The Clot

Mars, Hares and Madness

2012-03-02T08:07:00.000-08:00

It’s March already. It arrived a little late this year because of Leap Day, although it seems the first two months of 2012 have passed at the speed of light. And speaking of light, on March 11^th, we will all lose an hour of sleep to pick up extra sun at the end of the day. I guess the exchange is worth it.

March is actually named after a rather angry fellow, Mars, the Roman god of war, and it is known for madness, hatters, hares and ides.

It is also the month Dennis and I chose to get married. In fact, our anniversary falls exactly on the Ides of March, the date when Brutus murdered his friend, Julius Caesar. Brutus must have been madder than a March hare. Is this a bad omen? Not necessarily, although we tend to avoid asylums, haberdashers, the Senate, and senators, especially on an election year.

It was nice to have leap day, a bonus 24-hour respite to catch our breath. We invested that extra time NOT going to the Huntsman. Not going certain places is nice, especially when we had been there so many times this past week. I admit I began to understand the probable cause of Mars’ anger.

Last Friday, Dr. Sharma arranged to have Dennis’ portacathe removed, suspecting it could be the source of the abscess on his liver. Having an adversarial relationship with abscesses on livers, we ratified that recommendation and showed up on the doorstep of HCH early in the morning…fasting.

A very competent doctor entered the exam room as the designated predatory surgeon. By virtue of its simplicity, I was invited to remain in the room for the procedure. The nurse asked me if I would be all right, since they were just going to inject some xylacaine to deaden the surrounding area. No big deal.

Oh puhhhleeeeze! After everything we’ve been through, nothing bothers me. Besides, I wanted Dennis to have the benefit of the potent power of my presence to give an aura of strength and stability. The doc had me at, “Now this is a pretty simple procedure.” I opted to stay.

I mean, how bad could it be? I would simply avert my eyes by reading an out-of-date smut mag (in this particular issue, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were still together) and go to an alternate universe for the duration.

There were just two teeny weeny problems I had not factored in to my decision.

I had not eaten.
Because Dennis is a physician, the doctor felt compelled to deliver a play-by-play account of what he was doing in maniacally graphic detail.

So, while I could avert my eyes, I could not avert my ears.

The first thing I heard was, “Now Dennis, you’ll feel a little poke and then a slight burning sensation.” I realized at that point I had made a very bad decision. I wanted to adopt my daughter Erin’s technique of cupping her hands over her ears and shrieking “LA LA LA LA LA! I’m not LISTening!” when I tried to tell her the facts of life.

“A little poke??!!!” I heard a puncture and the nauseating sucking sound of a plumber’s friend being plunged into a backed-up sewer pipe. He must have been using the trident of Beelzebub!

“A slight burning sensation??!!!” The flames of the underworld flared up from the depths of Hades licking at my pant legs and threatened to engulf the entire third floor. What a backdraft!

This good surgeon, who no doubt was valedictorian of his graduating medical school class because of his gymnastically acute verbal descriptive prowess, then announced he was going to make a slight incision at the port site.

What I heard was, “And now I will open a gaping cavernous wound which will hereafter be known as The Yawning and Cavernous Black Hole with the gravitational sucking power capable of engulfing the entire universe into everlasting darkness.”

Even his ornate medical terms could not obscure the facts of this “simple little procedure.” Dennis uttered not a word. No doubt his hearing was impaired.

The doctor then referred to a “scalpel,” but I testify I heard a Samarai sword slash through the air with predatory force cleaving the atmosphere in two as his voice went all “Miss Piggy” screaming “HYYYYYYY-YAH!” Never allowing my eyes to wander from the magazine, I had no doubt he was conducting a total evisceration.

The metal tray was heavy with scalpels and adhesives, giving a whole new meaning to “cut and paste.” And he described shades of pulsating pink, evoking images reminiscent of internal organs at work. I was sure the incision would have the bite radius of a Great White. The room was suffused with the fusty aroma of alcohol and something orange and pungent.

In the wild excess of self-indulgent narcissism, I noticed the room getting smaller and swaying slightly, as if it had been chloroformed. The nurse thought I looked pale. I explained I was just extremely blond.

I tried channeling my inner Whitney by belting out “They can’t take away my dignity!” Apparently, they can.

I exited the room clinging tightly to Dennis’ arm…so he wouldn’t fall. He endured the ordeal well, which restored our credibility.

But the next time I’m invited to listen to a procedure, I’m going to eat breakfast, get REALLY angry, and then go to a universe far, far away, where there are no ides, hares, madness or senators.

Romance and Wisdom

2012-02-19T08:32:00.000-08:00

It seems the first few months of the new year are scatter shot with clusters of micro holidays specifically designed to wean us off the frenetic pace of the Christmas season. It’s OK I guess, although I believe many of these second-tier calendar dates are specifically created by someone with a savage passion to sell greeting cards.

This particular weekend is Presidents Day, in which we celebrate the presidents…Washington and Lincoln specifically. This date follows close behind Valentine’s Day, which celebrates valentines specifically.

Personally, I prefer honoring the presidents to honoring Cupid. Especially Lincoln. He was a man of profound wisdom, a commodity seemingly in short supply these days. He truly was honor’s voice. His Gettysburg Address, all 272 words, has the power to transform, no matter how many times one hears it. One is always well advised to take counsel from the wise.

Valentine’s Day is something I wrestle with each year. I appreciate the sentiment, but I find it hard to legislate romance. It seems that should be part of the daily routine…every day, like brushing your teeth or making your bed. Affection should always be expressed.

However, this past Valentine’s Day was actually one of my favorites. No, I did not get chocolate or roses. That would have driven me to spasms of bellicose oaths worthy of a Visigoth warrior. (Although I have been known to accept any gift with diamonds. Hey, we all have our standards.)

Tuesday, I brought Dennis home from the hospital. He had resided in room 4512 for over a week as he was treated for an abscess on his liver that was causing all kinds of havoc on his body. Actually, his body withstood the assault admirably, although, it did leave him slightly diminished. His washboard abs look a little like balsa wood, and his muscle memory has progressed from dementia to full-blown amnesia. But that can be resolved, all in good time. It does not worry me. It is sometimes a good thing not to have total recall.

I was so happy to have him in the house once again, I couldn’t restrain myself. At the top of my lungs I began singing, “I-eeeeeee-eye-eeeeeee-eye will always love you-ooooh-hooooo-ooooh-hooooooo.” It gave me chills. Dennis, however, stopped me mid hooo-hooo, muttering something about Alfalfa on steroids, and suggested that the better part of romance (and wisdom) is silence. He suggested I consider becoming the “Valentine whisperer.”

I thought about if. I refused to be offended, although I’m not sure why. We have toilet paper embossed with hearts, and as I placed a new roll on the dispenser, I whispered, “From my heart to your derrier.” That sufficed for the occasion. It brought a tear to my eye.

Sometimes I think life is a leavening agent. Shakespeare suffused his plays with Fate. Whatever the engine that drives the events in our lives, we always have need for wisdom to guide us in negotiating the potholes on the highway of life. Wisdom diffuses despair.

It is good to seek the guidance from voices of the past, silent mentors whose words echo to instruct and reassure. I have several mentors that serve as constant reference points. They are like my North Star.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: “I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.”

AESCHYLUS: “He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

GALILEO: “The Sun, with all the planets revolving around it, and depending on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as though it had nothing else in the Universe to do.”

OLYMPIC CREED: “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph, but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered, but to have fought well.”

WINNIE-THE-POOH: “Those who are clever, who have Brain, never understand anything.”

MOM: “Why make the bed? I’m just going to climb in again.”

These are a few of my silent mentors.

So as Dennis mends and recovers from the latest ordeal, I will remember to pray, that wisdom is hard won, but comes even against our will, that our grapes will ripen eventually if we flood them with sunshine, that we will not only fight well, but triumph, that understanding eclipses IQ, and that making the bed is highly over-rated.

Maybe wisdom really is the highest form of romance after all. Until someone writes a song to convey that sentiment, I will have to write love letters on our toilet paper.

Score Four

2012-01-31T11:57:00.001-08:00

Four years and seven hours ago, Dennis took one for the team and underwent “The Whipple.” To those whose lives have not required it, “Whipple” may conjure up images of an elderly gentleman inordinately obsessed with Charmin toilet paper. (Actually, I’m not knocking it. The older I get, the more obsessed with toilet paper I become. I think it’s a condition of menopause.)

But to those whose health depends upon extreme intervention, The Whipple is much more. The medical community speaks the name in hushed tones reserved for cathedrals, and genuflect at the mere mention of this formidable operation.

As I understand it, The Whipple is a relatively simple surgical procedure in which the patient is gutted by a skilled doctor with nothing to do for the next 8 to 10 hours, as he performs a total organectomy. We had the best. But it was one of the few times I prayed that Dr. Mulvihill had graduated medical school at the top of his class.

Dr. Mulvihill prepared us for what was about to take place by reciting an inventory of preparations for a long list of possible contingencies. He spoke of “harvesting” the carotid. “HARVESTING THE CAROTID???” And then he spoke reassuringly of the tankers of blood should Dennis spring a leak. Oddly enough, I was reassured.

However, I became dizzy with the contingencies. I tried to feign competence, but soon began speaking in sentence fragments. “What the…?” “You’re going to put what where?” “Is that possible?” “Is that legal?” My final question was, “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

That’s not a direct quote. Anyone who knows The Clot, knows that harsh language is our Mother Tongue. We actually consider ourselves bilingual.

I looked at Erin and Brodi, whose saucer-eyes resembled the characters in cartoons where only the whites show up in the dark, as Dr. Mulvihill recited all the “what ifs.” Dennis, on the other hand, seemed quite serene. But he just had been administered the “I don’t care” drug in impressive quantities. We had not received said drugs. We cared deeply.

By the end of that long day, the girls and I looked pretty disheveled. But Dr. Mulvihill emerged from the OR looking impressively sheveled. As Dennis surfaced from the anesthetic, the first thing he said was, “What time is it?” I thought it a curious question, but told him it was almost 10:00 p.m. and all was well. He smiled. It wasn’t till later I learned that just before going under, Dr. Mulvihill informed him that if he got in and found spread, he would close immediately and terminate the procedure. Dennis accepted the terms of the contract.

I have always told our girls that you move in the direction you are looking. But sometimes it is good to look back, if only for a moment. Certain anniversaries must be observed.

It is no small thing to confront what is fearful. Allowing angst to lie dormant might cause it to fester and abscess. There are shadows that hover spectrally, but the best defense against shadows is to flood them with sunshine.

Are the uses of adversity really sweet? Do we need adversity to appreciate what is of value in our lives? Perhaps there are many answers to that question. Four years ago, one life was usurped by another. It was a hostile take-over, leaving a major paradigm shift in its wake. This event altered everything.

We look back on lessons we learned. What occurred during this re-awakening was good. We are able to hold on to what was of greatest consequence, and loosen our grasp on the unessential.

We cannot change the past. Nor would we if we could. Our task is to move forward. Our great concern is to be guided by our experience as we plan our present.

We will be directed by the things we love.

We also celebrate another anniversary today. It’s been one week since Brodi’s book launch.

She said to me that day, “What if nobody comes.” I told her that her family would be there. When we looked at all those present, I realized we have a very big family.

Some things we don’t understand. Some things we never will. Perhaps all that is expected is that we reverence the miracles.

We accept the terms.

It's not about the Book

2012-01-25T13:41:00.000-08:00

Last night was Brodi’s book launch. King’s English. 7:00 p.m. Wow!
Yesterday I was not really sure exactly

how to launch a book. Just for the record, we decided not to spray the book with Coke Zero. Being a tribe of “Caf-fiends,” we feared we’d humiliate ourselves, like a pride of snarling lions over a fresh kill, by collectively licking the precious liquid off the pages in a calamitous display of demeaning, degrading Neanderthal anti-polite-society lust for the stimulant. Hey, that stuff is “Mother’s Milk” to the addicted.
No, instead we thought this particular event worthy of slightly elevated decorum. So we pounded down quarter-pound cookies in pairs and stuffed cake into every conceivable unoccupied facial orifice available, then tried to extract tell-tale chocolate chip remnants with our fingers. Nobody can accuse us of a lack of sophistication!
Eventually, Brodi rose to speak. It is a singular sensation as a parent to watch one’s offspring address a group of friends, family, and loved ones who gathered to celebrate her accomplishment.
There is a complex amalgam of emotion…anticipation, pride, excitement. As she was about to begin, there was a mechanics malfunction. The remote for the power-point presentation was not working.
For an anxious parent, the better part of valor is to sit, composed and patient, as she works through the glitch. Not an easy task when said mother is prompted by a primal instinct to protect one’s progeny by tearing off one’s clothes and running in concentric circles shrieking, “We’re all going to die!”
With astonishing grace, Brodi gave humorous audibles to Sam who manually advanced the slides and allowed her to continue her presentation.
I was not surprised. Brodi and Sam are problem-solvers. Just satisfied that random acts of chaos in the universe did not deter Brodi from her appointed remarks. I have always said it is all the unforeseen things that go wrong that make an occasion memorable. Such was the case last night. This was memorable. Nothing could sabotage this moment.
But perhaps the defining elements of this book launch were not entirely about the book. All those that gathered on her behalf were there not just to applaud, but to cheer. It seemed that dear ones came together to celebrate, to rejoice and to invest in one another.
We saw those in attendance embrace each other in reunions and reminiscence that were not just centered on the book.
It was about a spirit of spoken and unspoken exchanges of love and mutual admiration.
It was about seeing generations of family and friends participate in the sweet rituals that renew connections that time and distance do not diminish.
It was about a driving element centered on celebrating the things that make us the elect refined beings that perhaps was originally intended.
The book was the reason for this moment, but not exclusively the essence.
Brodi knew this best of all. With her humorous anecdote about “deletions,” she obliquely taught life lessons about what should be nurtured and maintained.
It was a privilege to be a member at an event that brought together a society of chosen, who reunited, reminisced and rejoiced.
So, to paraphrase Lance Armstrong, ultimately it is not about the book. Last night, it was about all of us.
And that’s how you launch a book.

Out to Launch

2012-01-24T09:04:00.001-08:00

Today is Brodi’s book launch. King’s English. 7:00 p.m. Wow!

How do you “launch” a book? I know how to launch a missile. All you need is a lot of fuel and tremendous thrust consisting of foot pounds of pressure per second per second. “Houston, we have lift off!” Not exactly rocket science.

And to launch a ship, one needs only a bottle of champagne…and a Royal. Imagine the flow of the bubbly when Helen’s face launched a thousand ships! It’s amazing there was anyone sober enough to fight the Trojan War!

But launching a book is different. Just what is the protocol? We wanted to do it up right. However, christening it with any alcoholic beverage would contradict the prohibitions of our chosen life style. Ditto hot drinks. After minimal deliberation, we settled on shaking a can of cola and spraying it on the designated book. Of course, it had to be the hard stuff. Definitely, Coke Zero. No decaf. This is a special occasion.

Shakespeare posed the question, “What’s in a name?” And he reasoned that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I’m sure he’s right, but it seems to me the olfactory senses would be altered ever so slightly if indeed that regal velvet blossom were known as a kumquat.

Choosing a name for one’s child is never easy. Recently a man in Wisconsin changed his name to Beezow Doo-Doo Zopittybop Bop Bop. Doo-Doo for short. Since Shakespeare and Doo Doo were already spoken for, and because we wanted something a little unique, we opted to name our second daughter Brodi Shawn. Dennis’ mother was horrified, and feared she would be called “Little B. S.” I told her that was entirely possible. No doubt there would be times when it was warranted. Nevertheless, we kept the name, knowing she would grow up to either love it or hate it. Turns out she loved it. It serves as her pen name.

I told Brodi I really wanted to find a red dress like the one on the cover of her book to wear for the launch. She tried to keep her composure and stifle her giggles. She said that she was sure I could pull it off…with Pamela Anderson implants, lipo suction, and massive anatomical remodeling…no offense. I said, “None taken.” I rose with great dignity, taking the high road, refusing to be offended by brutal reality. Contrary to the poets, truth is not always beauty. However, I kept muttering “Little B. S.” under my breath. I opted for jeans, but I am keeping “Plastic Surgeons Are Us” on speed dial.

Once, in a state of supreme neuron disfuntion, Brodi asked me to read the manuscript and make suggestions. As an English teacher, she thought I could be of some use. I told her that I would, but I was not into flattery. If it was good, I’d tell her. But I also had my red pen. She agreed. When I returned the pages, she wryly commented that some areas looked like I’d opened a vein and hemorrhaged. I told her the book was phenomenal. It was not flattery.

I have read Brodi’s book multiple times. But of all the words on all the pages of this amazing tale, my nine favorites occur on the third page, before the story begins. They are Dennis’ Father’s Day gift. She asked me if I could help her say it better. I could not. I could launch a thousand words and still not have said it better. It was her most inspired writing.

Writers are advised to write about what they know best. Brodi knows her Dad.

(Just for the record, I retract everything I muttered under my breath!)

A Matter of Degrees

2012-01-14T06:45:00.001-08:00

A MATTER OF DEGREES

January 13, 2012

Dennis’ weight just made an eye-popping quantum leap of five pounds, and with that excess corpulence has come a clarity of recollection of the recent episode in Houston. He wants to know more of just what took place. I’m not sure if neuron-function is directly related to greater accumulation of bulk, but if it is, I’m having my IQ re-tested immediately.

Personally, I’m a little reticent to leap blindly into full disclosure. It’s a little like divulging the facts of life to one’s children. These things must be done delicately. Some things may be disturbing. One must judiciously select what is to be revealed and what is to remain concealed. When moved upon by discretion, I can actually become the sphinx.

I opted to begin by telling him about steroids. That’s pretty safe. The doctors decided to put him on a regimen of prednisone to pump up his batting average, enlarge his quads, and prepare him for his ultimate goal of extreme cage fighting. They would also assist him in transitioning from NPO to solid food – mainly ice chips.

OK. The Clot ratified prednisone. However, as with all potent medications, this one has serious side effects. Namely: it increases the appetite and could cause considerable weight gain. OK. We can handle that.

Only minutes after Dennis was administered his first dose, The Clot beat a hasty retreat to the nearest exit and headed en masse to Burger King, where we ordered their super-size Orca burger with all the trimmings…and tried to refrain from asking fellow patrons if they wanted the rest of their fries. Boy Howdy, that stuff is powerful!

We waddled sheepishly back to the ICU, trying to dislodge sesame seeds from our teeth with our tongues as, in a laudable humanitarian gesture, we took turns spooning ice chips into Dennis’ mouth. Copious consumption of peppermints helped disguise tell-tale whale breath.

Dennis listened to the story without interruption and said, “Sometimes comas are a good thing.”

We are all glad he is off prednisone. But check out those quads!

I also decided to relate a notable encounter with Dr. Wolff and our daughter Erin. Dr. Wolff is a brilliant physician whose great brain wields untold quantities of knowledge and information. His mind is the warehouse of impressive and vital facts. He is the quarterback of our team. None better.

One evening he came into Dennis’ room to discuss his condition and current medical circumstance. We steeled ourselves for a barrage of disheartening information. And Dr. Wolff did not sugar coat nor mitigate harsh reality. It was all rather grim. Dennis’ condition was serious and threatening. No question about it.

Erin and Brodi listened intently, and I sensed the crushing weight as the severity of the situation settled upon them. Knowing our daughters as I do, I wondered how long it would be before one of them spoke up.

Turns out, not long – and, of course, turns out it was Erin. With great dignity, she said, “Tomorrow my Dad’s going to be better.”

Dr. Wolff responded that he, too, was optimistic. But, he insisted, “I’m just telling you the facts.”

Once again, Erin, with unmitigated authority, replied, “And I’m telling you my facts. Tomorrow my Dad will make a 180 percent turn around!”

Dr. Wolff was a little taken aback. Out of the side of her mouth, Brodi whispered, “Erin, that’s 180 DEGREE turn around.”

Undeterred, Erin continued to pontificate that the day after that, Dennis would make another 180 DEGREE turn around!

Applied mathematical principles would suggest that two 180 degree turnarounds would put one back where one started. But such rational calculations had no place when one is making pronouncements. Erin’s facts defy the numbers.

Dennis emerged from oblivion during this exchange just long enough to mutter, “See what I’ve lived with all these years?”

Dr. Wolff managed a smile after being carpet bombed by a wall of Ashton women, and conceded that both Erin’s facts and scientific facts could reside in peaceful co-existence.

The following day, in fact, Dennis made a 180 degree turn around. Go figure.

I learned great things that day. Perhaps, after all, understanding trumps science. After tracking Dennis’ monitors for 12 straight hours, and watching graphs, numbers, flow charts and alarms react with the latest unnerving news, as well as being swarmed by platoons of technicians, doctors and nurses, even brilliant minds could still arrive at faulty conclusions. There was no machine to register strength of mind and strength of will.

Erin and Brodi knew their Dad deeper, better than all the technology of modern science. They possessed the greater understanding that there are certain forces in the universe that conspire and center on someone with particular healing properties.

What the heart understands transcends scientific data. Erin has always believed that everyone, including the entire medical community at MD Anderson, is entitled to her opinion and the facts as she interprets them. And why not? She was right.

After hearing this anecdote, Dennis’ desire to know more seemed sated for the moment. He’ll eventually get the whole story, but only in degrees.

