Hints, Thoughts and Allegations

Micro-Musings of a Middle-Aged Curmudgeon

[dasheight]

Dave’s Adventures in Wonderland

The continuing adventures of Captain Cancer...

I have not YET begun to humbug.

It's been a hell of a month. The last thing I remember doing at work was decorating our cubicles for the annual Crimmus contest with the 10th floor that the 10th floor always loses. (It's practically a joke at this point.) As I strung red duct tape just so to attain a candy-cane motif, the pain in my back and head just would not go away. Finally, my boss sent me home. I still don't know how I got there. It didn't help that the driver of this particular FF1 was DRENCHED in perfume, and I was sitting directly behind her. Every time she opened the door - at Sheridan, Church Ranch and Broomfield, I was blasted with whatever the blue hell was on sale at Kohl's that week. By Church Ranch, I was throwing up. But, being the courteous/moronic soul that I am, I simply swallowed it back up. By the time I got to FlatIron Crossing and my car, the cycle had ceased - most likely due to the fact that the Colorado fresh air was hitting me instead of whatever eau de toilette that RTD driver found herself swimming in. And I thought some of my co-workers were bad with that stuff.

The remainder of the month has been a stone-cold blur. The headaches and vomiting became a brain tumor, caused by the Cancer they had assured me had been eradicated months earlier. I was inundated by the faces of friends I had not seen in years - some that I had even figured had left me for dead YEARS ago. Family diligently kept me company, and the ever-present comfort of the electronic age made sure that I could keep caught up with the things that made me happy.

And just how sanitary is this hybrid hospital/grocery store? And can I get an ice cream sammich?

But, lemme tell you, going through a brain procedure is a STRANGE animal, for especially someone like me who tries to keep his wits about him at all times. I couldn't tell you when I was conscious and when I wasn't, where I was at any given points and time (I kept telling my sister, Julie, for example, that I could have sworn I was not at the University of Colorado Hospital, but, rather, at the Lower Downtown Denver King Soopers store), and it only got weirder from there. Thanks to the fact that Mom has gotten me addicted to the sitcom Mike & Molly, my brain latched on to the Senegalese restaurant waiter Samuel. At some point between by admission to neural ICU and the pre-op MRI, I was suddenly IN Senegal, surrounded by the people. But instead of hearing the heavy accent of the Samuel character, it was the voices of American Millennials talking about going to clubs, weekend plans, and the like. These COULD have been nurses and staff talking about just that, but I have no idea why they needed to come to Senegal to tell me about them. Then, it gets WEIRD.

Could be a lot worse, I could have been watching  a lot of The Walking Dead before the brain surgery...

Y'see, either before I went into ICU, or shortly thereafter, I was told my MRI was not the first one scheduled. (And I can clearly recollect someone saying that it had to be delayed a SECOND time.) I'm already in Senegal surrounded by chatty Millennials, and now this? So, I did what any logical person would do in my situation - I went about to build my own MRI machine. Yup, in my mind, myself and two Senegalese men (who at least obliged me with the appropriate accents) assembled in a dusty but not unkempt parking lot to assemble the apparatus. We literally used everything we could find, including, inexplicably, a pair of parking barriers. It was one of the most bizarre but detailed experiences I've had in a long while. Eventually, the clicking and whirring of hospital equipment began to infiltrate my mind again, and I was silently cheering! I did it! I built my own MRI machine, so let's get this thing on the road. Only after time had passed and I felt myself being wheeeled down a hallway toward the ACTUAL machine (that was quite a damned sight louder than the clicking I heard) did I realize that I was, in fact, still in Aurora, CO and not in Africa as one third of the medical version of The Grand Tour.

You see that? I effing BUILT that.

I was never the greatest looking person to begin with - even if I had somehow begun to date someone before this all happened - but now I have a nice big zipper scar on the right side of my head. Fortunately, my Cubs World Series cap still fits snugly, and pain seems to be at a bare minimum. I still seem to know the lyrics to all my favorite songs, WWE's booking continues to baffle me, and I still weep like a baby when Kris Bryant throws to Anthony Rizzo at first base.

