposition myself. Whenever I woke up, I checked the clock and then rolled on my back and ate some ice chips. One word of advice - ice chips are your friends. This morning I am resting comfortably. Nik made me the best soft-boiled eggs I've ever had, using the America's Test Kitchen method.

We're adjusting to the new morning routine of commode, meds, blood sugar check, and something small to eat. My doctor prescribed an insulin pen, so soon I'll be dealing with that. I was chastised severely by the doctors, nurses, ER techs, and my beloved sister (who is about to belove me upside the head) for not taking care of myself and following my instructions to the letter.

Lastly, I cannot say enough about the nursing staff. Florence Nightingales, angels of mercy, they bring beauty, compassion, skill, and forbearance with them wherever they go. To lay there and watch how

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!

HARD AND PROFESSIONALLY they work is awe-inspiring! A dear friend, who is also battling cancer much rarer and invasive than mine, suggested that some baked goods are always welcome at the nurses' station, and a nice gesture of appreciation. I think a zucchini bread or tray of muffins will soon be on their way.

Tired now. More to follow. But just to keep my spirits up, I want everyone to give me a B, give me an E

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!

Screw it.

Only A Fool Worries About Being On Time For His Own Execution

Tuesday morning I was scheduled for my first cancer chemotherapy session. It was my first night sleeping alone in a hastily purchased twin-bed in our downstairs home office - something I stubbornly swore I'd never do. I would not turn the first floor of our home into a hospital suite. But I had a PICC-line put in and the nurses finally talked some sense into me (no small feat) about hoisting myself up and down the stairs with a catheter running the length of my arm and lodged in my heart.

I told my wife to set her alarm for seven a.m. to give us time to leisurely get ready in light of the disjointed situation. I was awake and saw the clock pass seven. I was sure I heard the radio in our bedroom turn on and then turn off. She must have hit the snooze button I thought. Seven-ten, seven-fifteen. We had decided to use the telephones which have an intercom feature for me to reach my family upstairs. I pressed the intercom button and listened for the ringtone. Nothing. I tried again. Silence. I started calling out. Calmly at first so no one would panic. Within five minutes I was screaming at the top of my lungs to wake them. All of a sudden I could hear voices and feet hitting the floor and stomping down the stairs.

My wife apologized profusely, she hit the wrong button on the alarm. I'm afraid, I was not very gracious and made a stressful morning even more stressful. We were in tears as we drove off. We travelled in silence for a while, then the thought struck me, why the hell was I in such a hurry? I turned to Shellie and said, "I guess only a fool worries about being on time for his own execution." I don't think she knew what I was talking about, but it broke the ice and we were able to share what we were each feeling.

Today is Rosh Hashanah - the Jewish New Year. In fact 5775 to be exact. The two-and-a-half day festival is celebrated with deeply devotional services from sunrise to sunset, followed by the feast. Chopped liver, gefilte fish, matzah ball soup, brisket, turkey, kishke, fresh challah, and all the trimmings.

This was one of my favorite holidays, where the family would get together to laugh and wish good wishes for the coming year. We emphasized the occasion with sweet wine and the first autumn apples dipped in wildflower honey.

For many years I have been able to attend less and less as the drive becomes increasingly difficult. My sister, as in "beloved," chastises me when I start to feel sorry for myself, but year after year, the garbage from the last year just follows over into the new as more garbage piles up in front of me.

Believe me, I get the whole positive-negative outlook thing. My son just told me a joke. He said, "An optimist sees a glass half full. A pessimist sees a glass half empty. An engineer sees a glass that's twice as big as it needs to be."

No one is a more ardent believer in love than I am. I express it in my posts. I express it in my comments on other people's posts. Love is at the heart of my writing. Love is why I endeavor to persevere.

I believe in miracles. There's no other explanation for my wife and I to have come together and remained together as lovers and soulmates. I always said I was so much in love with her that I wanted to shout it from the highest rooftop. Facebook's about the highest rooftop I could find, I guess.

And this is to say nothing of two fine sons, a dear daughter-in-law and four grandkids, one who is a month old.

No less dear to me are our four "girls," especially the black and white stink-fish-pot who bonded with me in vows of unconditional love, implicit trust, and mutual companionship till death do us part.

Every day I wake up in awe and thanksgiving that we get to live in this amazing house. I look around at our belongings, lovingly collected over a lifetime, and infinitely more so when our fall and Halloween decorations are on display. It is as if every stick of furniture and every ceramic piece were meant to be here.

I bask in the warmth of my family and online friends, and in the community to a small degree. A writers group at my local library has made me their cause célèbre; and Shellie and I have been welcomed like long lost sheep into the fold of a non-denominational church in our town. I think Pastor Michelle has made my salvation her mission. (She don't know me very well, do she!?)

Sometimes I am blindsided when someone tells me that I'm an inspiration to them, or that something I said or wrote about my troubles helped them through their own times of crisis. Boy, does that make it all worthwhile.

Lastly, I don't blame people for feeling sorry for themselves. There's a lot to feel sorry about. Health struggles, financial struggles (especially those brought on by health struggles), mental health issues (which often go undiagnosed and untreated), struggles within relationships, struggles with the law and an ever more intrusive government, bigotry, war, ignorance, greed, injustice, poverty, hatred, the deliberate poisoning of our planet, and evil running rampant over our world.

Feeling sorry for yourself is a good thing. It provides a retreat where hope and inspiration can flourish. Invariably, when you type "feeling sorry for yourself" into Google, the results are all self-help links to "snap you out of it in three to ten easy steps." I think this is wrong-headed. Feeling sorry for yourself is a natural reaction to stress. So go right ahead and throw yourself a pity-party. Who deserves it more?

Insert your favorite inspirational meme here

We Wants the Redhead

I saw a movie today. It was rated Arrrrrr.

This is the one day of the year when that joke actually works, International Talk Like a Pirate Day. If ye harken to learn more, shove off to:

http://www.talklikeapirate.com/about.html.

I listened to this album when I was ten because it was my favorite ride. I listened to it at fifteen because Walt Disney World was a stoner's paradise. I listened to side B at twenty-five years of age because I recognized Disney as a fellow intellectual. Age thirty-five found me playing it for my sons, at least that was my story and I'm sticking to it. And every year I hear a long section of it on Halloween, as part of a mix tape I made in the early 80's, and which has withstood the test of time (better than I have).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6YHcRNx8gE

(Thurl Ravenscroft narrates Walt Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean)

And Many Many More

All the wishes for 'many, many more' puts me in mind of the old joke where a doctor says to a patient, "I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you have six days to live."

The patient says, "Oh my God! What's the bad news?"

And the doctor says, "We've been trying to reach you for the last five."

An Observation On My Birthday

So I stood on a ridge and shunned religion thinking the world was mine,

I made my break and a big mistake stealin' when I should've been buyin'

This should be the theme song of my youth . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqLh3OcwvyI