Thoracic Park

2011-12-31T10:49:00.001-08:00

Christmas is a time for telling the old familiar stories of journeys: Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem, and Wise Men following a star to a manger. So it was entirely appropriate that at this particular season, we, too, made a pilgrimage. Our destination: Houston, affectionately known as “Thoracic Park.”

We prepared for our flight by checking the Heavens for navigational lights. Then we way over-packed, and stayed in optimal physical shape by squat thrusting our luggage.

We have never been gone for over two weeks, but we were most willing to hie ourselves to M. D. Anderson for the opportunity to eradicate a significant portion of Dennis’ lung nodules with high intensity radiation.

We met and conferred with the Three Wise Men: Tom Buccholz, a dear and trusted friend; Dr. Joe Chang, a thoracic wunderkind; and Dr. Robert Wolff, who, as his name implies, is a ferocious oncological canine.

There was no room at the inns, so we stayed in a local Best Western. It was adequate, consisting of two rooms (with two beds and a bathroom) and dimly lit interiors. I began to realize how minimally one can live when great opportunities present themselves.

However, the interior of our particular stable was dimly lit, and the lights cast a grayish, yellowish tint to one’s reflection. When the post-shower fog on the mirrors vanished, we both looked sicker than we actually were.

So I resorted to the Kardashian make-up handbook with tips for drag queens and smut mags, and applied several extra layers of mascara and foundation to counter the specter of my ghostly appearance. I have decided that mascara is the opiate of the masses. The mirrors at the hospital, unfortunately, were truer than those at the motel, and I realized I looked like a geriatric refugee from the Kabuki Theater, gaunt and apparition-like. I hate mirrors.

Things could not have gone better for the first five treatments. We were high on optimism and egg nog. Dennis received his daily dose of radiation, and then we spent each day letting our light so shine and seeing the sights of Houston. At the end of that week, he could have guided Santa’s sleigh.

But that Friday night, there was an episode of such severity, we rushed him to the ER, where it was determined that he be placed in the ICU immediately. His blood pressure plummeted, his lungs became “fluffy,” and throngs of doctors and caretakers swarmed him round the clock. Of the two of us, I was the only one cogent. We all panicked.

At one point, in order to avoid a catheter, I decided to try persuasive imaging on Dennis. After all, I watch “The Mentalist.” I understand hypnosis. So I started counting backwards from ten, telling him in my most velvet voice, that when I reached one, he would pee. It didn’t work the first time…nor the second. By the third try, I was looking frantically for a bathroom. Dennis got the catheter.

In spite of all my protestations that we were going to be fine, Erin and Brodi boarded a plane for Texas. Apparently long-distance “clotting” was insufficient for them. I mark Dennis’ turn-around from the moment he saw their faces. The light in his eyes was beyond radiation. And to tell the truth, their faces looked awfully good to me, too.

The three of us went “commando” and never left his bedside, except when hospital rules forced us out after 12 hours. Then we rocked Houston. We went to see “Mission Impossible,” and realized just how many impossible things are possible.

We never felt alone. In fact, at one point as Dennis lay semi-conscious and wired to every contraption conceivable to the mind of man, I asked him how many angels he thought were in the room with us. I didn’t expect an answer. Most of our conversations are one-sided anyway. Besides, he was not awake, and I’m used to speaking in monologues. But this time he responded, saying he didn’t know exactly how many angels were attending, but it must be a multitude. Wow! Out of the mouths of the comatose.

Dennis began to improve dramatically. He endured, and eventually prevailed. I was in a constant state of wonderment, but not surprised. We began to see things in high def. We witnessed miracles that would astound and confound the Magi. So many miracles that I lost count…but there were definitely more than 17.

Our family was gone so long that we lost track of time. When Dennis began to recover, he asked me what just happened. I asked him what he remembered. He said not much. I said good. One day I’ll give him all the details. But not now. Some things are better left unspoken. We are at peace knowing we were exactly where we were meant to be at this time.

Staring down cancer is a monumental task. But my New Year’s resolution is singular and simple: NEVER EVER BLINK. (Of course, I’m aided in my commitment by copious amounts of caffeine. I actually CAN’T blink!)

If life is a journey, it is good to travel in multitudes, as in days of old, and to choose one’s traveling companions wisely. I have.

Houston, We Have a Solution

2011-12-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

Stricken by my annual Nesting Instinct, and staking out territory at the top of the food chain, I decided to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. Personally, I prefer to munch on invertebrates and microscopic algae, but we’re surrounded by a family comprised mostly of carnivores, who become predatory at this time of year.

So I donned my monogrammed “GRILL MASTER” apron and started preparing the feed bag.

I began the “apocalypse planning for future survival” by freezing the bird’s packaged innards. I’m not really sure just what each item is, and I do not ask questions. I don’t know whether to read the entrails or cook them. So, I simply place them next to the ice trays and wait till freezer burn dictates date of disposal. Very tidy. No guilt.

We managed to prepare all the traditional dishes and achieve a degree of nutritional value at the same time. Thankfully, we live in a country that has decreed pizza a vegetable, so we are able to hit some serious food groups simply by having Domino’s on speed dial.

As usual, it was a requirement for everyone to tell what they are thankful for. But with restrictions. Family, country, etc. were not allowed. This left the field wide open.

There were some creative and thoughtful things presented. Josh was grateful for drive-ups. Without them, it would be more difficult to get a “happy meal” so fast. I liked his thinking.

I personally was thankful for thumbs. Without opposing digits, (and an upright posture) life as we know it would be quite different. The kids proved my point by trying to eat using utensils with only their fingers. I stopped the demonstration when most of the contents of their plates ended up on the carpet. Our daughters went into collective depression when they realized without thumbs, they couldn’t text. Only MY routine wouldn’t change without thumbs, technologically speaking.

I stuffed the bird and then the bird stuffed us. As we were hauling out the carcass and hauling in the Christmas tree, our phone rang. It was Tom Buchholz from M.D. Anderson in Houston. He told us he had gone over Dennis’ PET scan with Dr. Chang, head of the thorax division and all things lung. Apparently they decided that high-intense radiation known as SBRT could take out three of Dennis’ five remaining lesions.

Dr. Chang said he was going after the hot lesion and two of its satellites. In order to ensure I understood exactly what he was saying, I said, “So, you’re offing three of the little buggers?” He concurred, with only a barely detectable eyeroll. I don’t think he was aware that whenever I refer to the “lesions,” I am accustomed to dropping the “B” grenades, “bugger” being the only one fit for blogging.

Of course, this changes the whole equation. I was overwhelmed. I wish I could master Kim Kardashian’s technique of crying without moistening a single manicured eyelash or dislodging so much as a single layer of carefully applied mascara. All her tears are contained within the boundaries of eyelids that remain botoxed in cement and unblinkingly carved in an impossibly perfect, vainglorious face…a mutation of inbred narcissism.

My tears splash out of my lids and mock my claims of eyes of cork. They wash over my mascara and carve rivulets of India ink down my cheeks, joining the streams of viscous nasal pond scum that compels onlookers to avert their eyes in disgust. But I mopped up the mess, and couldn’t stop doing the moonwalk as we packed our bags and headed to Texas with less than 24 hours notice.

In spite of all of the above, I landed in Houston looking laudably perky in my sunshine yellow cardigan and pathetically matching saffron shoes. Thanks to the moisture content of the equatorial atmosphere, I arrived at the doorstep of M. D. Anderson looking like a bedraggled, jaundiced fur ball coughed by a stray cat with toxic dyspepsia.

I heard from a Jesuit priest that yellow is the color of intelligence. Thankfully, I had packed plenty of burlap, the color of the neuron impaired.

We met with doctors and technicians, who created a body mould for Dennis, and then did calculations that would stupefy the intelligently elite, to prepare for the two weeks of intense radiation that will eradicate these invading nodules.

In order not to nothing ourselves to death, we decided to explore some points of interest while we waited for Monday. We went to Galvaston for a romantic walk along the beach and release our inner sanity. However, the wind blew so hard, it swaddled my head in platinum and root re-growth, making me look like a cross between cro magnon and the missing link. Not exactly a Kodak moment. But somehow none of that mattered.

It has been said that what is past is prologue. Dennis began his intense and precise treatments today. For us, it is Christmas. And perhaps that’s what this season is all about…prologues and possibilities.

APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEIVING

2011-11-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

Recently a friend of ours said he thought we were courageous. He seemed to include both Dennis AND me, so I was a little taken aback. Actually, I was stunned. I recall sitting there with my usual vacant, saucer-eyed noncomprehending stare that so often makes me appear slightly genetically challenged. It’s my “Duuuhhhh!” face. Perhaps he didn’t notice. Perhaps my application of excessive mascara was a distraction. Perhaps my appearance was deceiving.

But his comment prompted me to think about courage. It is such a noble trait, a characteristic of grace and dignity, a virtue to be acquired and assumed.

I have never thought of myself as brave. Episodes of paranoid excess due to an accumulation of unknowns expose my “Barney Fife on steroids” underbelly.

I am more the burrowing nocturnal marsupial in camouflage fatigues and pith helmet whose primal instinct is to run through the neighborhood shrieking, “Be afraid. Be very afraid,” with the irrational conviction of a Harold Camping.

I confess I don’t understand exactly what courage is. As much as I’ve studied Shakespeare, I don’t really know just what it means to “Screw your courage to the sticking place.”

I am much better acquainted with the attributes of fear, which include paranoia, alarm, dread, anxiety, doom and gloom.

Fear is bile green with tentacles that strangle and suffocate. It is base, a mongrel that prompts one to carry talismans as big as the Hindenburg to ward off the emotional brown-outs that tend to suffuse one’s subcutaneous.

On the hierarchy of emotion, fear can trump even the most righteous attributes. Fear generates revulsion, especially to those possessed by it.

In fact, on a whim, Dennis and I went to see Ballet West’s production of “Dracula.” Talk about VAMPIRES IN TIGHTS! Their fangs were uncomfortably apparent. The scenes in the crypt were so well performed that it actually gave me the wubbah wubbahs. Absolutely nobody gets the gruesomes at the ballet. (I being the notable exception.)

But then I began to examine the facets of courage, and the people I most admire who seem to own it. I decided there is an integral psychic after-burn associated with this gift – a sense of sun on their faces – an empowerment, an enlightenment, an elegance.

They persevere… simply putting one foot in front of the other. They are patient and positive.

I have concluded above all, that courage is not the absence of fear. Quite the contrary. Perhaps Admiral Rickenbacker said it best: “Courage is doing what you are afraid of doing.” OK. I get that.

Monday Dennis had an eyes to thighs PET scan. It revealed that only one of his nodules seems active right now. It’s “hot.”The others are apparently comatose. We are jubilant. Now, how to eradicate the obscenity. We are entertaining suggestions. But at the moment, the three most rational options are:

ablate
radiate
operate

We recognize the miracle of having one option, let alone three. Each one, however, comes with its own set of possible risks, side effects, and scary terrors, which send us into cold sweats and drives us to willful misconduct.

Sometimes the thoughts are disturbing. But less disturbing than thinking about ballet dancers doing pirouettes in tights. Now that takes courage!

But there is no room for doubt or fear. We will do what we are afraid to do. And we will put the “ablate” in “celablate!”

Ghosts of Halloween Passed

2011-11-01T16:46:00.000-07:00

After every Halloween comes November. We began celebrating the transition at 12:01 a.m. – not because we were partying, but because we’d overwhelmed our digestive systems with scones and hot chocolate consumed at a speed unsustainable by our age. I believe there’s actually a mathematical formula for figuring the intake/biological-rejection-time ratio for really old people.

So we raised a cup of “projectile pink” Pepto Bismol and belched a toast to the new month in unison. It was one of our proudest moments.

November is a month of promise and possibilities. It’s just that we have to get beyond October before November arrives. Now, no one isn’t graphically aware of how much our family hates Halloween. In fact, Brodi has re-named that day as National Suck It, Doc Day. How appropriate. But we did receive some much appreciated assists in getting us through dreaded October.

The first was courtesy of our grandson, Carter. Of course, pink is the color of breast cancer awareness month. It is the color of hope. It is also the color of Carter’s costume. Nothing gothic for this kid, no sir. He was a pink human woopie cushion! We all agreed it was most appropriate for the occasion.

Another significant assist came on our recent pilgrimage to Houston. Dr. Wolff was very pleased with Dennis’ progress. At one point he stood over him and said, “Just look at him! He’s amazing. And he’s not going anywhere any time soon.” I took that straight to the bank.

Dr. Wolff further reiterated that the way to fight this disease is with brute force, as if battling some foul and narcissistic creature from the Black Lagoon. We were with him so far.

But then he lost us. Dr. Wolff said that after inflicting blunt force trauma, we should consider backing off chemo for a while.

Oh yeah, like that’s going to happen. We have fought so hard for so long, and have reduced the number and size of the nodules by half. Was he actually suggesting we “un-chemo?” AS I-IIIIIFFFF! No. No. No.

But apparently, Dr. Wolff is smarter than I am. He said that those who take a chemo break actually do better over-all. Hmmmmm.

OK. OK. We promised we’d confer with our family about it and then decide.

When we discussed the issue with Erin and Brodi, we all agreed that because of the degree of difficulty involved, this called for drastic action. We reasoned that in order not to squander our existence or our options, we’d go platinum en masse. When in doubt, bleach it out. Lightening our hair always enlightens our minds. It’s easier to get to our alpha state when blond. And, it’s cheaper than recreational cosmetic surgery.

So the girls and I assembled around Erin’s bathroom sink, shrouded in towel turbins like terry cloth burqas, empty boxes of Loreal platimum 01 littering the countertops like spent cartridges, and foamed our collective scalps. We muttered incantations over our cauldrons of peroxide, reciting ancient recipes dating back to Jean Harlow calling for eye of Newt, Mitt and Herman and invoking the spirit of Dulcolax, which caused our squirt bottles to foam and bubble by the light of the full moon.

To ensure maximum potency, we drank anything with caffeine and ate our weight in Halloween candy. Within an hour, we went platinum…and then we went stupid. Too many calories per hour, but we really put the “duh” in “duhlicious.” We rocked blond!

But most importantly, as we emerged from our cocoon of platinum, our family had arrived at a 3-pronged plan of action:

Ablation
Vacation
Celebration

We are considering ablating two nodules in Dennis’ right lung. This involves killing the buggers with high intensity microwaves. I offered to shout dirty words down Dennis’ wind pipe, but he didn’t think that would have the same burn capability. I’m not so sure.

While ablation is invasive, it is not a huge operation. (My way wouldn’t require anesthetic, but whatev.)

If all goes well, Dennis will take a chemo vacation for several weeks under strict surveillance. We will then celebrate with significant G-force, which includes daily “Tebowing,” and give the stink eye to cancer.

We gathered in a very blond huddle, and after a moment of silence, we shouted in unison, “Happy ‘Suck It, Doc’ Day!”

Fright Sprite

2011-10-19T14:32:00.001-07:00

I’m not exactly sure why I have an almost Biblical vengeance against Halloween. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good old scary movie by a roaring fire on an autumn eve as well as anyone.

Perhaps it’s because every year its presence invades our consciousness around Labor Day, seeping in like a malevolent fog, and lingers through November, when all the smiling jack-o-lanterns have decomposed into frowning faces more ghoulish than my own.

Perhaps it’s because Halloween is a holiday dedicated to celebrating a sinister accumulation of dark and terrifying unknowns that makes it so fearsome.

Perhaps it is because four years ago on that very day Dennis was diagnosed with cancer. Yes, I think that’s it.

Nevertheless, the occasion does have a bright side. When I asked Necie what she wanted to be this year, she suggested being a hippie. Last year we were twin witches. She asked if I knew what a hippie was. I replied of course I did. It is a condition singular to every woman post menopause. She just looked perplexed.

So I explained that long, long ago in a decade far away, hippies inhabited the earth wearing flowers, long skirts, sandals and tee shirts with peace signs on the front.

Necie’s face lit up as she listened. And then she asked if she could go to my clothes closet for a costume. The little darling. I guess I should be glad she didn’t ask for a flapper dress and lessons in learning the “Black Bottom.”

Then Necie asked what I was planning to be for Halloween. I said I was considering a sociopathic exoskeleton because I’m seriously into decadent nobility. Again, she just looked perplexed. Nothing like a little verbal propofol to stifle further questions. It worked for both of us.

Dennis has been considering being a scarecrow. He’s got the clothes and the figure. Lately he’s been singing, “If I Only Had A Brain.” Now this is ironic, because he had just had a brain MRI at the Huntsman on Saturday. We spent the weekend waiting for the results and trying not to think thoughts. Only one of us succeeded.

On Monday we received the welcome news that he indeed has a brain, AND that brain is NORMAL. No evidence of metastasis. We celebrated by defying the laws of gravity…and propriety.

I heard of an elementary school principal who claimed Halloween sends the wrong message to children. So she cancelled it. Huzzah! I ratify that!

And I will go and do likewise. I’m canceling Halloween too, right after I consume all the chocolate I planned to distribute. This works for me.

I’ve been investigating other calendar events to take the place of Halloween. And last week was National Bosses’ Day. OK. I can do that one. But not one person wished me Happy Bosses’ Day. I was so mad, I fired the world. I cancelled the whole week. I am now in the process of founding an entirely new reason to celebrate…National No More Night Sweats Month. I figure it will not only make every grandma more tolerable, but it will also reduce global warming. Both will be beneficial for the eco-system.

A while ago, Brodi decided to “de-Brodify” her computer. She was suffering from www fatigue. Very interesting. Apparently, there are actual physical ailments associated with over-use of one’s amazing inventions. For instance, there’s “tech eye,” and “pc elbow.”

Can you believe it?

I find that intriguing. Now I don’t use my technology that much, but there have been occasions when I have threatened to disembowel my computer. Had one just now. And lately I have noticed I have developed my own set of peculiar adversarial syndromes. I have “android ear,” “ipad paranoia,” “allergic techno aversion,” “aggravated granny jiggle,” and “snuggler’s flab.” I’m not sure pitching my computer into the Grand Canyon would help. But it’s tempting.

I love autumn. Enough leaves have fallen to kick through on our daily walks. The days are golden, bright and sunny.

There are definitely more things to celebrate than fear.

Against All Odds

2011-10-05T10:13:00.000-07:00

Last week Dennis and I took a road trip to beautiful downtown Cedar City for SUU’s fall lineup of plays. We went with old and dear friends. Jeff and Barb Booth are very comfortable to travel with, partly because we have made this annual pilgrimage to indulge our fetish for drama every year since medical school. We four have passed through every phase of life together, from sideburns to mullets, new babies to grandchildren, internship to practice. Shared time and experiences tend to mellow people through the years, and seasoned friendships take on the relaxed contentment of cozy slippers. We have arrived at that golden point of our lives where we have stopped denying bowel realities and laugh uproariously at the preposterously embarrassing bodily emissions of the aged.

The two plays we attended were “Dial M For Murder,” and “The Winter’s Tale,” by Shakespeare. The first is a tale of suspense, dramatized to challenge one’s sphincter control. This could have been dicey because much of the audience was composed of seniors from a tour bus, wearing name tags. Seeing this production motivated me to do a lot of scrapbooking just so I could keep a pair of Samaria scissors handy. Dennis gave me a wide berth when he noticed me sorting through old photographs.

The second play centers on a king, whose tyranny wrongs his queen and destroys a cherished friendship. Both plots involve mischief, murder mayhem, and jealous husbands who, except for the mercy of a humane playwright, could have caused the death of their wives. Hmmmm. The concepts were compelling. Husbands who murder their wives. Hmmmmm. Oh, the power of the theater! And the power of suggestion on a weak mind. I kept a close eye on Dennis as I trimmed our pictures with the scissors from my sewing basket. (OK, I don’t really have a sewing basket, but it serves to produce tension.)

Finally, I nonchalantly asked him, “Do you think you have any jealousy issues? I mean, do you ever have suspicions about…me?” He just gave me that “look.” I had recently visited my dermatologist, Dr. Igor, who had assaulted me with an evil vial of smokin’ liquid primordial ooze and a cattle prod. I looked like I had done fifteen rounds with a blow torch whose cauterizing quotient could have stemmed the flow of Niagra Falls…and lost. Dennis pointed me to the nearest mirror and said gently, “You’re safe!” I was reassured, sort of, but a little disappointed. Did his lack of jealousy stem from default? Hmmmmm. So I decided to put down my scissors and begin investigating the possibilities of body dismorphia.

From Cedar City, we headed for scenic drives through Escalante, Torrey and Bryce Canyon. We went on numerous hikes (mostly consisting of easy walks on level terra firma), and ate like starving carnivores. When we returned to our room, I noticed that the diamond was missing from my wedding ring. I nearly hurled the fatted mastadon I had just consumed. I became dizzy and disoriented, which is my behavior of choice in any crisis. We searched the premises in vain. Dennis was meticulous. I was uttering profanities. To make matters worse, I wasn’t even sure when I’d lost it. It could have been at Bryce. It might have happened when Margot stabbed Lesgot. It could have fallen into the last spoonful of mashed potato inadvertently left on my plate.

I was sick. I slept sad. In fact, I didn’t sleep. I just lay there and cursed obscenities into my pillow.

The odds against finding that little gem were enormous. But Dennis awoke the next morning with a smile and a plan. That’s his behavior of choice in any crisis. We would carefully remove our luggage, and then search every inch of the room until we found it. I was OK with that idea, because my plan was to “Thelma and Louise” ourselves over the Grand Canyon.