Not lost in any of this is the efforts everyone made. Not just my old and dear friends, and even newish ones, but shortly before this all began, a Facebook group was formed to bring together the 'Littles' - fans of Tony Kornheiser and his podcast together. As late as yesterday, I was receiving cards and letters from these folks providing support, encouragement, and good feelings. All the communities I've ever belonged to in my life were almost always formed by myself - it's wonderful to be part of something where people seem to genuinely care about each other, tied together by their love of a cranky old Baby Boomer sports columnist from Washington DC.

Seriously, it gets dark at, like, 3:30 here in December...

As we're in the process of demolishing our old home in Louisville, I have relocated west to Boulder, at the foot of the Flatirons. It's windy here. And it sure effing gets dark early. I know I won't be back at work for a tick, but I'm already scouting where it's best to catch the Flatiron Flyer from here. I already made one ill-advised trip out - I was going stir crazy, so I decided to see if I could make it to the Walmart at FlatIron Crossing. Did come a teensy bit close to the retaining wall at the actual store, but I made it there safely. It allowed me to get some food, supplies, and a network cable to hard-wire my X-Box One into the new Comcast network I set up here. WWE Network and Amazon Video are now running beautifully in my room, and the Wi-Fi is robust. And only I could grab one of the mini-carts in the store and still manage to spend $150.

After stopping for a DELICIOUS Beau Jo's pizza on the way home, I parked and told myself that people can take me places for a while. Last thing I need is a McFood less than a mile from here, let alone Wendy's, Taco Bell, Beau Jo's and other diversions. Damned college town. I think I got enough stuff to last me for a tick, anyway.

So, the next major step is radiation. Because I haven't tried THAT yet. But it's a single blast, in one visit, and should take but a tick. Then we go from there. Plus, I have about 659 follow-up visits between now and the next time I process another invoice. And I actually miss my invoices. Really.

Normalcy sucks. The day-to-day can be tedious and soul wrenching. But, I've learned that I would take a thousand days of knuckleheads running for the FF1 who don't have their damned fare ready even though the bus should have left already than one more day of the crap I've been through over the last three years. Because if the least of my worries is that I'm 2 minutes late getting to my car because some stupid Millennial can't find their Eco-pass is the least of my worries in 2017, I'll be a happy man.

Still doesn't mean I won't complain about it on Twitter, though.

[dasheight]

Thankful...

On this night, Thanksgiving Eve, last year, I was asleep. Well, I'm pretty sure I was asleep. I know that I didn't work that day, because I had a chemotherapy session. Yeah, that's right, apparently chemo takes a break for no man, woman, holiday or family gathering. This was the second in a gauntlet of chemo sessions that would include Halloween night, Thanksgiving eve and Christmas Eve. (That last one was particularly hard, because my beloved Gran had passed away two days earlier, and it was everything I could do help carry her to her final resting place. Had I to do it over again, I would have skipped that appointment and had been at my best that day. But Gran would have told me to go to the doctor and keep my appointment.)

Yours truly, May 2015.

The chemo was particularly hard on me. I won't go back into the details of what this was doing to my body, but let's just say that even I openly wonder how I was able to go to work each day, enter 250+ invoices and ride back and forth on the commuter bus, let alone drive my car the four miles from the bus stop to home. Last holiday season was brutally cold, and my hands and feet were screaming from the peripheral neuropathies I will suffer with for the rest of my life.

But the part that REALLY sucked was that the chemo sessions were right before the holiday meals, and my stomach couldn't hold down food - let alone it tasting any sort of palatable. So, while Mom prepared excellent turkey, my sister whipped her famous mashed potatoes, and dessert was plentiful, I was only able to partake in the bare minimum. My eyes could barely stay open, my body was devoid of hair, my spirit was completely broken. I couldn't tease my sisters, handle the abuse by brother-in-law would administer, or even talk video games with my nephew-in-law. I was an empty shell. I was alone in a room full of people. Savory aromas licking my nose, punctuated by the fact that I had decided to pay for much of the food. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I wanted to scream, but stayed quiet. I wanted to die, but the poisons swimming in my bloodstream were keeping that from happening. My Gran was there. The last time she would attend a holiday gathering with us. She wouldn't be there for Christmas.