After all our luggage was loaded in the car, we knelt on the floor. As we lifted my final duffle bag, the diamond rolled between us. Whoa! We were all amazed. Whoda thunk it. The odds of that happening seemed definitely not in our favor. The odds were wrong.

There are those who claim that numbers don’t lie. Digital calculations are immutable. But I think they can be deceitful and misleading to the point of pernicious perjury. After recovering the missing diamond, I have decided to ignore any odds not in our favor. I will respond only to positive numbers. I will reset my mathematical compass daily to the sweet spot of the affirmative. And should there be those foolish enough to offer anything contradictory, the last thing they will see as they skid under the bus is the flash of my diamond ring.

Grandmas and Alligators

2011-09-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

I wish I had the words to express all that is in my heart. But unfortunately all the words in Webster’s Dictionary are woefully inadequate. So perhaps I will, instead, rely on numbers. We just received the results of Dennis’ labs and CT scan of yesterday. His CA19-9 is 45, and his CT scan shows no new growth, and some shrinkage. Translation: his tumor markers have been reduced by nearly 25 points, and the scan shows no new growth, and some shrinkage.

We had no doubt all would be well. But it is always nice to have actual verification of what you already know.

I was never any good at math. Numbers and I have always had an adversarial relationship. To me, “double digits” simply means two fingers flashing the peace sign. I don’t like to tabulate, quantify, or balance equations. But there is not always safety in numbers. Usually, I’d prefer indulging in belly paint than look at the latest stats. I have discovered over the years of being assaulted by my own reflection that REAL measurements have nothing to do with numbers or statistics. But in this case, I will ratify tumor markers of 45, and celebrate with Twinkies and laxatives.

Tomorrow Dennis and I are taking a road trip to Cedar City to see the plays “Dial M For Murder” and “A Winter’s Tale,” by Shakespeare. I love a good mystery. And I am curious to see if the Bard himself has the words to bare my soul, although I am skeptical. We will not be sensible. We will be optimistic. And we will fight on. Mostly we will be grateful.

A few weeks ago, an alligator attacked and severely injured an elderly woman in Florida. She was walking near her home when the 8-foot-behemoth lunged out of a canal and tried to drag the woman into the water. But that 90-year-old grandmother hung on…and prevailed. There is a lesson for everyone, especially for those about to be swallowed by numbers. Hang on, and prevail. It is better to crunch the numbers than to be crunched by them.

Word to the wise: Never mess with grandmas!

The Way We Were

2011-09-09T19:48:00.000-07:00

This weekend, the country will be observing the anniversary of 9-11. It is altogether fitting and proper that we do so. It has been a decade since the act of terrorism that violated our territory and our collective psyches. Healing has come slowly. Many dreams and possibilities were buried at ground zero.

Sometimes it is hard to re-visit the past, in spite of its therapeutic value. I’m not always sure if it binds wounds or re-opens them. Some seek closure. Some seek memorials to honor the fallen. But some questions can never be answered, and some justice will be delayed until a higher Court pronounces a verdict. Perhaps that is as it should be.

This weekend our family will also observe anniversaries. It, too, is most appropriate. Saturday, 9-10-11, is my mother’s birthday. One hundred years ago, she was born in Monroe, Utah, the third daughter of Kate and Sam Dorrity.

The world has never been the same since.

The world was different then. In-door plumbing was almost non-existent, and the telephone was a scarce commodity. These were the pre-Steve Jobs days. There was no Great Depression, holocaust, or Wars To End All Wars. And at this point, the Titanic had not sunk. Life, if not exactly pristine, was, nevertheless, more innocent.

It is never easy to write tributes. My mother wouldn’t have wanted that anyway. So I will reminisce instead. It’s far more joyful.

Mom was a maverick, and a true Independent, who ignored people who said it couldn’t be done. She raced ahead, even where there were no paths. I guess that could be considered foolhardy. I always thought it was courageous. She was actually a healthy balance of both.

Growing up with my mother was singular. She didn’t think outside the box. She threw the box away.

She played the piano and the ukulele by ear, and could rock the standards of the day after hearing them just once. Her favorite times were when the entire family gathered around the piano to sing songs like “Shine On Harvest Moon,” “I’m Alone Because I Love You,” “Two Little Blue Birds,” and “Try A Little Tenderness” in four-part harmony. The song fest always concluded by swinging “Up A Lazy River” followed by “THE DUET” with Auntie Ferd playing the top hand. These were the Dorrity songs, and woe be to any self-respecting family member who did not know by heart the lyrics from “Two Flies,” whose chorus told of insects who would “phhhhhht in the whiskers of the grocery man.”

Mom’s name is Bernice, but everyone called her Necie. That is, until our daughters were born. And then she was simply and always “Yaya.”

As part of Erin and Brodi’s training, Yaya taught them to play the ukulele. Even as tiny girls, they could strum the strings and strut their stuff while belting out “Five Foot Two” and “I Want To Be A Pal of Yours.” My Mom’s particular anthem, however, was “Flamin’ Fanny,” with lyrics laced with double entendres, which made it all quite racy. What a trio the three of them made.

Although I was raised in an era when mothers wore high heels and pearl necklaces as they prepared the nightly dinners, my mother steadfastly refused to be locked into such stifling stereotypes. She was no cook, and dang proud of it. She figured if God had meant for women to cook, He wouldn’t have invented TV dinners. There’s a certain logic to that that I have passed on to my daughters with stunning success. But she made the best “Dorrity” coffee in the world, a temptation that to this day I consider an inspired addiction. The angels in heaven would surrender their halos for one cup of that nectar.

My mother was a single parent, my parents’ marriage being a casualty of circumstance and imperfections. Raising two kids alone was a challenge I appreciate more each day. Understanding my life backward has given me great insight.

For instance, she taught me that I was not the product of a “broken” home. The marriage was broken, but the home was whole. Indeed, it was. In fact, she wrote a paper for a college class defending the institution of divorce where necessary. This was radical for the times. Larry and I were instructed that oil and water do not mix, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t good oil and good water. We grew up respecting our father as well as our mother.

Mom always advised me to work a little and play a lot, again flying in the face of industriousness addiction. I sometimes forget that nugget of wisdom, much to my own detriment.

She had absolutely no use for titles, celebrity or social caste systems. Once, while she dated Wallace Beery, a famous movie star of the era, he asked her if she wanted his autograph. She replied, “No, but I’ll give you mine.”

And the best advice she gave me as a mother was, “Never get too tired to say No.” I remembered that, much to the frustration of my adolescent daughters.

When Mom left us, we gathered around her bed with our ukuleles and sang with great conviction “Five Foot Two,” “I Want To Be A Pal of Yours,” and, of course, “Flamin’ Fanny.” Passersby would have thought there was a great celebration taking place inside that little home on Chicago Street. They would have been right.

So on 9-10-11, we will place roses on her grave and spend the day in simple gratitude for those who grace our lives with their light and make this world so lovely.

Whole Numbers

2011-08-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

Since man first emerged from primordial ooze, he has sought a means by which to impose order on chaos. Chaos has tentacles that reach out and threaten to choke off our peace of mind. So man invented numbers. Numbers are a powerful tool for organizing and understanding our universe. They are characters, symbols to determine quantities that allow us to pick up the pieces and put them back in the right order. With numbers we can tally scores, make predictions, itemize unknowns, determine intelligence, and generate hierarchies and caste systems.

This is all very useful, especially for those who subscribe to the notion that numbers possess a certain immutability. Quotients, formulae, and factors can become almost a religious exercise for the mathematically endowed.

But sometimes numbers can be dehumanizing, like a jungle that threatens to engulf you. Mathematical precision can bully and repulse.

Jittery market numbers are harbingers of gloom. The plunge of the stock exchange sears images on the mind of Crashes Past. Numbers stun our senses as we begin counting our losses to 401K’s. Not long ago, Standard and Poors down-graded our credit rating from a triple A to a double A, which could actually be a good thing if referring to bra size.

We try to metabolize calculations succumbing to gravitational pull: Robert Redford is 75, Tiger’s statistics suck, and Utah is ranked 6th for worst drivers. Actually, that’s good news. I thought we were number one!

(Personal Rant in Progress) On our freeways it takes the courage of an elite Navy Seal just to negotiate a lane change and evade collision in an arena of clearly deranged drivers. Road gladiators with the ethical persuasion of trilobites frequently engage in the charmingly barbaric ritual of settling traffic disputes in Walmart parking lots with fists and screw drivers as weapons of choice. It is a heathen spectacle rivaled only by bench-clearing brawls by basketball teams on good will missions to China. Drivers in an arms race tend to cling to the tried and true Neanderthal code of social etiquette. Not all, but some Utah drivers form the ring on the bathtub of society. Number 6??? That’s actually good news! (End of rant.)

Recently, however, we received some numbers that were humane and most welcome. Dr. Sharma and his entourage entered the exam room last week in synchronized grins. After reviewing Dennis’ latest records, they pronounced him in the top 5% of responders. TOP 5%!! They concurred with Dr. Wolff that he is doing well.

Our first inclination was to shout Opa! and break into our happy dance. But reason prevailed, preventing us from affirming everyone’s suspicions that we are remarkably undisciplined.

But wait. There’s more. Yesterday, the phlebotomists drew barrels of blood from Dennis’ subcutaneous tissue via his umbilical cord, harvesting the liquid in vials topped with caps of blue and purple for his hematic profile. (I think I got that right.) They then sent it all to the Oracle at Huntsman for interpretation. After due diligence and a séance channeling Hippocrates himself, it was determined that Dennis qualified for the whole bag of gemcitabene. THE WHOLE BAG!! Our hearts swelled like yeast, and we began singing “Hey! Yada, yada, yada.” Dennis is now too sexy for his hospital gown. Good labs are always the ultimate fashion accessory.

The chorus of crickets outside our window heralds the start of school on Monday. Autumn will make its debut that day. All six of our flash mob will return to the classroom, and grandmas everywhere will feel a pang of nostalgia. I guess it comes with the territory. Separation is never easy.

Abram is about to enter jr. high. He sprouted his first zit on his nose recently which signaled his official entry into prepubescence. The whole family gathered around to welcome the new eruption and celebrate this rite of passage. We tried to explain to him that those with facial pustules are an elite group, pimples are the litmus test of great character, and all of us are members emeritus of that august congress we call adulthood.

He didn’t buy it. He refused to be persuaded by an avalanche of euphemisms. Gee, I really like that kid!

The start of school also means we’re on a zipline to the holidays, a fact that inevitably triggers the gag reflex. But it is all good.

Just to reiterate our mission statement: We will not retrench, and we continue to refuse to live our lives in fractions. Don’t tell me the odds. We’ve witnessed too many antigravitational maneuvers not to recognize miracles when we see them. We always round up. Right now, we’re all about whole numbers.

Sheiks and Shakespeare

2011-08-04T12:51:00.001-07:00

Arriving in Houston is a little like being sucked into the vortex of Hades in the humid season. Just taxiing down the runway triggered a profusion of ringlets that made me look like a menopausal Shirley Temple. I’ve often wondered why nausea is the constant companion of unremitting heat. We were instantly swaddled in doughy, energy-sapping warmth. We perspired so profusely, we looked like we’d been shellacked. All my efforts to look glacial and glamorous were sabotaged. I feared all our facial features would melt into one another like molten lava. However, time has already accomplished what heat could not, so there was really no further disfigurement. This was a good thing.

We met with our Oncologist Extraordinaire, Dr. Wolff, to confer about Dennis. He is singular. He enters the exam room and immediately launches into a monologue about his most recent adventures. He had just returned from the desert sands of Qatar. Apparently an obscenely wealthy sheik had flown Dr. Wolff to his obscenely enormous palace located on the entire land mass between the Tigress and Euphrates. Talk about staging an intervention. That’s the ultimate house call. But it is evidence of the level of esteem Dr. Wolff is held in his area of expertise. Dennis and I were just happy the sheik hadn’t purchased the good doctor and retained custody. Flying to Qatar for our appointments would be terribly inconvenient.

Dr. Wolff is quite pleased with Dennis’ progress, and has modified the chemo regime to be a little more humane. He assured us this would not compromise the efficacy of the drugs, but would allow for greater tolerance. Ok. We can do that. In fact, Dr. Wolff is trying to persuade Dennis to consider taking a 1-month sabbatical from treatment altogether. I’m not sure either of us is willing to consider that right now, but it is on the table for discussion. Each decision demands deliberation. We were pleased it is an option. We continue to focus on the possibilities.

As if it were a feral instinct, the urge to live life in the left lane prompted us to drive to Cedar City for the Shakespeare Festival. This has been an annual tradition since medical school. It is our cultural sweet spot. We reunite with old friends and young grandkids to celebrate the creative imagination of a playwright who lived light years before computer-generated special effects. The strange thing is, the kids were entertained by it all. Perhaps seeing sword fights and Professor Harold Hill’s marching band with seventy-six trombones live on stage was actually better than 3D. Go figure. Everything old is new again.

We had tickets for “Richard III,” but decided to turn them in. It takes a certain energy reserve to watch the dastardly villainy of “Dicky 3.” (Talk about disfigurement!) Where Shakespeare is concerned, the “Wars of the Roses” is not exactly a stroll down the garden path. Besides, we get enough of murder, ambition, fatal curses and colossal ineptitude just watching the nightly news.

So, reciting our own soliloquys parodying “Richard III”: “Now is the summer of our discontent…” we waxed hysterical in iambic pentameter and opted out of the historic carnage. We’ll save the cruel swath of blood for next year when we return to The Globe.

At the moment, our favorite quotes are from Dr. Wolff, the preferred Bard of the moment: “Based on Dennis’ CT scan, we’re heading in the right direction.”

No poet could have said it better.

Out To Lunch

2011-07-24T15:41:00.000-07:00

Recently, as Dennis was being infused, we had an interesting discussion. We had been inspired by, of all things, the Geico gecko. Now ordinarily I am not influenced by a green lizard to buy car insurance, or by cavemen who are easily offended by how easy it is to switch to this company. Actually, I tend to avoid allowing any opportunistic burrowing nocturnal marsupial or beast of burden to determine how to invest my money, or my conversational priorities. Personally, I’d prefer consulting with a skin tag.

Nevertheless, while Dennis was in a posture of repose, (and incapable of escape), I asked him with whom he would have lunch if he could choose anyone in the past or present, and what he would ask them. Single stipulation: The Holy Trinity is excluded.

Dennis, bosom heaving and nostrils flaring, making sounds like rapid-fire glottal stops, sighed like he’d just expelled the air from hand bellows. (I recognized this as a familiar reflective response, with a slight undertone of annoyance. He was, after all, being saturated through engorged tubing with a highly potent cocktail of napalm and kerosene, akin to primeval mud, the spilling of which would require clean up from a Haz-Mat squad. And this after several weeks of popping pills comprised mostly of nitroglycerin and methane from cow dung.) I know he wonders if I will ever get custody of my tongue. Sometimes my questions don’t always require a response. Not this time.

But pondering has always been higher on Dennis’ hierarchy of emotions than irritation, a fact that has allowed our union to be preserved. So after some thought, he posted his short list, which, oddly enough, was parallel to mine. After so many years of marriage, people tend to cross-pollinate each other.

Dennis: Abraham Lincoln – Do you have any regrets?
Joan: Lizzie Borden – Yes, but did you do it?
Dennis: Thomas Jefferson – Didn’t you have a debt ceiling? Why didn’t you free your slaves upon your death?
Joan: Cleopatra – An asp? Really??!!!
Dennis: Aristotle – What is the meaning of life?
Joan: Eleanor Roosevelt – Do you have any idea how beautiful your compassion has made you?
Dennis: Hannibal – How did your elephants get traction?
Joan: Mom – Thank you.

Friday Dennis was scheduled for a CT scan that would reveal the current status of his condition. In the past, there has been a reduction of the disease burden. But results are not always predictable. These moments can be stressful. However, the report came back that there has been further reduction and stabilization. It was what we had hoped for. Could there be any greater privilege than to witness miracles?

So in that light, we revised our list of lunch guests. We decided our greatest desire would be to break bread with all who have loved us, prayed for us, supported us. It has been said that you live life forward, but understand it backward. Perhaps our only contribution to the conversation of that meal would be “Thank you.”

What's in a Name?

2011-07-07T11:16:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare’s young (much, much too young) lovers, Romeo and Juliet, first asked that question centuries ago. What’s in a name? Turns out, there’s a whole bunch of stuff in a name. (Remember Anthony Weiner?!) I always think as this tragedy moves inexorably to its conclusion, that somehow things will turn out differently. For once, the timing will change, and the pair will live on into middle age as a paunchy, bickering couple as it’s supposed to be in the grand matrimonial scheme of things. But it never happens. It’s always too late. Just like “Gone With The Wind.” Every time I watch this movie, I’m convinced that surely Scarlet will prevail. When Scarlet asks Rhett, “Where shall I go? What shall I do?” he invariably retorts, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a dang.” (Sorry. This is a family blog, after all.) Just once I’d like to see Clark Gable turn around in the mist and say, “Oh, all right. Let’s give it another try!” Hasn’t happened yet. I continue to hope. Ah, but I digress.

This past weekend, the nation celebrated its birth with fireworks and an inexplicable obsession with British royalty. No one seemed to notice the 800-pound oxymoron in the room. Independence Day is a time when high-spirited citizens, armed with a match and everything from rockets to bottle bombs that rival Molotov cocktails, take to the street curbs and scorch the road with explosives ignited in the name of our illustrious forefathers until, mercifully, the garbage trucks arrive, grinding and flatulent, to harvest the debris of this pyrotechnic, patriotic celebration.

Dennis and I, in a flourish of health, good intentions, and mind-numbing insanity, decided to celebrate the Fourth AND accomplish a “one of these days we should…” things on our “one of these days we should…” list. So we filled the car with petrol and headed for, where else?, Little Bighorn battlefield.

Having seen numerous documentaries about this historical event, we were well prepared to be an eyewitness to history. And there’s no better way to observe our nation’s birth and adolescence than by making a pilgrimage to the site of a bloody clash between two nations, two cultures, two philosophies, two polar opposites. However, the more we learned, the more difficult it became to decipher which opponent should rightly be labeled “savage.”

The Black Hills were green, lovely and reverent, and concealed their history. The landscape was silent, as if the hills had all conspired to take a vow of omerta and not yield up its secrets willingly. Of course, this calm was in stark contrast to what had taken place exactly 135 years ago. Then, Cheyenne, Miniconjou, Oglala, Blackfeet, and Arapaho warriors clashed with the U. S. Seventh Cavalry, and saturated the soil with bloodshed.

Now here’s where names come in. The consortium of tribes was under the command of leaders and holy men like Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and Gall. Indian warriors were called Wooden Leg, Low Dog, Bloody Knife, Rubbing Out of Long Hair, Standing Bear, and Two Moons. These monikers would strike greater terror in the hearts of the enemy than, say, Tom, Bill and Jim, (actual members of Custer’s Company). Sometimes, names carry great significance and spiritual power. It is ironic that some of the fiercest carnage occurred at a place called Rosebud. Sounds more like the opening scene of “Citizen Kane.”

One cannot walk these hallowed grounds without being inspired by courage, determination, devotion, and unyielding bravery in the face of overwhelming odds by warriors on both sides of the conflict. I am familiar with such characteristics. Brodi dedicated her book, “Everneath,” to her father. She wrote, “For my Dad, a quiet man, a fierce warrior.” It made me ponder. I have contemplated what Indian name would be appropriate for this man. Sitting Bull was a Hunkpapa Lakota. Dennis is rather bony at the moment, but that won’t always be the case. In fact, his bone structure protrudes in so many directions, one could actually calculate longitude and latitude and navigate the seas just looking at him. Nevertheless, spiritually, he’s every bit the “hunk” that Sitting Bull was. Perhaps, because of his diminished butt dimensions, he could be called One Moon. Or Peeping Tom-Tom. Or maybe Mini Ha Ha (aka LOL). My personal favorite would probably be “Silver Stud Muffin.”

Today, he will once again wage a battle to rival any in history. And I will recognize the same traits our nation’s forefathers possessed that went into the forging of this nation. He will sit patiently as he receives his transfusion, grateful for the opportunity to go to war against an insidious interloper. No war paint or feathers – just a port surgically installed near his collar bone to transport the toxic fluid to the battle site.

Friends and family make a difference in every cancer patient’s war. They are the battalions that cover our backs and say, “I am here. Let’s heal together.”

Dennis’ personal manifesto comes straight from George C. Scott, although Sitting Bull might well have said the same thing. “The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it.”

He continues to distinguish himself. Fortitude is his nucleus. I do not doubt that, like all courageous warriors in the history of this nation, he will triumph.

That was the Week that Was

2011-07-03T15:27:00.001-07:00

Last week it was my birthday. I turned…flabby. So I watched some Wimbledon, where there seemed to be a peculiarly unholy gathering of hard bodies concentrated at one time in the cathedral of tennis. This put me in quite a crappy mood. I found myself tempted to flip my middle finger at the lot of them and scream accusations of plastic surgery zombies to no one in particular.

But the biggest joy-buster of all was the round of doctors I had appointments with over the course of these past few days. What’s up with that? Was I born with some kind of built-in obsolescence? They sucked out my blood, made me pee in a cup, pounded on my back, and placed bets on whether I had a pulse. It made me quite weary, and I fought valiantly to stave off depression.

So I did what every woman does when things look bleak. I went to lunch with people who are just as flabby as I am. Of course, we reminisced about the good old days, and recalled a whole dictionary of terms that are obsolete in today’s vernacular.

We used to buy Yippee Cups and milk nickels from the Good Humor man who came down our street each evening at supper time. And then we’d pop tar bubbles in an era when there were so few cars, we could actually sit in the road for hours and not endanger ourselves.

Our Moms cured every ailment with ointments like merthiolate, cod liver oil, and paregoric, and cautioned us of the dangers of sucking on tooth picks soaked in cinnamon oil.

And teenage boys with “dagoed” cars hubristically drove laps around Liberty Park after they’d laboriously scrubbed the white walls and coiffed their hair into elaborate pompadours held in place with the grease extracted right from their own carburetors.

Everything was either “cherry,” “boss,” or “groovy.”

Ah, those were the days…before Facebook, texting and Anthony Weiner. Back then, people who exposed themselves were perverts. Now they’re Congressmen.

But I am not exactly ready for laxatives and conversations about my latest pains. Oh my no! I have decided to cannibalize my inhibitions, release my emotional liabilities, discard my mode of decorum and associate only with co-narcissists. On my next visit to the dentist, I plan to get an NBA mouth guard and become so skilled at twirling it, I’ll make it do a one-and-a-half gainer off my lower lip without dropping so much as a string of drool. I will be the featured star of “America’s Got Talent,” and await the phone call from “Dancing With the Stars.” I want to become like those fish that live so deep in the ocean, they must produce their own light.

Since Dennis has a break from chemo treatments, we are going to visit some sites of true historic significance, starting with Custer’s last stand. The Battle of the Little Big Horn saw fighting almost as frightening as the thought of Lindsay Lohan being released from house arrest.

There is so much to learn from history. Voices from the dust manage to inspire us still. For instance, an Ogalala Sioux chief rallied his warriors by telling them, “We have everything to fight for. If we do not fight, we have nothing to live for.” I find that most applicable to many of the battles we face today.

Finally, one of my favorite authors, William Faulkner, once said, “I believe that man will not merely endure, he will prevail.” That is our game plan: to produce our own light, to fight and to prevail. We will not be deterred.

Around the Kingdom in Seven Days

2011-06-15T10:26:00.001-07:00

Last week the family went to California. The entire tribe. The “Dirty Dozen.” That fact alone opens our collective mental faculties to serious question. This took guts. However, we were not exactly “Profiles in Courage.” More like “Silhouettes in Cowardice.” Not sure just what the rationale was there. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Even when there are six adults and six children, one on one, mano a mano, somehow the big guys are always out-numbered by the smarter, faster little guys.

The adults were each assigned a kid precinct. But a blink of an eye and a ninja could vanish from sight. There were some serious sphincter check moments along the way. A child would disappear momentarily from our field of vision, and we’d all go into “intercept path” mode. The Wild Bunch were in perpetual motion, throbbing, rumbling, and pulsing, even at rest. They were like a collection of live-action cartoons, propelled in different directions.

We took precautions for every possible scenario, best and worst, that might arise. We all had matching tee shirts. I even inked my cell phone number across the forehead of each member of our posse. (I wrote in my best calligraphy, but the numbers ended up looking like some kind of Mormon Mafia gang tatts.)

I hemorrhaged instructions, warnings, taboos, and prohibitions, aspiring to perfect symmetry as we negotiated the sprawling kingdom, until I was threatened with eternal confinement to the “It’s a Small World” ride for dense, stupefying, irrational saturation paranoia infliction. What a horrifying thought. Could anything be worse than forced incarceration with a collection of preposterous diminutive mutants? It’s enough to drive a sane person to justifiable character assassination. But hey, I’m a Grandma. What can I say? I’m hard-wired to protect. Like Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

For the most part, things went smoothly, including meals. Our motto was “No French fry left behind.” And we honored that commitment by rescuing any morsels that fell on the ground and consuming them in toto, impurities and all. So much for E-coli!

There was one minor incident, however, that, in spite of everything, left me feeling like blood was going to explode from my face. My cell phone rang with a number that I didn’t recognize. When I answered, I heard an unfamiliar voice ask if I was missing some grandchildren. Of course, I answered no. How absurd. I had each kid on my radar. I could account for every Sasquatch in the tribe. The lady then said a little boy named Carter asked her to call his Grandma because he was lost. I shrieked, “Yes!! He’s mine! Where are you?” I was dizzy, weak-kneed, and my mind went blank, which wasn’t that far a journey.

We retrieved him from a darling young mother, and thanked her profusely. Carter had done just what he’d been instructed. And he had kept his little brother, Beckham, beside him with a death grip. A dozen matching navy tee shirts swarmed in a clot, and there was a sea of blue as we celebrated the reunion. Grandmas are the ultimate first-responders. It’s what we do best.

Carter is fearless and incredibly unique. He once explained to me that if you don’t eat good food, you become strongless. I felt as if some vampire had drained me of energy after that knee buckling episode, and so, feeling strongless, I opted out of riding on “California Screamin’” a roller coaster conceived in the mind of a mad scientist with a perverted metabolism. This particular obscenity propels from absolute stand-still to full throttle acceleration in 1.2 seconds, forcing the contents of one’s nose out of the back of one’s head and directly into the faces of adjacent passengers. People exit this ride like a slinky going down stairs.

There is nothing in this world that could compel me to climb aboard that contraption.

No, I want to get off the roller coaster altogether. I’ve had enough of jerk thrust rides. Speaking of which, we went to Houston just prior to embarking for California. We received some good news there. Dennis’ scans revealed further shrinkage of the nodules, a circumstance which continues to baffle the doctors. Nevertheless, there is some stress associated with the process. There is no ride in any theme park to match it.

In between hurling and “Oh Crap!” moments, we have pledged ourselves to spending this summer in ritualistic, narcissistic, hubristic self-indulgence. It is our sworn duty to vanquish any sense of responsibility or decorum. I will personally endeavor to ascend to the apex social pyramid by playing mindless games with my grandchildren and appearing at the swimming pool in various degrees of undress, ensuring mass evacuation of other inhabitants. I will answer every request for more root beer with an added scoop of ice cream, and I will never deny a sleep-over. I plan to perfect my kickflips on my skateboard, and allow my hair to return to its natural color – platinum.

All these things will aid in avoiding the toxicity of becoming “strongless.” We are invincible and unafraid. We will do this. In the meantime, we are five months and counting until the October Rapture. Can’t wait.

Rapture

2011-05-24T11:03:00.001-07:00

Doomsday dawned like an epiphany, with particular luminosity. Sunlight radiated across grassy fields without malice, and the whole morning was dappled and symmetrically constructed, as if following the blueprint of perfect architecture.

Nature without flaw. There seemed to be no perception of looming menace. All was right with the world. So we were persuaded by a pristine sky of indescribable hue to venture forth from our home, albeit with caution, and attend our grandkids’ soccer games.

It was a leap of faith. But we proceeded forward ready to retreat to safety at the slightest inaudible ripple of soft plosives in the air…or an Elvis sighting, whichever came first. Both would be authentic harbingers of bad karma. We resembled criminals on a “perp” walk, furtive, evasive, covert. We tested the atmosphere by flicking our tongues, snakelike, for signs of impending catastrophe.

With each tentative step, we were emboldened, until, with nostrils flared, we drove our car to the soccer field, determined that if we were going to be destroyed, we’d go down cheering!

Actually, we did experience the anticipated Rapture. All our grandkids won their soccer games. We were euphoric…and ready for translation.

What could possibly have gone wrong? This apocalyptic prediction had been forecast for months.

Who didn’t get the memo?

Who was the Great Skeptic?

After all, this prophecy was based on sound Biblical calculation. But the earth did not move under my feet, and the sky did not come tumbling down. There was no perceptible shift in the planet’s tectonic plates. I don’t get it.

I do not want to appear doubtful, but could there have been the slightest mathematical mistake? Perhaps a misapplication of the Pythagorean Principle, or faulty logarithms, causing the sum from the abacus to be shy a couple of foot pounds of pressure per second per second? Or could it have been a simple misinterpretation of Nostradamus’ final quatrain? I hate when that happens.

Go figure. But maybe we’d all be well advised to pay less heed to broadcasters with questionable credentials and more attention to other numbers…numbers we can rely on.

For example, some of our favorite calculations are the lab values that allow the Huntsman techs to hang a bulging bag of Gemcitabene like a bloated bladder from a metal tree to penetrate Dennis’ port directly into his lungs. Now we’re talkin’ Rapture.

Unlike Oprah’s 283 favorite things, my favorite thing of the week was the number 35 – Dennis’ tumor marker. For those more accustomed to basketball statistics than CA 19-9 calculations, that is well within the realm of normal.

I have decided I really don’t have time for the world to end right now. There are too many important appointments on my day planner agenda. Next week we go to Houston to consult with Dr. Wolff at M. D. Anderson. Dennis will have more scans done. Then our family will spend a week in California on the beaches and at Disneyland, where “It’s A Small World After All” is relentlessly, mercilessly, sadistically, piped to the furthest corner of the Magic Kingdom. In a perfect world, it would be blasted without interruption into the “Camping” ground of whoever “Herolded” this absurd rumor.

In addition, my schedule calls for completion of my correspondence course in quantum physics, and I simply must finish my thesis on the String Theory of the Universe. I’m just too dang busy to be obliterated at the moment.

We did, however, receive the glorious news that there was an “invisible judgment,” lest any of us succumb to the temptation to doubt. But the REAL date for the REAL apocalypse has been pushed back to October 21^st. Good. That ought to give me time to complete my tasks. I can’t wait.

I LOVE DOOMSDAY!

Luck Be a Lady Tonight

2011-05-13T11:53:00.000-07:00

Last week, as we were clapping our hands because we were happy and we knew it, we blew it. Dennis developed a fever. Now, it’s policy that whenever this event occurs, we are to proceed directly to the ER…STAT!
Of course, we were reluctant because we were still clapping our hands and singing deranged ditties. But as his temperature was rising, he was obviously having a heat wave.

I, myself, was having a hot flash. Together we had a meltdown. So we went into commando mode and headed to the hospital.
Once there, we were sequestered in a small cubicle with no windows and no doors for six long, reaaallly long hours.
The nurses ran numerous tests on every quadrant of Dennis’ body trying to discover why he had the hots. He was poked, prodded, tested, invaded, x-rayed, and generally humiliated. It was a little like getting a mammogram and pap smear simultaneously.
He bore it stoically – up until they asked him to pee into a cup. PROBLEMO: There was no cup, and the restroom door was locked. He was sorely tempted to follow the example of our 5 grandsons and spray the specimen on the walls. But we were trying desperately to maintain a sense of decorum in spite of the circumstances, so he graciously opted to wait for the nurse to provide a suitable receptacle.
Ultimately, everything checked out OK. So, in spite of promises that the doctor would be in to see us shortly (he was a no-show), we gathered the shreds of our dignity and came home. Dennis is always grace under fire. He did not utter one expletive. Actually, he couldn’t get a cuss word in edgewise because I dominated the conversation with really creative harsh language. (I learned it at my mother’s knee.)
I can tell when Dennis is especially annoyed because he goes all Harpo Marx – without the air horn. When he’s feeling good, he’s more like the sphinx. Only someone who has lived with him this long can detect the varying degree of loquaciousness between the two.
Eventually, the fever passed, and he became his usually chatty self – like Harpo Marx WITH the air horn – but without the hair.
But hair is highly overrated. Take Donald Trump…please. He does not have a comb-over. More’s the pity. No, what he has is a severe comb-forward thrust, starting from the middle of his back, over the medulla oblongata, past the cerebellum, and down to the tip of his nose. Then he abruptly and inexplicably jerks the momentum of both strands 180 degrees in reverse with a savage switchback, making him look like a cross between Elvis Presley and Ace Ventura Pet Detective with male-pattern baldness impairment. The mane stays the same on the plain in the rain. I doubt it would shift even if he stood directly beneath a hovercraft. I wouldn’t exactly call him a “carnival barker,” but he does seem totally hostile to his own body. This hair ninja has been crowned “The Donald” – a noun of renown. Well, whatever works.
Dennis, on the other hand, is not defined by hair. And anointing him “The Dennis” just doesn’t seem right. What’s in a name anyway? Think of “Frodo,” “Quasimodo,” or “The Bieb.” I think of Dennis more as a verb than a noun – more action and being than object. I could totally advise someone to “Dennis up” in times of trial. He’s definitely qualified to be part of the elite Seal Team 6.
Today is Friday the 13th, and in spite of it all, I think I am the luckiest person in the world. The other day, my grandson, Josh, said I was cuter than baby ducks. WOW! Make room on the magazine cover, J Lo! Here comes Gram Ash. Cuter than baby ducks. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Postscript: We have had our will revised. We’re leaving the entire kingdom to Josh.

I confess I have been influenced by President Obama when he offed bin Laden. He announced that they “had enough intelligence to take action.” I, too, found enough intelligence to pronounce that Dennis’ fever was due to the cancer being blown up by powerful chemo drugs. Heat was released in the explosion. After careful research by Brodi, turns out I was right.
I have heard it said that the harder you work, the luckier you get. I agree. Perhaps luck is as much a gentleman as a lady.

If You're Happy and You Know It...

2011-04-30T11:50:00.000-07:00

Today is Saturday – one day away from May, and one day away from THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY. I’m equally joyous about each. It will take a while to extract all the royal fluff from my ears and get back to things of much less global consequence – namely, life.

Thursday was rather significant for us in spite of the fact that all our preparations had nothing to do with nuptials. But the anticipation was, if we may be presumptuous, nearly as compelling.

We traveled, not by horse-drawn carriage, but by horse-powered, really, really old Toyota SUV to the Huntsman in hopes of receiving an infusion of gemcitabene. Now this may not be the equivalent of dainty cucumber tea sandwiches without crusts and Windsor soup, but it’s royal jelly to us. We didn’t have to bow to the Queen. We only genuflect to the porcelain “throne” when no emesis basin is handy.

Our festivities centered around those capricious lab numbers. Unless all the stars align and the hematology gods smile upon us, Dennis does not get the infusion of chemo so critical in eradicating this disease.

That’s where I come in.

I have a certain exercise protocol that I swear can influence the phlebotomists in our favor and can boost those numbers to an elevation that is dang near astronomical. It is simple and effective. It involves hauling Dennis’ cookies out of the sack at 4:30 a.m. by singing with lusty discordance, “It you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!” Of course, this is accompanied by clapping resembling thunderous applause.

On this particular morning, he was not happy at all, and only wanted to clap his hands – around my throat. I was really testing his a. q. (aggravation quotient)! But this worked in our favor, because it not only got him out of bed, it also raised his heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen in-take.

I was not to be deterred by empty oaths…his or mine. The regimen then called for us to wander the lone and dreary streets at an hour only fit for voyeurs and the lowest members of the subculture…those who still drag their knuckles on the ground as they walk.

With my best Princeton rowing megaphone and rhythmic commands, I told him to breathe in and breathe out. I felt like a demented birthing coach. Dennis agreed. However, being diminished by nausea and weight loss, he was prevented from offending me by audibly expressing “inaudibles,” and was thus reduced to muttering incoherently into his beard. Again, this worked for both of us.

Our reward for my efforts came later that morning at HCH when the Phlebotomist Superior posted his pathology leader board. Most of the chemistry panels were sterling. But the most vital and essential granulocyte result was – (drum roll, please) TA DAA – 3.6! Read ‘em and weep! This was nearly double the number of last week’s counts. BOO YAH!

I asked the nurse if that meant Dennis could have 2 bags of gemcitabene. She just smiled indulgently and tried to discreetly signal security that there was a member of the lunatic fringe loose on the premises. Dennis donned a disguise of glasses with big eyebrows and large nose and tried to enter the witness protection program on the spot. I was unfazed. Actually, I was too busy excessively celebrating in the end zone. But the entire clinic joined in the festivities.

I tried not to gloat. Actually, I’m at my best when being scoffed at. This is an admirable and personal favorite vice. My standard of decorum DID prevent me from chanting, “I told you so!” repetitively in Dennis’ ear as the techs were attaching a draught of Huntsman’s finest vintage through “The Great Chemo Umbilical” to his port. His reluctance to ACKNOWLEDGE my decorum prompted multiple declarations from me that expressions of undying gratitude and a vow of abject subservience were unnecessary. He agreed – a decision that will come back to haunt him come next Thursday at freakin’ 4:00 a.m.!

We walked this morning in a storm that thrummed a backbeat on our umbrellas. There was the ultimate oxymoron – robins in a blizzard harvesting anything that slithered on the road and returning to their nests for breakfast. I’m sure such ornithological gastric delights were not featured on the menu of Kate and William’s bridal cuisine. Pity, really, because the whole scene seemed curiously optimistic. Spring is here, in spite of blossoms encased in snow like some frosty sarcophagus. They were lovelier by far than all the lace in London.

We will not quit this race. We will go the distance. And when you lean your ear close to Dennis’ beard, you’ll no doubt hear the faint refrain, “If you’re happy and you know it…”

Pieces of April

2011-04-24T18:50:00.000-07:00

It is infinitely easier to record miracles than to comprehend them, even if one is an eye witness. But it’s April – the season of lilacs and Easter – a time when history chronicles that some rather profound miracles occurred.

Last week we migrated south to Houston for further testing and CT scans at MD Anderson. Both Dr. Wolff and Dr. Jones wanted to gauge the efficacy of the current rounds of chemo. Needless to say, a lot is riding on numbers and results. We tried not to think about that until tomorrow, but tomorrow bore down upon us, and demanded to be thought about immediately. It can be stressful. A little like waiting for the foreman of a jury to return a verdict. Fortunately, I was able to convert my expletives into rhymed couplets, which diverted Dennis’ attention from angst to complete and utter chagrin.

MD Anderson

MD Anderson is daunting to negotiate. It is a labyrinth of corridors, hallways and passageways that honeycomb this massive complex. There is a plethora of waiting rooms populated by those with varying degrees of illness, disfigurement, scars, staples and hair deprivation, not to mention the ubiquitous emesis basins strategically located and readily available should the need arise.

These open areas are also distinguished by something else – waiting room camaraderie. There is an easy affability among the brotherhood of affliction, comfortable and congenial. One begins to realize that the mystery of true beauty does not lie in cosmetics, dimensions or surgical enhancement. Recognizing that beauty is an acquired taste. In fact, my selections for most beautiful people are neither rich, famous nor notorious, which is why I’m not on the selection committee of People magazine.

We observed that not one patient was alone. Each was attended by one or more companions in compassion, as were we. It was both touching and inspiring. People placement – “body guards” – can cushion blows and radiate tender energy. It is the errand of angels. One’s well-being is greater than the sum of all the numbers and images. Those who are courageous may not be royal, but they are most assuredly regal.

Dennis spent a goodly portion of the first day getting labs drawn and guzzling dizzying quantities of contrast in preparation for the scans. His flavors of choice were chocolate and “very berry.” Yum. He downed those bad boys in record time, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scratched his belly, belched, and swaggered toward the scan room. Actually, I made up that last part. In addition, the procedure also required a “wazoo wash” that discretion dictates is better left unblogged. Actually, you couldn’t make that last part up. However, in this instance, he was not given a choice of flavors. But the whole thing left him seeping and depleted.

Our appointment with Dr. Wolff was scheduled for Wednesday morning to review the results of the imaging and discuss options and possibilities. As we sat in the exam room awaiting the verdict, we were peaceful and serene. It was the most vital vital sign. We were acutely aware of the presence of a multitude of loved ones. We were not alone…we were swarmed. Thus, we expected good news. We had reason to believe.

Finally, Dr. Wei, Dr. Wolff’s associate, arrived to display the “before” and “after” pictures. He seemed pleased, and a little baffled. The scans showed “dramatic response” and “significant reduction” in the appearance of the nodules. This was plainly evident even to our untrained eyes. Then Dr. Wolff came in and declared that the results of the scan were compelling. He called Dennis a “subset of a subset,” and said the gemcitabene and 5FU had been quite effective. He reiterated that this was unusual.

Dennis and I were dazed, amazed, but not surprised. We know how potent chemo can be. But we also recognize that charity, faith, prayers and hope are the ultimate healing agents. It was easy to gauge their power. We saw the images. Undeniable.

When Dr. Jones received a copy of the scans, she also noted that these results were out of the ordinary. We savored the moment.

We are not removing the armor, nor declaring a cease fire. We are still in attack mode. We plan to carry on with this same regimen. And we will continue to center our lives on joy, not adversity.

The bridge over troubled water has become a paved highway. So many traveling companions have run ahead to carve a path and ease our journey.

We celebrate Easter, as is our custom, with contemplation amid episodes of grandchildren exploding with effervescence, like cans of soda pop that are opened right after shaking. And we will continue our constant supplication amid microbursts of mini prayers.

It has taken a kingdom, with a willful disregard for the laws of gravity, to hold us up, and enable us to live our lives from miracle to miracle. But then, it is the season.

April Showers

2011-04-11T19:11:00.000-07:00

April showers arrived in the Witness Protection Program. They came disguised as a winter deluge. The heavens opened up and poured out a storm like a benediction. Dennis and I caught snowflakes on our tongues as we went for our early-morning walk. I was able to attract more flakes, nearly causing freezer burn, because I can keep my mouth open wider and longer than he can – a skill I’ve perfected over a lifetime. Dennis is used to keeping his mouth shut. Dennis needs to work on his technique.