I went about my routine afterward. Christmas shopping was ordering on Amazon. Work was difficult, but it paid the bills. Home was a warm bed, a loving puppy, and a mother who moved between support and frustration. I was a burden, but she never let on.

Most of you know the rest of the story. A second abscess on my rectal area caused by the chemo caused me to scream "ENOUGH" in January of this year. The Cancer doctor, who conveniently took an entire month's vacation without a colleague being able to pass along the news, told me in February that if I stopped chemo, my life would be over in 6-12 months. He even out and out suggested hospice care. I said I wanted a second opinion. And in March, I met a Cancer doctor that KNEW WHAT HE WAS DOING, and told me that liver surgery - surgery that I was told was impossible by the previous Cancer doc - was not only an option, it was the preferred one. On April 6th, I had surgery, and one week later I was declared 100% completely Cancer free. There would be no hospice care. No strong chemotherapy. No falling asleep randomly. No accidents before I could get to a restroom. No being tethered to my bed. It was over.

So,if you are reading this missive, chances are you had a part - no matter how small - in my fight, my recovery, my decisions. You eased my heavy heart. You sat in that infusion center and talked to me, watched videos on my iPad, gave me a ride back to Louisville. You instigated Facebook chats with me to reminisce. You bought me Robin's Eggs on clearance after Easter was over. You took me to dinner. You took me to see Manchester United. You helped me enter invoices. You set up a VPN line so I could work from home. You were by my side when I was losing this fight. And you celebrated when I won.

Dave would have loved this...

This Thanksgiving, had I not taken the advice of so many, you'd probably be posting something on my Facebook memorial page. You'd probably say just how much I would have loved it when Kris Bryant threw to first base and Anthony Rizzo caught the ball that ended 108 years of heartbreak. You'd smile every time an Electric Light Orchestra song came on the radio. You'd cry a little when the gates went down, and three orange BNSF locomotives moved a double-stack train down the rails.

My good friend Nate and I in Breckenridge, Labor Day 2016.

But my story isn't over yet. It's got a lot of blank pages left. And I need to get writing the next chapters. I am thankful to all of you who pushed me, who advised me, who lifted me up, who supported me, who cried tears in my name, who smiled when we flew the W, who puts up with my Grand Tour posts on Facebook - mostly because I wasn't supposed to be here to see it.

I lived to see it!

I'm thankful for you. And I'm thankful that my story isn't completely written just yet. And I look forward to your additions to my life's tale.

And to Kim Nekroman, Colt Cabana, Kevin Owens and Adam Ferrara - thank you for your notes/videos/tweets of support. No matter what you do the rest of your professional lives, I will always be your biggest fan.

And I'm looking forward to devouring the hell out of some turkey and stuffing.

- Dave Maes Wednesday, November 23, 2016.

[justjezza]

It’s time for Jezza’s annual A level pep talk!

[clarksonhammondmayaddiction]

Variation every year. 

[aurora-b]

[clarksonhammondmayaddiction]

And we’re very excited about it!

[archaeologicalnews]

Earliest Human Cancer Found in 1.7-Million-Year-Old Bone

In the fossil-rich region of South Africa known as the Cradle of Humankind, scientists have discovered the earliest known case of one of the world’s most deadly diseases.

Using 3-D imaging, the researchers have diagnosed an aggressive type of cancer called osteosarcoma in a foot bone belonging to a human relative who died in Swartkrans Cave between 1.6 and 1.8 million years ago.

The discovery—which has just been published in the South African Journal of Science—suggests that, while modern lifestyles have increased the incidences of cancer, especially in industrialized countries, the triggers for the disease are embedded deep within the human evolutionary past.

“You can opt for the paleo diet, you can have as clean a living environment as you want, but the capacity for these diseases is ancient, and it’s within us regardless of what you do to yourselves,” says study co-author Edward Odes of the University of the Witwatersrand. Read more.

[dasheight]

So, Cancer has been around, really, since humanoids have been around. Kind of explains why straightedge people like myself can still find a way to contract this insipid disease, and why finding a cure is imperative. 

[ambrollinsasylum]

[aurora-b]

[clarksonhammondmayaddiction]

Never forget.