It looks more like Christmas than Easter, which is OK with us because last week we got a welcome gift in the form of some lovely lab results. Dennis’ tumor markers went down to 29, well within the parameters of normal. We like those numbers.

Some numbers we don’t like. Dennis’ weight has diminished noticeably. Apparently increasing my thigh size by proxy doesn’t transfer to his body mass. Pity. We like to think of him as aerodynamic. In reality, he’d have a hard time in a stiff wind. My skinny jeans would swallow him whole. We’re both embarrassed by that. So we simply agree not to cross dress. End of problem.

We will be going to Houston Tuesday morning. We are scheduled for lab tests, CT scans, and a visit with Dr. Wolff. We have a robust optimism, corpulent positivity, and Dennis has a stout heart. Too bad it doesn’t register on the scales.

Our six little Ninjas have provided the usual comic relief. Asher (age 4) had us all in stitches Sunday. Since being toilet trained, he has had time to perfect other vital skills. He has mastered the art of the “smolder,” ala “Tangled.” He cocks one eyebrow up as he assumes his most provocative “come-hither” look, holding the pose for maximum effect. Then he erupts in hysterical laughter, exposing a mouthful of baby teeth and crossing his legs for bladder control. I defy anyone to keep a straight face. I was smitten.

Last week we went to a movie because Dennis had a week off from infusion. Movies are much more fun than infusions…and less expensive. Talk is cheap. Gemcitabene is not. Sometimes it’s nice to have a break.

Our hearts are grateful. We are ready for this journey. We are overwhelmed by the kindness and tender concern of friends and loved ones. This has been such a resource of strength and courage for us.

We will provide updates as they occur.

Red Hands, Red Feet, Warm Heart

2011-03-30T10:49:00.000-07:00

For greater clarification of this blog entry, we recommend clicking onto Brodi’s blog link of March 28^th.

We got back from Disneyland last week, and we have needed to make some adjustments. We lost an hour when we moved our clocks forward to accommodate daylight savings time. It’s getting late early these days. Morning always arrives sooner to Utah than it does to California. My body is still running on Disney Standard Time, and showing up late to Utah deadlines seems to offend punctual attendees who do not consider obscene mouse ears on the head a legitimate excuse for tardiness.

Also, since our return, there is a shocking lack of amusement park rides to occupy our time. No, the roller coaster doesn’t count. And there are no diminutive Disney characters to cushion every trauma and “cute” us into projectile puking. Unless, of course, you count our six rather adorable (not to mention gifted) little Yetis that are permanent members of the Ashton tribe. We wouldn’t trade them for all the French fries at the Goofy pavilion.

Dennis managed the rigorous park-hopping quite admirably, assisted by a robust determination, caffeine, and a speedy wheelchair loaded with giddy grandkids.

The “wheelchair set” receive privileged ride passes that allowed us to opt out of waiting in long lines, which was quite an advantage considering how impatient five- and eight-year-olds can be. To access compromising photos, click on to Brodi’s link. She posted pictures that I’m genetically impaired to include. They’re pretty impressive.

After settling back into our routine, we did our regular Huntsman run, in hopes of getting the weekly infusion of gemcitabene. Since BYU’s amazing March Madness run, Dennis now refers to the potent chemo as “Jimmer-citabene.” Roger that!

Now, here’s the good news. All his numbers were up – even his weight! Oh yeah! In fact, he actually had a “muffin top.” That’s a noun that refers to the overhang around the mid-section created by pants that are a little too tight around the waist. Actually, the last time Dennis managed a muffin top, he did it with a corset and pocket lint. We were so proud, we paraded him around the infusion room like some kind of exhibitionist with a fetish for corpulence to the oohs and aahs of our fellow infusees. A muffin top is the ultimate fashion accessory. I’ve worn one for years - without the corset and lint.

Unfortunately, over the last few days, the muffin top has disappeared, and he has resumed the contour of an unleavened breadstick. We thought we understood the concept of weight management. Calories in and calories out, these are the basic components. We’ve definitely mastered the concept of long-term weight-loss success. But hey, that’s OK. We like bread sticks. Pretzels are us. They’re unencumbered by contour. Besides, we know that greatest change comes at the edges and works its way in to the center. Dennis’ hands and feet are red, tender and swollen. This condition adds to his over-all illusion of bulk. We know the chemo is a weapon of mass destruction, and there is obviously massive destruction going on with the cancer. We can deal with side effects. This is so good.

So many expressions of love, support and optimism have been sent, which warms our hearts and fuels our determination. We are immensely grateful. Some of our most inspirational expressions have come from our daughters. Again, I defer to Brodi’s blog link. It will be fairly obvious why she is such a compelling author, and an invaluable warrior in the battle we are waging. We could not read her entry unmoved.

We're Baaaaaack!

2011-03-23T12:39:00.001-07:00

We just returned from Palm Springs, where we watched a polyglot of tennis and indulged our obsession for Rafa Nadal. (Well, it was mostly Brodi’) It was unanimously decided that we would depart the land of bloodsuckers, phlebotomists, latex gloves, infusions, labs, white coats and emesis basins for one brief shining moment, and see if we could put ourselves where the sun DOES shine. (We’ve been looking in all the wrong places.)

Dennis bundled up like a gauzy refugee from Egypt, and we watched our daughter watch Rafa nimbly dismantle each opponent in a line of casualties that will keep him permanently cemented in the #1 position for quite some time. We were sure Rafa would be able to locate her among the throng of 65,000 avid, (not to mention hormonal), mostly female attendees. But just to make sure she was distinguished from the others, Brodi brought her white, broad-brimmed hat. Then, at just the right moment, she planned to stand up in a halo of bright light in a dark sea, (ala “The Natural) emitting a vapor trail of attraction that would direct Rafa’s undivided attention directly to her.

Dennis and I rogered that as a plan of great potential. We couldn’t wait to see how this would play out. But as with the best-laid plans of mice and men, this one, too, went awry. Brodi forgot her white hat. Luckily, Dennis had prepared for every circumstance. As if prompted by the Fickle Finger of Fate, he had packed an extra hat. Brodi donned the hat and then rose to her full height as radiant as a solar disc, at a moment so perfect, it couldn’t have been scripted better by Hollywood.

Unfortunately, Dennis’s substitute hat was gray, green and brown. Total camouflage! No one noticed her…especially not Nadal. He was completely myopic. His focus never wavered from the ball. Shocked, she looked as if she could launch into a polyglot of expletives. As Mother Superior Emeritus, I rose to the occasion – literally. I erected myself, by proxy, to my full vertical perpendicularity, omnicompetent, pink and iridescent. (My hat and my glasses were both rose-colored). I was magisterial, lustrous and uber-adorable. And then we waited for Rafa to drop his racket and, as if wired by electrodes, climb over the moshpit to my daughter.

Apparently, the rest of the audience hadn’t seen “The Natural.” The only reaction came from those directly behind us requesting that the scrawny blond woman in the pink hat and rose-colored glasses please sit down because I was blocking the view. It seemed to be a mandate, which, if unheeded, could have led to an ugly incident of civil disturbance.

So I resumed my seat and finished watching the rest of the match, unhindered by the number one tennis player in the world leaping into our laps. I suggested that next year we bring extra white hats, an arc light, and some pre-recorded background music for mood. One really must plan for these boundless opportunities for misconduct. I only hope that Rafa can hang on to his number one ranking for one more year.

Just before we were to board our plane for Palm Springs, we received the news that Dennis’ latest tumor markers had dropped 20 points and registered normal. The number glowed as if seared by a lightning bolt on a sea of white hats. We were joyous, and hardly needed a plane to get to California. It more than compensated for the disappointment of the camouflage fiasco.

No Ifs, Ands or Butts

2011-03-08T10:05:00.000-08:00

Brief up-date: Dennis is doing remarkable well, all things considered. He is enduring infusions of toxic spirits, venomous agents designed to annihilate unholy cancer cells while causing one to question the order of the universe. He also pops daily oral xeloda pills the size of Charlie Sheen’s delusions…both equally hard to swallow! And finally, he tolerates my constant presence inquiring how where he is on a scale of 1-10. Geez, the man should be canonized! Hercules himself would have failed that task.

We have a paper with a series of 24 faces whose expressions gauge how he’s feeling at the moment. I’m always trying to get him to point to the face with the most accurate reflection. Recently, he pointed to a face that looked shy and self-conscious. Underneath, it was labeled “Love-struck.” WINNING!

We continue our battle. Whatever it takes! There are no “if’s” in our household. However, there is a shocking lack of butts. Butt flab was the first casualty. So far, my efforts to remedy that situation with saturation bombing of the “no butt zone” with concentrated calories have been wildly successful…for one of us. Pity. But our confidence and optimism are robust.

With Dennis’ port, he now has greater chest dimensions than I do. It doesn’t take much these days. I try not to covet – bulk is bulk. We’re all coping as best we can.

Erin and Brodi provide comic relief with everything from self-deprecating monologues to unfiltered harsh language. Great strategy. These are brazen acts of defiance. It all serves to keep us focused on our goals. They continually inspire me with the same stubbornness and determination of their father.

I’ve heard it said how much more attention people pay to their fears than to their joys. We pledge not to be convicted of this crime.

No if’s, ands or butts. We are going to do this.

Houston, We Have a Problem

2011-03-05T21:19:00.000-08:00

We just got back from a trip to Houston, where the M D Anderson medical facility is located. M D Anderson is not just a hospital. It’s a metropolis unto itself. It is immense. It’s like a whole society dedicated to cancer patient care.

Because of compassionate intervention on the part of some friends with more influence than Guido the Thumb Breaker, we were able meet with Dr. Bob Wolff, one of the premier pancreatic cancer doctors in the world. We liked him immediately. He is not only knowledgeable, but intuitive. In the course of our extensive interview, he said he had plan A, B, C, D, and E. He said that the way to fight this condition was with blunt force, and from Dennis’ history, Dr. Wolff recognized we were up to the task. In fact, he tipped his hat to Dennis for his fortitude and stamina. He said that reading over the record of what Dennis has endured curled his hair, which was sort of funny because he bears a strong resemblance to Kojak. In short, Dr. Wolff made us stop our car, put it in reverse, and head in the opposite direction. It was a game-changer, and has fortified us in our quest to resume fighting this scourge.

For now, we will continue on the current protocol of gemcitabene and capecitabene. It is a potent cocktail, but tolerable. In fact, Dennis is doing quite well. There has been minimal hair loss. However, that may change. It’s OK. I will simply resume my role as the “hair whisperer.” Dennis still has an abundance of chest growth, and we may have to resort to the old thoracic comb-over. We will just brush it all upward toward the scalp from the right ear, arcing over the cranium, by-passing the medulla oblongata and eventually down to the left ear. That, along with the surgical mask he wears to fend off germs and discourage panhandlers, he is ready for the witness protection program. I guess that’s my main assignment as his official “chemo-sabi.”

We flew to Houston on a wing and a prayer. It turned out to be many prayers. It was like a pilgrimage to the Mecca of cancer care, which is not a bad comparison since we are waging jihad on this plague. M D Anderson and Huntsman Cancer Institute are also a potent team. Our hearts are full as we feel the tender concern, prayers, love and positive thoughts that are bearing us up in this crusade. You have covered our backs. Because of that, we will keep our heads in the game and fight on.

AW CRAP

2011-02-23T08:51:00.000-08:00

Dennis is tolerating his chemo pretty well. So far he has had two infusions of gemcitabene along with daily doses of xeloda ( a drug derived from the Latin pharmaceutical root “gagamus a maggotmus”). Both the hairs of his head (not to mention the thatch in his nose and ears) are still in tact. His feet are a little tender, requiring foot massages three times daily, along with back rubs and peeled grapes dropped into his mouth while I dance the Fandango. Not much nausea except when I get out the old frying pan and threaten to prepare a meal. We are all managing.

However, since our grandson, Carter, decided the revolving image of Colonel Sanders was actually Dennis, we find ourselves craving a lot of Kentucky fried chicken. We are trying to eat things that are nutritionally viable, so we confine ourselves mostly to Twinkies.

Actually, we were culinarily inspired by of all people, Lady Gaga. We plan to clothe ourselves in a side of cord-fed beef until time for dinner, and then consume our wardrobe until we’re totally naked, flashing friends and neighbors alike. Who knew food and fashion could be so fun.

Our only granddaughter, Necie Kate, recently came up with a novel suggestion. She wants us to be twin grandmas when she grows up. I thought this was a splendid idea. She plans on us taking all our combined grandchildren and moving to Lagoon, where we can ride the roller coaster all day long. Hmmmmm. I tried to explain to her that all I wanted to do was get OFF the roller coaster and out of the amusement park altogether. I hoped my reality intervention didn’t dash her dreams, so I proposed we ought to take our kids to Africa and graze on the savannah all day long. But Necia didn’t know just what a savannah was. When I explained, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to consume tall grass in great quantities for extended periods of time.

So we compromised. We decided we’d just have sleep-overs every night and eat our weight in licorice as we guzzle root beer till our bladders burst. This was agreeable to both grandmas. I love discussing things with Necie. She has designed a template for a whole new family dynamic. I rather like it.

We are continuing to fight, in spite of intermittent “Aw, Crap!” moments. Whatever it takes, we will do. We are deeply grateful for all the positive things coming our way. More up-dates later.

TRUE GRIT

2011-02-17T18:53:00.001-08:00

For those who missed Brodi’s blog link, you may not have heard the news that cancer has been discovered in Dennis’ lungs. This is a set-back…”kitten on the freeway” serious. However, we are bloodied, but not bowed.

Dennis has already begun chemo treatments amid ports, wires, and The Clot talkin’ smack with fellow infuses over French fries – the real social network. He is enduring all of the above with his usual stoic patience.

We will continue to keep vigil. We will fight this battle with every ounce of our being. There is no room for doubt or fear.

We so appreciate all the support, love, prayers, and positivity. It means more than you know.

Dennis has true grit. He will do this.

We will post regular up-dates. But for now, we are counting our blessings as we watch the Jazz and pop anti-nausea pills. We are OK. Our love to all.

Updates on Dennis

2011-02-09T15:45:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone.

Brodi is posting updates on her blog for now: www.brodiashton.blogspot.com

We will be posting here in the near future!

Love,
the Clot

Goodbye 2010

2011-01-17T12:45:00.001-08:00

According to psychoanalysts, astrologers, and the scientifically uninspired, January 17th is officially the saddest day of the year. The holidays have drawn to a close, and we’re currently in the throes of a new Ice Age. I am sitting in my usual post-Christmas stupor, trying to make myself dispose of the last remnants of gift wrapping and decorations. Though my post-traumatic-holiday-syndrome has rendered me comatose, I haven’t registered the gloom.

In spite of the fact that as an inert wad of waddlesome bulk, I seem to have lost my ability for linear movement, I have been making regular runs to the malls for sales that will ensure my family will be well-indulged for the coming 2011 Christmas season. (Only 360 shopping days left.) Forget minimalism! Oh, the whole idea is repugnant, but making preparations for the annual debacle of debauchery, is a year-long imperative.

As we bid farewell to the last year and the last decade, there are some things I’ll miss – namely, a few vital organs and a whole lotta “perky.” It seems “perky” is the first casualty of time, gravity and unrestrained over-indulgence. I regret this, but I’m not sad.

I don’t understand why the laws of gravity have to be immutable. I don’t understand a lot of things about Natural Law.

For instance:
1.    Why can’t our best parts spontaneously generate? (That is, without surgical intervention.)
2.    Why don’t our muscles spontaneously levitate, prolonging our ability to bend and snap!?
3.    How come getting INTO the lotus position is so much easier than getting OUT of the lotus position?
4.    Why is my anatomy in a perpetual state of revolt…which in itself is revolting.

I remember with fondness the time I possessed a figure that eagerly popped to attention the moment I barked a command. Talk about wow factor! It was Seratonyn ziplined straight to the brain! But nowadays, at the mere suggestion that a fleshy portion of my burly immensity re-locate, there’s zero response, except for the sound of muffled laughter from my personal portly plump-pockets. I actually used to have hard lines and right angles. These days I just hide my porky sludge within the confines of my burqa. It’s all so ghoulish. (Just to clarify, that doesn’t make me sad…merely despondent.)

Of course, I know it’s the law of natural consequences. And those laws really are immutable. I’ve invested an entire quadrant of 2010 roasting small farm animals and pounding down homemade holiday fudge, ratifying myself as an apex predator. Short term memory loss causes me to forget that all calories and no activity make Joan look like a mutant crash-test dummy in drag, thus debunking the theory that mortaring on multiple layers of mascara can disguise flagrant physical atrophy.

But I’ve reached the tipping point. I am committed to remaining upright. I am determined to over-come my slothful infirmity. I pledge to channel a higher courage. I hereby resolve to repel the “sacred chow,” unfriend the dessert bar, and unleash my inner divinity.

When I hear the call of the nosebag, I will choose to feed my brain instead, to remain intellectually agile. Of course, this could prove problematic, suffering as I do from formal thought disorder. That doesn’t make me a mental defective, but I’m not exactly numbered among the Seven Sages of the Ancient World. (In point of fact, I just discovered that the hippocampus is actually a part of the brain and not a school for really large animals of the Serengeti.)

Sometimes I wish there were some kind of temptation repellent…other than self-restraint. Please, not self-restraint. Benign neglect does not qualify as a diet plan. Sadly, being a carnivore-cum-excess has confined my fashion selections to variations of the inflatable toga.

And speaking of excess, I understand that certain word warriors have compiled an inventory of overused terms they determined should be deleted from common vernacular. I was rather intrigued with several of the choices, because I have not yet had an opportunity to incorporate them into my writing. There were 14 words or phrases to be banished. The list included “viral,” “fail,” “wow factor,” “epic,” “Facebook” and “Google” used as verbs, and Sarah Palin’s hybrid, “refudiate.” Of course, I will abide by the dictates of the vocab Nazis, but I do regret that these amendments were sanctioned before I could sufficiently employ them into unspiringly boring clichés. (And why isn’t “special” #1 on the short list?) Pity.

I, myself, have an inventory of words that I am particularly of. (Yes, I know. I just ended a sentence with a preposition.) I admit mia culpa. I will seek absolution, reclamation, restitution. Actually, all of the above are carved on the stone tablets of my favorite words. Here are some others:

Prolific
Stupendous
Feckless
Fecund
Coefficient
Expunge

Aren’t they special? So many words are transient, momentary, vacuous and sophomoric. Those on my list are solid, powerful and potent…with roots that originate from Latin…a stellar lexicon blood line.

The best, most authentic literature is built upon the most reliable, omnicompetent words and expressions to convey meaning. (Ironically, harsh language can often have greater impact than even Cicero’s orations.)

It would tax, however, even Webster’s Dictionary’s vast vocabulary to adequately express my contempt for cancer. Language is powerless and inadequate. This disease is a prolific and stupendous plague too evil for hell itself. It is the feckless mutation of a ghoulish curse of Hades, and its proliferation thwarts the fecundity of every strata of mankind. My deepest desire would be to expunge the word “cancer” from our minds and records, along with its fiendish coefficients from the murky depths of Beelzebub like “malignant,” “tumor,” etc.

I will celebrate the day with feasting when we can eradicate any linguistic evidence of this scourge’s existence.

Booyah! That was cathartic! (Another favorite word.) Catharsis is good, because Dennis will have his blood re-drawn on Thursday, January 20th. I welcome the emotional release. His latest numbers were elevated, so this follow-up is just precautionary. We are not worried. Concerned, yes. Worried, no. And right now, I’m exercising self-restraint to resist the urge to call upon my second language, advanced expletive, for maximum impact. It is, however, testing my patience and frustration quotient.

I am not making any resolutions for 2011. My plans for the year following Thursday’s blood draw are three-fold:

1.    Get elective, recreational frontal lobotomy.
2.    Obtain advance degree in linguistics online from the local hippocampus.
3.    Be happy.

Christmas Passed

2010-12-30T12:21:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day passed with relatively minor injury – nothing that warranted triage, protective custody or military intervention. We were bloodied, but now bowed. And best of all – no one was arrested on assault charges or booked for packin’ heat that had not been officially registered with Toys R Us. Now THAT was a miracle!

That morning, before anyone could approach their mound of decadence, I prepared a breakfast of solid protein, as is my custom. This is a tradition that can be traced back, no doubt, to Mary herself, when she insisted on food of dense nutritional value to counter the hallucinatory effects of inhaling too much second-hand myrrh from well-intentioned Magi, - the ancient equivalent of today’s sugar high.

We partied to the brink of dementia. To survive the holidays, dementia is mandatory. The children all received in greater abundance than their annual behavior justified – such are the consequences of justice tempered by mercy…and a plethora of grandparently tolerance and adoration. Asher is a prodigy of perpetual motion. In his case, it is easier to repair than rebuke. The rest of the miniature mafia are like live-action cartoons. It would be easier to harness a tidal wave than to diminish their energy. There is nothing measured, graceful, genteel or, at times, civil about the multitude when Santa has visited. They are throbbing and rumbling and pulsing even at rest. It is a little unnerving to think they carry ancestral DNA.

I personally received a cherished gift. It is a necklace engraved with each grandchild’s name, date of birth, and appropriate birth stone. I wear it over my heart, which is just adjacent to my charge card. This is so that I can recite each kid’s name as I begin the ritualistic over-indulgence purchasing the week after Christmas. I am certain all grandmas have an element of depravity where their particular posse is concerned. We are first-responders. Self-restraint is not our specialty. I am renown for my entertainment inflation.

But one crime I am absolutely NOT guilty of is declaring that MY child (or grandchild, etc.- fill in the blank) would never do (whatever felony/misdemeanor, etc. – fill in the blank) the (teacher, sheriff, bishop, etc. – fill in the blank) accused them of doing. I’ve always known they were not only capable of (Name That Mischief), but were quite likely the ringleaders. Ergo, while there is frequently omelet on my plate, there is never egg on my face!

Ah, but I digress. We took particular care to review the sacred events that first generated this annual frenzy on Christmas Eve. It all seems so simple when one is instructing small children. I’m not really sure why, as adults, we complicate it in the name of “The Holidays.” Distorted reasoning, due undoubtedly to sleep deprivation brought on by nostalgia and tradition…and too much wassail.

But this year, the children all appeared to get it. This was most gratifying. And they, in turn, seemed to teach the adults…as two exhausted generations lay in traction from preparing festivities of such elaborateness it can sometimes divert and obscure that simple story of old.

Every year I claim redemption, a personal epiphany of reclamation – that I will change my ways and not lose sight of what matters most. But it is so easy to lose my way.

Dennis helps me a lot with my vows of financial celibacy. He channels his inner Jacob Marley, drapes himself in heavy chains and conjures hard core bank statements in 8X10 glossies from my personal history, as he groans in quivering agony, pale and slack-jawed. These pictures rise up to haunt my dreams at all hours of the night like a hybrid of all the Fiscal Ghosts of Christmas Presents Past. Unfortunately, all his oratorical pyrotechnics fall on depleted reserves of energy. I’m too tired to be persuaded.

So, I remain resolutely unimpressed. I am not easily frightened…I’m a mother! Like most Mothers and Grandmas, I’m one part guts and three parts Teflon, and where my little multitude is concerned, rationale and restraint simply don’t stick. Terrorism is rather impotent when we’re talkin’ grandchildren.

If it’s the thought that counts, my brain is worth its weight in gold! (Dennis just groaned.)

And speaking of thoughts, the first decade of the new millennium is approaching its conclusion. I welcome 2011 with open arms. I am not sure what this year has in store for us. There are no oracles we can consult. I am OK with that. But I do know what will NOT be littering my calendar. There will be no colonoscopy, no jury duty, no parathyroidectomy and no appendectomy. Been there. Done that. From now on, all my surgery will be recreational!

I am, however, amenable to body recontouring. Apparently, according to all the infomercials, (so you know it’s true), this is done by simple “muscle confusion.” Hmmmm. Muscle confusion. OooooooKaaaaaay. I’m a little unclear on the concept. I wonder if that’s the same as flab disorientation. Or perhaps cellulite deception. Maybe corpulent fraud? I confess I’m no molecular biologist, but I do know that what happens in the thighs, stays on the thighs. It is a brutal consequence of life. Ratify the Reality! Own Your Fat!

We welcome the coming year. Dennis’ blood draw to determine his tumor markers will occur Thursday morning. We are preoccupied at the moment, not thinking about it. We will continue to not think about it until we get the results. Not thinking about things is exhausting.

And then we will sing “Auld Lang Sein,” and retire to our recliners for the annual collapse. This is good.

Happy New Year! And “God bless us, Every One.”

Winter Solstice

2010-12-23T09:56:00.000-08:00

‘Tis the week before Christmas, and all through the house
There is chaos and exhaustion, and I just “offed” a mouse.

Christmas will be here in a few days. I guess I’m ready, although my house is in utter disarray. But then, so am I. I have spent the past six weeks in mindless consumption. My irrational rationale seems to think that holiday calories should not count with the same malignant, body-expanding impact as the other months of the year. My irrational metabolism thinks otherwise.

It occurs to me that in this month of mirth, there are melodies to celebrate the birth, but not the girth. No anthems for the slothful and waddlesome. No carols for the corpulent. Pity, really. I notice this dearth because in the past six weeks, my heart has grown, but so have my other component parts. I am still anatomically correct…just more so. Of course, I could display some self-restraint as I put on the feedbag and debase myself at the fleshpot. But that would require some modicum of behavior modification, and that is in direct opposition to my standards of decorum.

However, I suppose it is up to me to remedy this musical oversight for those of us moderately to morbidly obese.

So here goes. I only hope the MoTab Choir includes these sentiments in their portfolio.
(Sung very roughly to the tune of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”)

I’ll be fat for Christmas.
I won’t count calories.

Please have mo
Sour cream and potato
For poundage round my knees.

I’ll be fat for Christmas.
I’ll be a bigger size.

Please bake pies
To swell my thighs
And ignore me if I cry.

I’ll be fat for Christmas,
Pass the cookies and cream.
I’ll be fat for Christmas,
And bursting at the seams.

It’s not exactly Irving Berlin, but my lyrics don’t bring a tear to the eye…just dimples to the thigh. I admit I suffer from over-eating remorse. I regret all the peristalsis required to digest meals of great quantity. Unfortunately, I become contrite AFTER consuming, and then begin the ritual of shouting impotent threats to impale myself on the nearest candy cane as I make my appointment for bi-directional lipo-suction. I need a crowbar and an oil slick just to get into my clothes. I’m not so sure having a multi-chambered stomach is a good thing. Still, I continue to believe there is always a need to sing an ode to wanton indulgence. I embrace excess!

I’m not totally convinced that this is the most wonderful time of the year.
Exhaustion is inherent in every Christmas season. Merchants and salesmen assault shoppers with unremitting advertisements for the latest sales. Crime rates seem to increase in direct proportion to extended mall shopping hours. I actually tried shopping at 5:00 a.m. recently. Within the space of three minutes I became unaware of my surroundings and began reciting the Pythagorian theorum in hopes of transmitting energy to my frayed nerves. Dennis gently led me to the car, whispering reassurances to prevent me from tearing off my clothes and running buck nekkid down the aisles. It was a supreme act of humanitarianism on behalf of the other shoppers.

However, Tuesday was the winter solstice. Starting Wednesday, the days will cease dropping precious minutes of daylight.

So despite discordant declarations of morphing into THE UN-SANTA at clashing intervals, I am quite content to allow Christmas to occur.

All six of our little Yetis will gather at our hearth on Christmas Eve. Their collective decibel level is louder than a carnival barker. Carter is our perpetual punch-line. The high octane level, (part excitement and part astronomical amounts of blood sugar,) causes the tribe to accelerate in a primitive, angular rhythm requiring high speed stop-motion photography to see each of them clearly. They rumble and tumble through the front door like miniature sumo wrestlers, body-slamming each other in an exuberant smack-down to see who can get to the gifts under the tree first.

I personally know that Santa has a high threshold for mischief, because we own a debt greater than the national deficit. I obliterated our budget while single-handedly jump-starting the economy. If Santa strictly adhered to his “Naughty and Nice” code of conduct, it would be much less expensive. Santa is benevolent, if a little mentally defective.

And I am ready. I’ve decorated, baked (that’s a total lie!) wrapped, cleaned, sung Christmas carols, and I’ve called each reindeer by name…(some aliases are best left unrecorded.) And I’ve listened to Asher sing “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” more times than Sarah Palin’s appeared on TV…I never get tired of Asher. The house is a scene of domestic bliss straight out of Dickens.

The only thing left to do now is shout “HOOAH!” at the appropriate times and feign shock at Santa’s generosity…and tolerance. It takes a tremendous amount of time and resources to perpetuate the myth of a paranormal jolly, fat, hairy stranger whose mode of travel defies gravity and contradicts the logic of astrophysicists. But Grandmas are hard wired for saturation gifting.

I won’t be making too many psychological projections for the coming year. Nor resolutions, for that matter. I’ll probably spend the greater portion of the next few months just imposing order from the impending Christmas morning upheaval. But I will watch for new stars in the heavens, no doubt the result of geo-magnetic phenomenon, and
be amazed at the light, not the dark. Black holes are not my thing.

And Dennis will be with me. Merry Christmas.

Turkeys and Christmas Carols

2010-11-30T13:28:00.001-08:00

We had Thanksgiving. It was just one of many stops on the calendar as we become holiday nomads trekking our way through November and December.

I love Thanksgiving. It is that nearly-forgotten cross-cultural transition observance inserted between spooks and Santa (the old annual angels and demons conundrum).

So much preparation and planning go into pulling off this one meal, that it is easy to understand why I only cook twice a year, (the other occasion being Christmas Eve.)

We placed bets on how long it would be before a grandkid asked for the one item in the universe which didn’t happen to appear on the table. This year it was Carter. After perusing the elaborate banquet laid out in Martha Stewart splendor before everyone’s bedazzled eyes, he demanded sugar gruel and dippy eggs. 3 minutes, 39 seconds. A new record.

The dinner was a triumph. There were few left-overs, the most obvious evidence that our family members are apex predators being the hapless turkey carcass residing in the outdoor receptacle. We stuffed the turkey and the turkey stuffed us. Symbiosis at its most elemental.

Of course, everyone’s favorite part of the traditional Thanksgiving dinner was the traditional after-dinner “piecing,” in which no preposterous socially mandatory instruments such as spoons or forks are required to continue the feeding frenzy…only fingers. Rudimentary foraging. Forget sterile procedure. We consumed enough densely-packed calories to allow for hibernation in the arctic. The behavior of our family gaggle inspired us to trace our genealogy back to cro-magnon. There was a constant rhythmic percussion of “thup, thup,” as wads of everything from salad to potatoes were compressed between thumb and forefinger and sucked past the epiglottis into the gut. This continued for hours…perpetual indulgence playing itself out like a culinary mutation of “Groundhog Day.” Eating can be entertaining, if not particularly pretty.

Unfortunately, we have become casualties of our own success, because out of success is born…TRADITION! Tradition tyrannizes. Tradition is like a malignant parasite. Very subtly and almost unnoticed, tradition burrows into one’s holly-filled heart, infests the mistletoe of the mind, and corrupts one’s holiday spirit. Before one has time to say “HOOAH Fudrucker’s!” one has morphed into a member emeritus of the comically depraved.

Oh, I start December with the highest ethical standards of merriment. I deck every hall. I hang each stocking by the chimney with great care. I roast chestnuts on an open fire. I hark every herald angel in the choir. I play my drums whenever I see a nativity, and even toot my own horn. I actually bought a spinet just to play carols on. I am the repository of every magnanimous thought, and all the fa la la la la’s emitted from my mouth bring joy to the world.

But somewhere along the way, (usually about December 2nd), something happens. Things change. I change. There is a dark side to the holidays. I begin grinning idiotically. Exhaustion, triptophan, and lack of sufficient oxygen to the brain combine to produce a combustible condition that transforms me from Suzy Snowflake to the odious Mrs. Hyde. I LOSE MY FA LA LA LA LA! Dark circles ring my eyes like malignant door wreaths. The constant swilling of caffeine renders my eyes stark, red, and unable to blink. Daily affirmation is abandoned. For 30 consecutive days, I become the unrelenting alter-ego, a mal-lingual, evil speaking embodiment of the anti-uber-celebrant…ashamed, but unrepentant.

The disintegration from celebration to degeneration develops incrementally. Ironically, it usually occurs in about twelve steps, rather like a mutation of those required for addiction recovery program, and remarkably similar to the “Twelve Days of Christmas” carol that triggers the instinct to kill after the third time it is sung in its entirety. I doubt I’d be convicted by a jury of my peers. (Just what are “lords a’ leaping” anyway??)

And so in particular and exquisitely precise order, here is my own peculiar advent calendar of December days as they occur in reality, without the distortion of the nostalgic lenses of Currier and Ives and Thomas Kincaid. This is the precipitous metamorphosis from rationality to debauchery in a matter of a mere six weeks. Caution: The following contains graphic and raw images that may be disturbing to those who have not yet begun their Christmas shopping. It is not for the faint of heart. Viewer discretion is advised.

1.    Eat. Pray. Love.
2.    Eat. Pray. Clean.
3.    Eat. Clean. Shop.
4.    Shop. Rush. Decorate. Clean again.
5.    Eat. Eat. Eat.
6.    Eat. Decorate more to keep up with the neighbors. Cry. Curse.
7.    Buy. Wrap. Buy more to surpass the neighbors. Collapse.
8.    Overspend. Break budget on annual gift blizzard. Go to debt counseling.
9.    Buy yet more. Take out loan. Attend weekly sessions of Over-spenders Anonymous.
10.    Eat. Weigh. Cry.
11.    Weigh. Diet. Curse. Binge. Splurge. Purge.
12.    Look in the mirror. Become clinically depressed. Call plastic surgeon.
13.    Destroy all of Bing Crosby’s CD’s for the crime of auditory overload. Blast TV with shotgun after 10th re-run of “It’s A Wonderful Life” while planting explosives in all the underwear of every resident in Whoville, forcing them to yield to the moral superiority of brute force. Make random threats to no one in particular while muttering incoherently.
14.    Dismember anyone who utters the diabolical duo: Zhu Zhu. Neutor Rudolph and single-handedly commit gender reassignment on Santa’s entire herd of reindeer. Resist the urge to waterboard all the residents of the North Pole. (Commonly known as blurring ethical lines for a higher cause.)
15.    Curse the names of Normal Rockwell and Irving Berlin. Start a rumor that every chestnut on every open fire and every sugar plum that dances in every head is contaminated with H1N1. Begin singing duets with Brian David Mitchell.
16.    Break the drum of every little drummer boy on the planet. Maniacally proclaim Bristol Palin the World’s greatest dancer ever. Run naked down the street shouting, “Santa is a fleshy fraud and we’re all going to die!”
17.    Eat. Cry. Beg Santa to up my Zoloft.
18.    Swear. Swear. Swear – while eating.
19.    Deck more halls. Deck fellow shoppers. Go home with migraine.
20.    Seek forgiveness. Join 12-step program for harsh language addiction. Enter rehab for the criminally profane.

I can’t wait for January and the return of drab, monotonous rationality, when our only concerns are wars, crime, politics and scandal. Of course, in the Ashton household, “WikiLeaks” are just failed attempts at toilet training little boys.

Before I surrender my dignity to the seasonal rant-and-collapse recurring cycle, like an endless video loop, I will try to remember it’s not about the frenzy, it’s about the purpose. As December 2nd approaches, and I am one ho ho ho away from being institutionalized for felonious merriment, I will send this sage advice along with my Christmas greetings: Eat. Pray. Love.

DRACULA

2010-11-17T13:33:00.001-08:00

posted by Joan Ashton

Last week we went to see Dracula…live (so to speak)…on stage. Holy Phlebotomy! Talk about blood drive. This guy could single-fangedly bankrupt all the blood reserves in the country. He’s one scary dude! Our seats are in the third row back…dead center. I found myself wishing for triage and a spatter shield.

Really, I never understood the public’s current infatuation with vampires. I tried valiantly and finally triumphed in reading “Twilight,” but was singularly unenamoured. There is a glaring lack of literary sense. But somehow it has caught the imagination of hopeless romantics, so I suppose that validates the tale in spite of erudite arguments to the contrary.

Actually, vampires are intriguing. Their history pre-dates even Bram Stoker’s iconic tale. Folklore from the ancient world among Hebrews, Greeks, Romans and Indians, as well as Greek mythology tell of vampires who drank the blood of those foolish enough to go to sleep when the moon was full.

I hope I’m not misunderstood. I don’t want to appear to be racist or ghoulishly profiling “the children of the night,” or suggest that I have a cultural bias against the feeding habits of the undead who haunt graveyards in search of meals as if it were some sort of grisly Chuckarama!

But there is something slightly macabre about the suggestion that one could fall in love with a creature, suave and charming I agree, who looks at you as his next meal. Of course, a vampire with a conscience is still a vampire, even if he really, REALLY regrets violating your jugular.

So I decided to compile my top ten reasons why I’m not in love with Dracula…we’re just friends.

10.    Dracula seems to have a certain animal magnetism for flatliner women who wander vacant-eyed around some creepy mansion in gauzy gowns and whiny voices. A fifteen-year-old thread-bare Minnie Mouse nightshirt is singularly unqualified as a garment of seduction.

9.    I’ve never found someone whose gaunt pallor is as pasty as pizza dough a particular turn-on. A lighter shade of pale is fine as a color on a paint chip, but not as a lover.

8.    It’s hard enough to tell a fellow his fly is open, but there is no socially acceptable way to tell him there’s a blood clot between his teeth.

7. If I cut myself shaving, it would be like ringing the dinner bell.
6. I’ve never been attracted by anyone whose fingernails resemble a full set of Ron Popeel’s paring knives.

5. How alluring is a guy who measures his caloric intake in corpuscles?

4. You know a man is of questionable character when his alter ego is a corpse.

3. I was never any good at geology. Where is Carpathia anyway? Aren’t Carpathians mostly farmers? Tillers of the soil? I could never fall in love with someone whose sanctum sanctorum is a wooden box filled with native dirt…a composite of detritus and yak dung. Ooooh, think of the dandruff!

2.   For me to be attracted to a guy, he has to have more going for him than a well-developed set of incisors. People that flash their canines as their eyes are glazing over cannot be considered orthodox persons of interest.

1. Dracula doesn’t romance. He forages.

Of course, there is a certain efficiency to dining with a vampire. No dishes. But it does put one off one’s appetite to have a quiet dinner with someone who impales his guests after dessert. Besides, breath that is over 400 years old gives the term, “fetid” a bad name.

Which all brings me to this one point. Brodi has written a book in which the main character is human. His name is Jack. He has no interest in desiccating his fellow classmates. He is not reduced to dust particles upon solar exposure. He’s just had braces, so no inordinate pointed teeth protrude for puncturing, ripping and tearing apart one’s friends and acquaintances. His menu is varied enough to allow for fruits and vegetables. He can guzzle anything from energy drinks to soda pop without triggering the gag reflex. He travels by car, bike or foot. No need to metamorphose into a disgusting night creature that flies around the gargoyles of haunted mansions. And he never arrives or exits in the midst of mist. I guess it’s a by-product of growing up along the Wasatch Front, but I have a terrible aversion to inversions.

Bottom line: Drac sucks. Jack doesn’t!

So look out Edward, et al. Chick Alert! Jack will be arriving in January, 2012. And he has charisma without halitosis. Boo Ya!

Turkey Season

2010-11-02T14:10:00.001-07:00

It’s November. We emerged from October bloodied, but not bowed. All the kids’ costumes are back in storage, and the ghosts and phantoms of Halloweens past have been laid to rest – for now.

Choosing just the right costume is not easy. These things must be done delicately. Brodi’s husband, Sam, claimed to be a metrosexual. However unclear I am on THAT concept, nevertheless, diplomacy above all - as Mother-in-Law Superior, I decided not to ask, and not to tell.

I have discovered that I suffer from that rare and medically unsubstantiated condition known as “ghoulrophobia,” a fear of cadaverous and scary things. That’s a fact. So I simply donned my fake fat butt and went around making snarky comments. Being snarky is an acquired skill, requiring practice and a propensity for self abasement. Well, the stress eventually caused me to break out in shiny vitreous crystals and shed flaky biotate mica. I worried about eroding away to nothingness, leaving only a thin layer of scar tissue and body fat encased in a Depends in a greasy puddle on the floor. I finally decided to drop the snarky, and just keep the fake fat butt. Sadly, nobody seemed to notice I was in costume.

This is the time of year when I become lost in small thoughts – random acts of mindless - so I won’t be swallowed by large thoughts. On October 1st, we had our Christmas lights installed. This made me a little cross, but the installers offer a discount for early hanging, and I just wanted that task off my mind. (An early-season snowstorm had frosted my tundra, which only served to up my irritability quotient.) However, there’s something hard-core unnatural about cross-decorating. It’s irksome. I felt like my whole house was in drag with orange pumpkins, black cats and white ghosts on the porch and red and green lights on the roof. “Scary” and “merry” are a bizarre cocktail…a little like multiple personalities occupying the same psyche. This is SO wrong! But it’s the season for the criminally confused.

October was also the month for Dennis to have his blood tested. There are so many important statistics that must be monitored. But the most crucial of vital signs, is the CA 19-9, a tumor marker whose rising value can signal a trend that could indicate recurrence. We approach that blood draw with reticent respect for the power of conscienceless numbers.

We were disappointed to learn that Dennis’ numbers were elevated just out of the range of normal. It’s hard not to be paranoid. But Dr. Jones scheduled a re-draw three weeks later. We spent 21 agonizing days in strident and often erratic distraction. Not obsessing about something consumes a massive amount of energy. Useless activity burns a lot of calories. After the allotted time, we returned to the blood lab…a little mangled and unhinged. And then we began the wait for the results, and the highly anticipated and equally dreaded phone call that would determine our future.

There is a computer in China, the Tianhe-1 machine, that is capable of sustained computing of 2.507 petaflops, the equivalent of 2,507 TRILLION calculations, per second. Sadly, the lab at the Huntsman does not have access to technology of such velocity. So we had to pace out the next 24 hours desperately searching for comic relief. Thankfully, we have grandkids!

After an agonizing, interminable time, the results came back. While the CA 19-9 is still slightly elevated, it has dropped six points, from 48 to 42. Most important, the trend is down, not up.