[dasheight]

Plenty of Disappointment...

Hints, thoughts and allegations while I wait for some invoices to roll in...

So, as of this writing, I've been divorced as long as I was married. (Admittedly, the relationship as a whole spanned 11 years, but the marriage itself barely crossed the 8-year mark before I was kicked to the curb.) Since then, I've been in relentless pursuit of soft companionship. I have had various luck with various women - but, since I went into Cancer treatments in 2013, it seems the dating pool has dried up.

Dude... 37 checkstands, not ONE of them are open...

I was dating a woman when I was diagnosed with Cancer in 2013, but we broke up shortly after the first chemotherapy treatment. (Basically, never mind that very few of my friends liked her, and nobody in my family did, I stuck it out until she finally pushed my buttons incorrectly, as well.) I had a brief fling shortly after chemo ended in August 2013, but, since then, the pool had completely dried up. I had one single date in 2014, followed by a 2015 where I had more chemotherapy dates than actual dates. OK, I had zero dates in 2015. I had one set up, but the woman didn't like the fact that I had 'made fun' of an old woman who wouldn't let me, my mother, or the guy behind us check out of Walmart until she purchased pens they couldn't find a price for. Forgive me for pointing out the idiocy of everyone involved in this transaction.

So, I fart around on the Plenty of Fish website. I gave up on OKCupid, as that site seems more geared toward Millennials, and I'm not one of those guys that wants to date someone appreciably younger than I am. Yes, there's women that are quite a bit younger than me that could keep up with me intellectually and philosophically, but then they want to go out and do stuff all the time. I'm old, and have a roadmap of scars on my chest, I'm not about to get on a bicycle and ride up a mountain. And, considering my curmudgeonly attitude, I don't see a 35-year old woman wanting to sign up for 30 years of that.

Too cute, way unattainable, rejected me, rejected me, never wrote back...

The POF site has become mildly depressing. Most of the active profiles are women who have either not responded to a note I have sent them, or women who have rejected me (or that I have rejected, actually) outright. Going to the 'chemistry' section is a litany of Hispanic women - who probably are very nice, and could make me happy if I gave them a chance, but I tend to want to date Caucasian women - mostly because I was raised almost exclusively by Hispanic women. If my significant other was Hispanic, and got angry at me for whatever reason, I would see the faces of my family members in her. The other section is known as 'UltraMatch', which, according to the website, are the '70 best matches for you in the system sorted by how compatible they are with you'. Admittedly, there's more Caucasian women here, but that's only because you're allowed to eliminate women off this particular list. In fact, I've eliminated so many women off UltraMatch that my most recent search only netted 35 available women, despite a promise of 70.

As I begin to pare my most recent list of women (this one has 5 kids, this one has enough tattoos that it's basically graffiti at this point, this one's entire profile description consists of 'later'...) I've come to the conclusion that, while I really want to have a lady in my life to do things with, I'm beginning to wonder if the effort is worth it. My days are spent picking apart POF profiles to see why the latest profiles would reject me - with the occasional E-Mail to one that I think actually won't reject me, who, in turn, rejects me in kind. While I was enthusiastic after my divorce to get back in the game, the latest spate of rejections has me wondering if the effort is worth it. Are they gun-shy because of my Cancer? Because of my currently thin hair? Because I'm only 5' 9"? (There seems to be a large number of women shorter than 5' 2" that will only date men over 6 feet tall. SORRY I STOPPED GROWING.)

I guess the breaking point was a woman who contacted me asking how I was feeling. I responded with a long and kind note back, and we talked back and forth... until I realized it was the woman who was dating me when chemotherapy began. (Yes, I somehow didn’t recognize her two profile photos. Chemotherapy and post-op drugs really turned my brain to soup.) Worst part was that I actually kept talking to her - I even took her out on a date, and I was only a month out of major surgery. I was bending over backward, hiding her from family and friends, until we had that date, and I realized we were picking up where we left off - she was taking over my life at the expense of all these people who supported me and guided me to the end of my Cancer journey. She wanted me as her man, but only the parts of me that made her happy. My happiness was never of any importance to her. I broke it off. (Ironically, the day before, she posted a meme on Facebook that said "never break up via text". Which is exactly what I did.)