Needless to say, we are all euphoric and raised our voices in ebullient shouts of “BOOYEAH!” In an effort to find a unique way to celebrate, Erin, Brodi and I took the grandkids to Dennis’ office for flu inoculations. (We’re nothing if not innovative.) Some got the mist, and two got the shot. Those who got the mist were flinging snot like the rankest bulls in the PBR. Those who got the shot screamed louder than Jamie Lee Curtis in “Halloween.” We didn’t care….shot or snot. We simply mopped up all the viscous projectiles and apologized to the other patients and noise enforcement Nazis. As we were leaving the waiting room, Carter shrieked in his finest demonic voice, “SHOTS KILL KIDS!” Celebration is in the eye of the beholder.

There is a protocol in soccer that is observed when a player is down or injured on the field. Both teams go down on one knee until that player recovers. It is a gesture of sportsmanship and support. Throughout the month of October, there have been a multitude of friends and loved ones on one knee. Our family is now on both knees in gratitude – most appropriate for the month of November.

However, I am already planning my costume for October of 2011. Next year for Halloween, I’m dressing up as a PETAFLOP!

All Hallow's Eve

2010-10-27T12:19:00.001-07:00

It’s October, that singular month solely dedicated to haunted houses, ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night. Growing up, my friends and I would have sleep-overs at each other’s house, and stay up late into the night to watch the Friday night scary movie. Then we’d try to sleep without becoming incontinent. (No easy task. It’s still a challenge.)

There was a whole compendium of Hollywood 1940’s B movies of terror, from Frankenstein to the Werewolf to the Mummy…and, of course…Dracula. They all gave us grand mal bejeebers. But the greatest challenge to bladder control was always Vlad Dracul. What a spooky invention he is.

Bram Stoker created a disturbing mythological creature whose horror is so potent in part because he is a count…Count Dracula to be exact. By the way, did you know that Bram Stoker slept with a sarcophagus in his bedroom? Dennis said he could top that, but I advised him to think it through very carefully. The name “Dracula” actually comes from a Transylvanian word meaning “dragon.” He isn’t hairy. He doesn’t snarl or drag his leg because his bandages are sagging. His manners are impeccable. He is charming and articulate. He is always dressed in his finest cloak and slicked back hair. And his fangs lie covert under his lips. That is, until he needs them. And then he rips back those lips to reveal the incisive suckers that will ultimately puncture two perfect holes in the neck of some hapless, penoir-clad, really stupid woman’s jugular. Most of his victims are neuron-non-functioning females with a penchant for pajama couture.

Dracula is a very sloppy diner, however. He tends to slurp and slobber and do socially unacceptable things with his food. But I suppose that’s because he must hastily eat and run in order to prevent clotting…another argument for going vegan. I can’t believe there are so many females with the intellectual agility of a fruit fly that have managed to provide the Nosferatu with sufficient nourishment to perpetuate the species of undead mutants throughout the centuries. Of course, I also could never understand how the mummy was able to catch a fleeing girl while wrapped in gauze and dragging a gimpy leg…except that she was always tripping over her long, flowing nightgown, (constructed of transparent material that was little more than lace over nude). Witless women who are always falling are the ultimate nocturnal horror.

Every year I debate about whether or not to wear a costume. Assuming another identity or a third personality might be a pleasant pastime. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a dilemma if it were not for the rigorous routine I go through on a daily basis just getting dressed and preparing myself to enter polite society.

First of all, the fashion barracuda proclaim that one must not only be dressed, but presentable. Being a raving cutie is mandatory. Well, that’s just fine, except that through the years, Nature has caused everything adorable to spiral downward so drastically, it actually shifts one’s center of gravity. This constitutes felonious assault.

It has been said that anatomy is destiny. I believe in destiny. I also believe in anatomy. So to combat such unmitigated anatomical, graphic sag, I bought a rather unique invention that goes by the brand name “Spanx.” It is this century’s version of the Victorian corset. It is a shape shifter with a vice squeeze of such vengeance, that it requires a hydraulic engineer just to elevate it above the thighs, that is, if you once get both feet in the opening.

One is then obliged to grunt, groan, push, pull, stuff, lubricate, curse, contort, and utter polyglot expletives to maneuver the device upward into its targeted position. Breathing is not an option. You know you got it right if there is serendipitous collateral cleavage enhancement due to thigh fat that has popped into your bra by blunt force trauma.

Once you are clad, and the apparatus is in its final resting place, you experience something akin to the vague calm you get after puking. You’re ready for your close-up.

The first time I succeeded donning this “jaws of life” undergarment, I resembled a yak in spandex. The look is finished off with a whole tube of mascara and stilletoes. Of course, attired thus, I couldn’t possibly outrun even the most pokey mummy. But then, looking like this, Dennis assures me I’m not in danger…unless there’s a demented mummy somewhere out there looking to drown me as a humanitarian gesture.

Unfortunately, nothing short of a toxic oil slick or agent orange and latex gloves can dislocate the Spanx from the torso, and the idea of wearing the outfit for a week should be considered. One must really think it all the way through

It’s no secret that I don’t like Halloween. It marks an anniversary that’s scarier than anything the mind of Bram Stoker could invent. Dennis’ most recent foray to the phlebotomist revealed a slight elevation in his CA 19-9 tumor marker. (Those Huntsman blood-suckers can conjure some serious nightmares.)

So in order to ward off evil, I got out my trusty vampire-killer kit. I have put a garland of garlic in the windows, over the doors, in my cauldron, and around my neck. (I also ate some raw cloves to throttle up the potency, but so far I’ve inadvertently offed strangers, stray cats and small children.) I’ve placed mirrors on all the walls, so I can detect if someone does not cast a reflection. Sadly, my own reflection would scare Beelzebub out of Hades. And I have a stake and a hammer. I’m ready. Extreme cage fight! Bring it on!

Dennis said this was all well and good, but he thought Dr. Mulvihill’s recommendation more efficacious than my “Van Helsing” remedy. He will have his blood re-drawn on Friday to re-check the values. Hmmmmm. How utterly devoid of flair.

I know all will be well. But I will be glad to get out of October altogether, when the only thing that goes bump in the night are my thighs as I make the midnight run to the latrine. I love the season, but not the holiday. I can’t wait until November, the month of pilgrims and gratitude. As always, we have so much more to be thankful for than afraid of.

One of These Days

2010-10-05T12:33:00.001-07:00

“One of these days” arrived last week. Dennis and I went to Vermont. For years, we have promised ourselves that one of these days we would do our “Robert Frost/east coast in the autumn” dream excursion. But things just kept getting in the way.

First of all, we had babies. And, because they were particularly cute, we opted not to eat our young, but feed them instead. Of course, there were days when we questioned that decision, but on the whole, there has not been much beget regret.

Then there was the little matter of Dennis’ practice. He was either at the hospital, in the exam room, or on call. So many patients. So little time. This could have been irritating had it not been for the fact that we could pay our bills and feed our offspring. The girls were getting older, and had come to expect food, clothes and a roof as a right of their existence.

Our world seemed to orbit around the girls’ mouths. We filled them with food and drilled them for cavities. And we single-handedly provided the financial wherewithall for their orthodontist to take an early retirement. (He retired to the east coast one autumn.)

As the years came and went, Erin and Brodi went to high school with all its proms, football games, social interaction, and drama…a time of life that would strain even the financial empire of Bill Gates himself.

And then came college. Apparently both girls had actually internalized our recitation of the catechism of higher education. And the registrar demanded financial remuneration. Apparently they didn’t consider the fact that the girls had teeth straighter than palace guards as tuition payment. Pity.

Just when we thought we saw some possibility of heading east over the Rockies, both girls fell in love. And we had weddings. Boy Howdy! Did we have weddings! And in the natural cycle of things, babies came. More adorable babies. And like the generation preceding, they, too, demanded to be fed regularly.

Traveling would be so much more convenient if life didn’t keep intruding on our GPS.

However, we are now at a point in our lives where we probably have more yesterdays than tomorrows. So this fall, when two roads diverged in a yellow wood, we took the one less traveled by, and that really has made all the difference.

I’m not sure why we chose Vermont in particular. Perhaps it was all those idyllic images from “White Christmas” of Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney singing about snow and dancing as “the kids put on a show.” So, why not?

I love Vermont. It is so quaint. “Quaint” is not just visual. “Quaint” is a mind-set. It beckons you to gather around a hearth-fire and huddle under a quilt pieced by someone’s grandmother as she sat in her rocker. “Quaint” has an aroma. It’s warm, mellow apple cider and soup of barley and beef. It’s the loamy smell of soil in autumn’s chill. It’s the perfect still-life. Of course, the older people pictured in these Normal Rockwell tableaux never seem to be plagued by an aging bladder. (After the third cup of sweet cider, not to mention several supplementary diet Cokes to throttle up the energy level with caffeine, Mother Nature gets ugly, and humiliation in polite society is one untimely sneeze away.) Thus, there are never any artist’s renditions of an up-ended cup of cider in mid-air suspended animation as a gray-haired granny is depicted as a mere blur bookin’ it to the bathroom. Pity. There is no room in “quaint” for potty breaks.

Every corner on every street has a white clapboard church. And every denomination ever conceived was represented in Vermont. There was even one whose sign read “First Church of Something Something, Scientist.” We passed too fast to read it exactly, but I did wonder if there was a certain IQ required for membership. Just down the road a ways was St. Somebody’s 2nd Church of Something Or Other. I figured that was probably for the mentally deficient, or those who hadn’t done well enough on the entrance exam to be a “scientist.” Ironically, the parking lot of THAT church was packed.

Vermont has a plethora of unique warning signs for all the things that could possibly cross the highway as you’re traveling the byways. There were silhouettes of cowboys on horses, moose, mountains with rocks crumbling down the slopes, and the universal image for the chronically confused – who probably should have been attending their church meetings instead of wandering out on the freeway.

There was even a sign specifically targeting bikers: “Scarified pavement. Motorcycles Exercise Caution.” So those of us not on motorcycles continued driving carelessly.

At one point, traffic was merged into one lane, and, as luck would have it, we happened to get behind a truck with a sign on the back that read: “Construction Vehicle. DO NOT FOLLOW.” Well, we had no choice. There was simply nowhere to go. So we just averted our gaze as we trailed along behind, and tried not to make eye contact.

Vermont doesn’t have cities. The whole state is comprised of hamlets, villages, boroughs, and towns with names like Bellows Falls, Westminster, and Dover. Besides the traditional clapboard church, each village has a cemetery, usually located in a prominent place adjacent to the churchyard. However, one cemetery was located at the end of a road marked “Dead End.” We tried not to identify ourselves as tourists with our moronic laughter, but that was way hard. Of course, exclaiming “Oh, my heck!” blew my cover as a rube from the West in the witness protection program.

Even the street names are charming: Hummingbird Hill, Apple Valley, Birdsong Way, Gingerbread Corner. One sign read, “Village Peddler: Next Right.” I wondered what the peddler would peddle. Utah is sadly lacking in village peddlers. I think our state needs to “Mayberry Up!”

The speed limit is 50 mph at its fastest. But most roads do not exceed 30. The pace is languid, not sluggish. I like languid. We saw signs warning of reduced speed ahead. But reduced speed simply meant coming to a complete stop.

Vermont is in a whole different time zone. I was never sure just what time it was. It’s pleasant to lose track of time. Heck, with everything being so quaint, I even lost track of the century. We mingled with people whose hair had never been chemically enhanced, and who would stand in clusters with their hands in their pockets and visit. Rushing would violate their standard of behavior.

Houses are constructed with wrap-around porches whose inhabitants colonize rockers and Adirondack chairs so generously proportioned, they swallow the sitter from shoulder to knees. Once you nestle into one of those babies, you’re in for the whole conversation. Porch-sitting is a lost art.

We were able to visit Robert Frost’s home where he penned “Stopping By A Woods On A Snowy Evening.” It was enchanting, located in the heart of fields and pastures. I can see why he would be inspired by Nature.

As luck would have it, I, too, was “inspired by Nature,” and searched for a restroom. Apparently, Robert Frost did not feel inclined to build such conveniences for tourists. He seemed to prefer to ponder and write poems. The proprietor indicated where to go, and it was actually Robert Frost’s own bathroom. I sat and waited for inspiration. Nothing happened. However, there is a tradition among those so persuaded to write a parody of Frost’s famous poem. So I, like others before me, decided to try my hand at it.

Here goes.

Whose john this is I think I know.
But Robert Frost ain’t here no ‘mo.
He will not see me stopping here
To take a seat and rest my rear.

Dennis gave the keys a shake
To signal the end of potty break.
I threatened to take those keys and deposit
Them in the depths of the water closet.
So I hollered through the bathroom door
He was toast if he shook those keys once more.

The outhouse was lovely, dark and deep,
But we had itineraries to keep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.

It was with great reluctance that we left Vermont. We knew we had passed beyond the borders of “quaint” when we entered New York and motored through places named “Pittstown” and “Hoosick.” They just didn’t have the same charm.

When we finally arrived home, and we were unpacking our bags, I saw a notice from the baggage handlers that announced they had randomly chosen my luggage for inspection. What??? I couldn’t believe it. I felt violated. I dreaded what some stranger with rubber gloves and nefarious motives discovered about me as he rifled through my belongings. What we pack reveals a lot about ourselves.

No doubt there is a guy working for Delta Airlines that now knows:
I have a fettish for empty calories with all the “Runts” and “Goobers” I had stashed in the side pockets just under the laundry.
I carry “dummy” lingerie on top of my shredded Minnie Mouse nightshirt just in case my suitcase accidentally falls open in public.
And then there are all the things (inserts, etc.) that constitute my shape shifters I use to alter my appearance I don’t even want to think about.

Oh, the humiliation.

It’s akin to death by a thousand duck nibbles.

One of these days, I’m going to write a scathing letter of protest to the TSA.

But not for a while. Right now we are celebrating. Brodi always said that one of these days she would write a book. And she did. And someone wants to publish it. “One of these days” is actually January, 2012, when the book will be in the bookstores. At the moment, we are all grinning and looking goofy, and exclaiming in unison, “OH MY HECK!” We are in Utah, after all.

Woofers

2010-09-14T12:51:00.001-07:00

More than any other season, autumn is steeped in tradition. Perhaps that’s because it’s an amalgam of all the other seasons.

There are the end of summer clearance sales, the back-to-school sales, the Labor Day sales, and the pre-season ski sales. There are a plethora of baseball games, football games, sports tournaments, and Rafa Nadal.

Autumn has a rhythm all its own, but fall officially arrives on the first day back to school. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, really. When children with sun-bleached hair and feet that are summer-barefoot brown dawn a backpack and new clothes…it is autumn.

Something changes. Everything changes. The air seems crisp, regardless of the dictates of the thermometer. And the refrigerator is still colonized with its late-summer picnic remnants, as red and gold delicious apples encroach upon the territory.

Taking our kids, and now our grandkids, to their new classrooms to meet their new teachers is an autumnal rite of passage. But it never gets easier. I wonder why. There is an air of excitement, but there’s also a tug at the heart. The annual ritual, with its smells of pencils, chalk, blackboards and books should go off without a hiccup after all these years of “first days.”

And it does…for the most part.   The kids do just fine. It’s me. I get the hiccups. I don’t understand why, as I say good-bye and walk away, relinquishing custody to their new teacher, why they suddenly seem taller, a little older, bigger, somehow, than they were just the day before at our final picnic of the summer. But this is as it should be. Life has a certain ebb and flow that imposes appropriate order.

Time passes in increments so small they’re barely noticeable…until they accumulate and cluster around my heart when school starts. Seats that seemed to swallow the child just a year ago have lost some of their large. I like to think they’re making furniture smaller these days. It’s the ultimate down-sizing.

I wouldn’t change things, even if I could. I’d just slow it down long enough for the hiccups to pass.

Labor Day is the true harbinger of autumn…and the Christmas season. Holiday catalogs with pictures of angels on the front, herald the glad tidings that there are only four more months until the Big Day arrives, and I’d better get crackin’ because I’m already behind in rackin’ up my over-indulgence credit card debt so crucial to capturing the “true meaning of Christmas.” I wonder how Mary and Joseph ever had time for birth and taxes when there was so much to do to prepare for the holidays.

Apparently Nieman Marcus didn’t get the memo about the current recession. Boy Howdy! Buy a couple of items from that little establishment, and I could single-handedly cause the DOW to leap a couple of points.

By Labor Day, Halloween-themed items that have been on display since the Pioneer Day Parade must be moved aside to make room for the Christmas decorations. So much for the old adage that “to everything there is a season.”

But by far my favorite Labor Day tradition is the International Sheep Dog Championship. This is the competition in which border collies and their handlers work as two people with a single brain to pen a group of incredibly unpredictable ( not to mention dumb) range sheep off the mountain, through a series of upright panels, over the river and through the woods and into an 8X9 pen. Not as easy as it sounds, because shouting obscenities is not allowed. The border collie cannot excite the sheep, but must control them with just his presence…and intense gaze. This technique is known as “the eye.” The dogs seem to hypnotize the sheep into following their demands. A skilled border collie can deliver the herd within the allotted time without having to touch or confront a single ewe.

With a series of tweets and whistles, the handler, never leaving his post, communicates the commands necessary for the dog to drive the animals through the course successfully. The handlers rarely use audibles, but one woman had a voice like a Wagnerian bull horn. When she hollered, “LIE DOWN!”, all six thousand spectators hit the ground!

Well, needless to say, I was inspired. So much so that I thought it would be a good idea to set up a similar communication system for me and Dennis. That way I wouldn’t have to nag and plead with a constant hum and drone as annoying as the vuvuzelas at the World Cup Soccer games. Brilliant!

So here is my simple tweet command system to ensure efficiency and harmony in our household:
1.    Whee-Who: pick up your towels.
2.    Whee-Wheee-o: pick up your towels…or die.
3.    One Prolonged Whistle Blast (compound signal - command with implied threat): pick up the towels – there’s a sale at Nordstrom, I have your credit card, and I know how to use it!
4.    Whee-Whee: PUT THE TOILET LID DOWN!

I’ve been working on “the eye,” but my technique needs practice. I must be doing something wrong – the only one I seemed to hypnotize was myself. I spent the entire morning picking up towels and closing toilet lids.

Maybe it’s because autumn is a time of nostalgia. Maybe it’s because so many birthdays are clustered in September – a natural biological consequence of cold winters. But I tried once more, and failed miserably, to throw away my baby swing.

Every fall I am seized by primordial instinct to clean out closets and discard old and obsolete items – to make room for more stuff that I will clean out next September, because they, too, will be old and obsolete.

And every year I am determined to dispose of the swing that we used to lull our daughters to sleep when they were babies. The gentle rocking and swaying would calm and compose them. It was a sweet receptacle that enticed fussy babies to slumber.

Obviously, it’s been decades since I nestled their diapered nether regions into that seat. The swing has occupied a corner of our storage room forever, and gathers dust for months until I make time for its quarterly cleaning.

But things that no longer have a purpose should be disposed of. It’s the law of practical consequence. Besides, I need the room. So I asked Dennis to remove it from its place in the corner, haul it down the stairs, and place it in the trash bin. Soon it would be garbage day. (I’d have done it myself, but I had just washed my hair.)

Each day thereafter, I looked at that swing with its little toys tied across the front, peering forlornly out of the garbage can. But I was resolute. Forget the memories. I would not be deterred. I simply could not justify the expenditure of space simply to house sentiment. It had to go. End of discussion.

Well, Tuesday finally arrived. Dennis lugged the can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. And then we waited. Earlier than usual, we heard the roar and the belch of the garbage truck, with its distinctive beep and squeal.

Dennis and I looked at each other. With an understanding that exceeded the communication between border collie and handler, we sprinted to the street in a sentimental smack-down, just in time to rescue the swing with its baby toys on the string, guide it through the upright panels, and return it safely to the 8X9 pen,…in its accustomed corner of the storage room. And we sighed in relief.

Some things whose primary purpose has expired, are still of great worth. I just hope everyone remembers that when I’m really old.

I’ll clean out the storage room next year.

Autumn is hidden within every leaf – even when they first bud in the spring. It’s Nature’s disguise – like the arboretist’s witness protection program. Not so many hummingbirds at the nectar feeders these days. But that’s OK. There isn’t much time for bird watching right now. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do!

Colonoscopies and Twinkies

2010-08-24T14:28:00.001-07:00

Prepping for a colonoscopy is an exercise in the surreal. What other medical procedure requires you to starve, guzzle industrial-strength laxatives and drink colorless, tasteless, slightly disgusting liquids in order to purge the system to the point of dessication?

The whole process must have been devised in the deranged mind of someone raised on a strict diet of Twinkies seeking to reek revenge on the whole of humanity, because he could not extract every ounce of cream filling from within the confines of that spongy, cylindrical, tubular, rubbery non-cake.

For the uninitiated, or those who have not yet reached the half-century mark – that golden age of the wazoo watch – the ultimate goal of the prep is “no caca left behind.” This is accomplished by a protocol of three brutal steps resulting in a slightly disgusting rectal smack-down.
1.    total food deprivation
2.    laxatives
3.    more laxatives

Regarding starvation, no solids are permitted thirty-six hours prior to procedure. You may drink clear liquids, however. According to the butt Nazis, clear liquids are defined as anything you can see through. I inquired if that included pureed buffalo burger. I was sure I could liquefy it to total transparency. The tech pooh-poohed the suggestion, so to speak, declaring that if it once roamed the great American prairie and deposited cow pies in the wilderness, it could not qualify as a clear liquid. The same goes for French fries, chocolate cake, popcorn and salsa. Dang. They really take the fun out of a cleanse.

But they did say that tea and coffee without cream were just fine. Being Mormon, albeit weak and very prone to sin, this was problematic. Although the hungrier I got, the more appealing the “Born-again Bacchanalian Church” became.

However, mainlining Mountain Dew passed the smell test, and was proclaimed acceptable.

I don’t know why I always seem to begin a fast when the rest of the civilized world is either grilling steaks or baking bread. Slobbering and salivating until there was a perpetual foam pillowed around my lips all day made people tend to regard me as appearing somewhat genetically challenged.

At noon, I was to take four (count ‘em – FOUR!) Dulcolax pills – caplets so tiny they could sit on the head of a pin, and yet so powerful, they could elicit a spill that would make the BP oil disaster look like an insignificant leak.

I downed those bad boys like it was a 7-course banquet, they being the only solid thing I’d swallowed for days. At first I wondered just how much effect such itsy-bitsy medication would have. I only had to wonder 37 ½ seconds.

At 5:00 p.m., the next step in the sequence from Hades was to mix the entire 238 (two freakin’ hundred thirty-eight!) gram bottle of MiraLax with 64 ounces of Gatorade. WOW! What a cocktail! I was to swill the entire tanker while muttering a benediction over the entire Salt Lake sewer system. The potion was the equivalent of 14 doses of laxative – at once…in an entire sitting…within one hour.

Not being used to taking laxatives, I began to understand the power of the purge. Suffice it to say, I came clean.
Memo to self: DO NOT schedule an appointment with the hairdresser directly after imbibing 14 doses of MiraLax!

The directions advised going to bed at my usual time. Hmmmm. Let’s just say that laxatives and Mr. Sandman make strange bedfellows.

So many times I had been sorely tempted to fudge on the cleanse. I almost unlawfully broke my fast with, of all things, a red bubble gum ball. But no matter how deeply I looked, I simply could not see through it. My entire body was liquefied. Even my nose was runny.

But I was glad I resisted the temptation. The colon does not lie. It has to be a total colon cleanse: a semi-colon won’t do;

The morning of the procedure, I arrived at the hospital one hour early, bedraggled, parched and despondent, clawing my way on to the gurney. Colonoscopies give new meaning to the term, “advance to the rear,” – which is exactly what Dr. Daly did. She came into the procedure room looking laudably perky and adorably coiffed. In any other venue, I would have been jealous. She and I are friends (it’s wise to be on good terms with one’s proctologist!) We chatted amiably. She was noticeably more cogent than I was at that point. I was reduced to muttering unintelligibly.

Then she began preparing the equipment as I was administered some kind of “I don’t care” drug. The last thing I remember seeing was a hose the diameter of the Alaskan Pipe Line, but I didn’t care. Dr. Daly made reference to where the sun didn’t shine, and then, mercifully, everything faded to black.

Apparently, all was fine because, by mutual agreement, I won’t be returning for another 5 years. But I awoke with an insatiable craving for Twinkies.

Laxatives are harsh but effective for what they are designed to do. However, a general review of the conditions of colon cancer is enough to scare the crap out of you. Given the alternative, MiraLax wasn’t so bad after all.

FIFA with a chance of Meatballs

2010-07-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

I confess I haven’t always understood nor appreciated soccer. The game can be confusing and convoluted to the novice.

It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials. But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards. This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.

The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball. In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon. And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.

And just what is “off sides?” Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.

Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards? Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy. But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright. These are all-out aerial assaults. The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.

The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them. It’s preposterous!

And what’s with those horns??? The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium. These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS! Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.

Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity. She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe. She does not take “Spain” in vain. I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat.

She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!” Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.

But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament. He is almost 12, and he gets the game. In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net. VICTORY!

I went berserk! I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent. I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone. Suuhhhweet!!

I GET SOCCER!

On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning. Our family considers that tradition inviolable. Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.

There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst. Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter. Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!

Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs. First of all, a glaring lack of competition. It’s the only game in town. Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.

I purchased six of these little delicacies. They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them. Thankfully, I’m well endowed.

Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise. Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks! I’ll be first in line.

Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week. Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal. We rejoice.

So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.

I Love Summer.

The Good Ole Summer Time

2010-07-14T10:31:00.001-07:00

There is a certain enchantment about summer. Nostalgia makes us all misty-eyed for the good old days. The season has its own unique rituals and traditions that demand strict observance.

Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon. Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.

In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly. It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.

I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late. And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.

We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web. Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.

Summer has a taste. It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.

We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection. But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.

And, of course, there was Lagoon. An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night. There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster. You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit. Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.

I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors. They still creep me out. Nor did I like the terror ride. My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl. It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl. Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall. I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.

Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music. Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July. Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard. Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.

Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be. So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy. Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor. Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.

Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays. And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.

The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes.

The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.

Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses. She’d been asking for a pair like mine. At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot. Sometimes she lets me borrow them. I can see clearly now.

I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality. It anchors us to the integrity of the season.

It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.

The Family Vacation

2010-07-01T08:38:00.000-07:00

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But that’s assuming the traveler is upright to begin with.

In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.” As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade. I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker.

As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return. So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon.

I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye. I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated. Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe. I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf. I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror. Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.

Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.

We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection. Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits. We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.

Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze. Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.

In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste. We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.

In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum. Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics.

We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good. Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.

1.    The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop. Curiously, I ruled. The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2.    Incontinence trumps everything. Again, I dominated.
3.    “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence. Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!” We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle. This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4.    Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands. That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks.
5.    Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile. In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6.    Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.

Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless. Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl.

I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed. I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.” He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers. I was gratified.

One incident I will never forget. It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match. Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!” We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team. It was our finest moment.

Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania. This was no country for old men…or women. But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip. In point of fact, last week it was my birthday. I turned 18 once more.

In April we’ll do it all over again.

Butterflies and Guillotines

2010-06-08T15:41:00.001-07:00

In an effort to maintain a perfect record of never allowing a year to lapse without at least one surgery, I went in for a parathyroidectomy last Thursday. I am recording the incident under an anesthetic fog, but it is true and accurate, nonetheless.

The doctors have been advising me that my parathyroid is “out of whack.” That’s a medical term indicating impending surgery. Well, I was not too happy about the thoughts of this procedure. Anesthesia always makes me loopy. But apparently, the parathyroid is a winged little thingee near the thyroid, and its removal conjured up images of the surgeon running barefoot in slow motion with a butterfly net through a field of daisies on a summer morning.

Well, in a burst of irrational optimistic positivity, I thought, why not? I’d get it done now so we could go on our family vacation to Washington without having it hanging over my head. In and out. Slick.

Things went quite well at first. My anesthesiologist was amiable, and said my veins were quite impressive. I was sure he was hitting on me. I was demur. I refrained from bragging, but I’ve always considered them some of my finest assets. And they’ve never been surgically enhanced. Modesty kept me from flaunting them.

We chatted for a while, until I noticed the OR begin to rotate. I became alarmed and asked him if he felt as dizzy as I looked. He assured me he was. I told him to cover me-I was goin’ in. Then I disappeared.

I don’t recall anything after that. But upon regaining consciousness, I felt a little like Anne Bolyn, the morning after…and rather nauseous. I requested some anti-hurl…STAT!

That’s when I first met Nurse Vlad, my post-op care-taker. She heaved me onto my side with the agility of a sumo wrestler, employing some moves she’d no doubt acquired as the head baton twirler of the Transylvania High School marching band. I tried to regain my equilibrium.

Suddenly, I heard the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the swish of an Excaliber blade as it cut through the air, and the fierce cry of a Samarai warrior yelling, “Charge!” And then she impaled me!

This time I emitted a holler worthy of Wylie Coyote plummeting down a cliff.

A disembodied voice from outer darkness announced, “I love a skinny butt!” She put down her syringe, wiped her hands on her armor, mounted her trusty steed, said, “My work here is done,” and strode off into the sunset.

That’s the truth. At least, that’s how I remember it. Dennis’ version varies slightly. But it’s my stupor. Besides, he was on the OTHER end of that hypo!

I am recovering well, but it will be some time before I let anyone talk me into going to the meadow looking for butterflies.

Leaking Gas

2010-06-01T10:20:00.001-07:00

Why is it that the best things in life are so short-lived? Vacations, summer, lilacs, energy, money, general perkiness, youth, etc. And, of course, childhood. Especially childhood.

Those are Halcyon days. Kids get up in the morning with full diapers and empty sippees. The main task of the day is to empty the first and fill the second…and nobody gets hurt. Then it’s play, play, play until time for their 2:00 tantrum. What could be sweeter?

Children don’t fret over such trivial matters as heinous headlines, stock market gains and losses, gas prices, oil spills, elections, or celebrity drama. A jug of chocolate milk, a bag of chips, and they’re OK in their wilderness.

But childhood has a shelf life. Perhaps that’s why as adults we want to preserve, even prolong these days. We know that all too soon the time comes when we can no longer find our way back to the house at Pooh Corner.

And Time is a tyrant. Case in point. Recently we were given a giant congratulatory yellow inflated smiley-face Mylar balloon. That balloon was my alter ego. It made me happy. Its face was unalterably merry, looking as if it had been injected with too much botox by an over-zealous doctor.

It bobbed mindlessly through the rooms of our house, and smiled mockingly as the kids belted it to each other, unfazed by the mauling. I could identify.

But a few days passed, and the balloon began to lose some of its helium. The face started showing subtle signs of shriveling. The sunny countenance appeared to crease along the edges and fold into itself. The soft butter yellow took on a jaundiced look, as if its liver, if it had one, was not functioning properly. Its smile became derisive.

As if that weren’t enough, the balloon lost some of its “bob,” and would float down to the floor and linger there, inert and inconsolable. Finally, it drifted behind the TV, like Puff The Magic Dragon, going into its cave, seeking solitude and sanctuary.

We respected its privacy, hoping it would soon recapture its “perky” and rejoin us.

Suddenly, as we were watching the Lakers maul the Suns, the smiley face unexpectedly popped up from behind the TV as if it were some kind of freakish Jack-in-the-box, just like the shower scene in “Psycho!” I swear I heard discordant screeching violins at the same time. It actually startled us.

But now the happy face had changed dramatically. It appeared cavernous, with crevices, sags, and creping. It bobbed and weaved like a drunk geriatric boxer in slow motion. I swear it was a creepy perversion of “The Picture of Dorian Gray!”

Well, it was kind of funny. I laughed. Then I looked in the mirror. I cried. That smiley face was my evil twin. I was scarier than Norman Bates!

When did I lose my helium? How long have I been deflating? When did my gas begin to leak? And who wiped the grin off MY face?!

Our mirrors must be distorted! ALL mirrors are distorted!

Call the code blue plastic surgery triage unit!

Call Dr. Kevorkian!

I tried to retain my analytical reason. I hoped the unrestrained surge of stress hormones would not throw me out of orbit. I muttered vulgarisms incessantly.

Now, I’m not asking to slurp at the Fountain of Youth through a garden hose. I just want to return to the days when my butt was not oozing in concentric circles around my knees. Talk about hostile take-over! I thought I had that territory secured.

And while we’re at it, who splattered my hands with brown spots in the most unattractive geometric patterns…like I’d just painted the town taupe? When did all this take place, and where was I? How come I didn’t notice?

There is a certain bereavement at the passage of time. The clock is an apex predator!

I don’t know where to register my complaints, besides shouting blasphemes into the lightless void of outer darkness. (For the record, I got no response.)

However, since I have failed miserably to prevent my childhood from seeping away, I am focusing my efforts on my grandkids, before they pass their expiration date.

Spring is the season of recitals and rituals that signal the close of this recent school year. Talk about short-lived! Didn’t school just begin?

We have always encouraged our kids to be curious, to ask questions, to express themselves without fear or inhibition. So far, we’ve been wildly successful.

Our grandson, Carter the Curious, has been pleading with his parents for, of all things, an older brother. Brodi asked for my advice. I’m not touching this one, but I can’t wait to hear THAT explanation.

Over the Memorial Day holiday, Asher, our darling Asher, stomped in the windshield of Erin’s van…barefoot! Did I mention he’s three? We are all trying to stay on his good side until we can legally medicate him.

Most of our grandkids look like pipe cleaners. Asher looks like Sammy the Bull. It comes from daily workouts consisting of total annihilation.

It’s going to be a long summer.

But I plan to pass the sunshine season stuffing my jowls with picnics and peanut butter. I figure when autumn arrives, my face will be pumped and plumped and will once more resume the smooth contours of an inflated bladder. And I will smile because…I will have regained my helium!

May Day

2010-05-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

Didn’t we just have Mother’s Day…last year? It’s the only holiday that seems to come around as frequently as Halloween. But Mother’s Day has come and gone. I survived. I’m not sure exactly why I anticipate this event with a lack of zeal. I understand why the term MAY DAY is universally recognized as a distress call. I’m submitting a proposal to Congress that MOTHER’S DAY would be a fitting substitution.

Actually, I don’t know any mother who really likes Mother’s Day. It isn’t even a real holiday. It’s an occasion manufactured by flower vendors, jewelers, chocolatiers and greeting card companies to suck the bucks from our pocketbooks. I’m not averse to getting a plethora of gifts. No siree. I always remind my family that they can never repay me for all I’ve done. Nevertheless, they should keep trying. But it’s all so commercial. Advertisers peddle everything from flowers to backhoes to show Mom our love. Personally, I don’t want any of that stuff. I just want to be obeyed!

I’m sure motives for contriving such an observance in the first place were pure.

But things have changed so much since then. And this is not necessarily change we can believe in. And speaking of change, I read recently that Thelma Lou, Barney Fife’s girlfriend, was robbed…right in Mayberry. She’s 83. Dang it! Things really HAVE changed. She can’t be 83. That would make me…even younger. If Thelma Lou can be mugged, WE’RE ALL GONNA’ DIE!

Ah, but I digress. Evidence of approaching Mother’s Day is ubiquitous.

Recently at Costco’s, the place was crowded with people loading baskets with plants, bouquets, women’s apparel and cookbooks.

But one man in particular caught my attention because he stood out from the throng. He was pushing a flatbed cart heavily laden with countless stacks of paper plates and reams of toilet paper. That cart was so burdened with these items, the wheels groaned under the strain. I wanted to stop him and inquire as to the purpose of his purchase. Why these items in these quantities?

Then it hit me. These were Mother’s Day gifts of truest appreciation. He was the only person in Costco who really gets this occasion. His was a graphic representation of what mothers really do – feed the gut and wipe the butt! I doubt Hallmark will put that little couplet on a greeting card. Pity.

Now, I don’t mean to seem cynical or appear as the anti-June Cleaver. But sometimes this occasion celebrates moms without really appreciating them. And all the tributes can make us misty-eyed and feeling guilty for not measuring up to all the tributes. It’s a conundrum.

I swore an oath that I would not get entangled in all the sentiment this year. I would not get tripped up by those tender recollections that close off the throat.

I attended our daughter’s church where our grandkids were singing tributes to all the mothers in the congregation. Abram and Josh sang lyrics that went, “Heavenly Father has sent me to you-wooh,” all the while making gagging gestures and rolling their eyes. In the meantime, Asher the Basher was body-slamming the kid next to him with such blunt force, the child was on the floor dazed and traumatized. The line of children trying to maintain their balance had an erratic ripple where the little hoodlum was standing. He managed to stop head butting only long enough to pick his nose.

Dennis was laughing uncontrollably, while I was trying to recall any documented cases of insanity in my family’s genetic make-up.

Usually Mother’s Day is to be tolerated, not celebrated. But this year, I observed the occasion, and enjoyed it. I have decided that childhood and motherhood are both excellent institutions. It seems the faster we go, the less time we have to spare. I’m grateful we slowed down enough to hear kids sing songs to mothers that make us laugh while it tugs at the heartstrings.

Now I will begin the new week. Things will return to normal. I’ll clean up the clutter from Sunday’s commemoration. I’ll put away the dishes, dispose of the diapers and wipe viscous secretions from noses. Monday it’s back to paper plates and toilet paper.

Victory and Triumph

2010-04-22T11:47:00.000-07:00

This past week has been one for the highlight reel in sports. Our favorite, Phil Mickelson, won the Masters Golf Championship, evidence that there is a certain cosmic justice in the universe.

In addition, we were invited to be present when Larry Miller’s jersey, # 9, was retired in the rafters of the Energy Solutions Arena during half-time at the Jazz game.

Both events had particular meaning for us.

But there’s one athletic contest that will not go down in history or even be recorded by avid sports writers. And it was the most inspiring.

It took place last Saturday. Here’s how it happened.

Necie, our only granddaughter, had a soccer game that morning, like every kid her age in the neighborhood. It is a rite of passage for children these days.

Her team, however, was decimated, due to illness and vacations. She was one player of only four. Besides Necie, there were Justice, Anna and Trevor. (No “Suzy” or “Bill” on the roster.)   They were the core four, ribbons and pony tails flapping in the breeze, and smiling their first-grade, six-year-old smiles – not a single front tooth among them.

Their coach reviewed their game strategy, lined them up, and told them to play hard and have fun. The day looked promising.

Then the other team took the field. They were all boys…whose mouths revealed two rows each of adult teeth. This was obviously their first string, and the coach called them by name, like Santa’s roll call of his most infamous mutant reindeer: On Brutus! On Caius Cassius! Let’s go, Iago! Come on, Mephastophales!

I turned to Dennis and said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The whistle blew, and the game began. Well, the Goths moved down the field like rotweilers with distemper. Our team ran, scrambled, and fell in futility, as the ball went swift and sure to the goal. Nothing but net.

Their fans roared their terrible roar, and gnashed their terrible teeth.

This burned about 25 seconds off the game clock. At this point, all our parents and grandparents were checking their watches, praying the playing time would expire and end the merciless massacre. We still had 44 ½ minutes to go.

We all shouted encouragement like, “Way to hang in there,” and “Shake if off,” and “You’ll get ‘em next time!”

Our guys would line up again, smile their toothless grins, and try to defend against the onslaught. Twenty seconds later the ball exploded into the center of the net. Our team’s defense was as porous as their teeth.

The fans on our side collectively contorted into the fetal position, as if each goal were a personal sucker-punch to the solar plexis, hoping the groans were not audible. We averted our eyes for the humiliation.

Once more, Necie, Justice, Anna and Trevor assembled, ready to play.

After six goals in rapid succession, their coach put in their B team, calling them individually to the line: Atilla, Taras Bulba, Vlad the Impaler, and Caligula.

We watched as their goals mounted. But interestingly, for every point they scored, our team lined up ready to play again. These kids were exhausted, thirsty, sucking wind – and there were no subs on the entire planet to provide respite.

Suddenly, there was a palpable shift in the momentum – not with the players, but with the crowd. We uncoiled from our contortions and began genuinely cheering these diminutive, intrepid gladiators.

Then came the miracle. Due to some cosmic anomaly, Anna was able to kick the ball into OUR net. The crowd went insane, standing, ovating. John Stockton’s winning, 3-point buzzer-beater paled by comparison.

It was now 12-1.

The team ramped up their efforts. Necie got her mojo. She defended. She deflected. She blocked. She intercepted. She had the tenacity of a pit bull, and thwarted their attempts to score once again…or it would have been 13-1. Ha! Not on Necie’s watch!

As a supreme humanitarian gesture, the time ran out. We mobbed the team; they were nearly carried off the field on our shoulders and crowned with laurel wreaths.

In an act of consummate sportsmanship, all the parents of both sides formed a victory arc de triumph for each of the players to run through…praise and glory all around.

There were no losers this day. There was no defeat. While we did not get the victory, we got the triumph. Their team won the game. Our team won the hearts.

I learned some important things that morning. Possibly the best lessons are taught before we have all our adult teeth. Maybe it isn’t about winning and the idea that anything less is losing. “Nice try” is just that – a nice try. To conquer, to dominate, just may not be the sole purpose of competition. Perhaps reciting the Olympic Creed is more authentic than chanting “We’re number one!”

Hmmm. I pondered the possibilities.

So, in light of my new enlightenment, I have decided to declare my New Year’s Resolutions. Yes, I do know it’s April. But I cannot be held accountable for commitments made under the influence of mainlining fruit cake and the annual holiday dietary glut. Nor should said resolutions be emblazoned on stone tablets carried down from Mt. Sinai to hold us hostage.

No. Resolutions should be seasonally adjusted, becoming the servants of one’s whims and caprice of the moment. Expediency must be the guiding principle.

Ergo, with the understanding that victory is not always triumph, here are my mid-term “gonna do’s,” designed solely to bring me joy.

1.    Lower the level of my discourse.
2.    Drink an entire bottle of Orange Crush without pausing to take a breath and belch the Gettysburg Address.
3.    Eat cucumber sandwiches.
4.    Invite myself to someone’s picnic in the park
5.    Attend every garage sale and farmer’s market.
6.    Redefine haute cuisine to include hot dogs at the ball park.
7.    Stifle the groan when I arise after stooping to wipe a grandkid’s nose.
8.    Start singing Christmas carols on the 4th of July.
9.    Go hang gliding…and then –
10.    Have a comprehensive psychological evaluation. (If I reversed the order of #9 and #10, I’d never go hang gliding.)

We’ll see what May brings.