Since then, I've been back on POF. That girl rejected me. That one never wrote me back. Oh, this one seems to be on her 13th username in the last 4 months. But I don't write to any of them. I'm sure they'll reject me. Or not write back.

It sucks that I'm in the 50th year of my life without someone to spend time with. But, apparently, it's a life I may have to end up getting used to.

Ten minutes?!?! Dude, I’ve got theater tickets. To “Hamilton”.

EXTRA TIME: For those unaware of the rules of soccer, in a nutshell, the referees have to guarantee 45 minutes of play in each of the two halves. But the clock, which counts up instead of down, continuously runs - even if there's a player substitution, injury or other delay. To make up for this, the fourth official declares a certain amount of time be tacked on to the end of each half to ensure 45 total minutes of play. Some call it 'injury time', some call it 'stoppage time', others simply refer to it at 'extra time', even if, technically, it's not any additional actual field-of-play time.

That’s not a magazine, Jack. That’s the bill. For this session.

Back in February, my oncologist told me that if I stopped chemotherapy - which I did - I would only have 6 months to live. Of course, that's before I found a better Cancer doctor, who not only informed me that the last 16 chemotherapy sessions were really unnecessary, but that they could eliminate the Cancer from my body once and for all. On April 6th, I went into the University of Colorado Hospital in Aurora, and 8 days later, I emerged scarred, tired and weakened - but 100% Cancer-free. The scar will remain. The weakness is slowly abating. And the tiredness only happens when I'm doing a lot of walking around.

As that last chemotherapy session I participated in was on January 8th, that means, beginning on July 8th, I will be entering 'extra time'. For however long it lasts, from 9:00 AM MDT on July 8th, 2016 until I finally do shuffle off this mortal coil, I will be in 'extra time'. The only difference being that the fourth official won't know how many minutes to put on the electronic board.

25 years would be 13,148,730 minutes. That's a lot of stoppage time.

THE GREATEST: I was born a taste too late to fully grasp what Muhammad Ali meant to so many people. I was all of 7 years old when the "Rumble In The Jungle" took place. 8 years old during the "Thrilla In Manila". I wasn't born when a young Cassius Clay took down Sonny Liston for his first heavyweight title. And, indeed, the fights I do remember were the ones where Ali was past his prime, struggling to stay with his opponents. (Larry Holmes, during a fight with Ali in 1980, actually asked the referee to stop the fight, and when he didn't, Holmes pulled his punches out of respect for the ailing former champion.)

How do you get dandruff in a toupee, Cosell?

What I do remember was Ali the showman. What is sorely under-reported in the wake of the death of "The Greatest" is his interactions with Howard Cosell - who had such an abiding love for Ali, that he allowed himself to play second banana to him, something Cosell would not do for anyone else. Ali put Cosell so much at ease, that the running gag in their routines with one another would be Cosell's toupee. (At one point, right there on television, Ali actually lifted Cosell's toupee, much to the delight of the viewers, and, dare I say it, Cosell himself.

You know, champ, I’m a pretty good talker, myself...

WWE did a very good tribute to Ali during their "Raw" broadcast on June 6th, spotlighting Ali's love of pro wrestling. Ali's entire persona was based on old promos conducted by "Gorgeous" George in the 1950's, right down to telling people how pretty he was. (Today's equivalent would probably be WWE's Tyler Breeze.) Ali had a famous boxer vs. wrestler match against Antonio Inoki, where Inoki stayed on the mat and kicked at Ali for the entire match. Ali would later confront Gorilla Monsoon on WWE (then WWWF) television, gaining an airplane spin for his trouble. Finally, at WrestleMania I, Ali would serve as special guest referee for the main event of Roddy Piper & Paul Orndorff vs. Mr. T and Hulk Hogan - marking Ali's last appearance before his Parkinson's Disease began to take hold. (Ali had been diagnosed a year earlier with the disorder.)

It was the showman and athlete that Ali was that drew me into the world of professional wrestling - because so many boxers took themselves WAY too seriously. But pro wrestlers were either great athletes, or great talkers - but rarely both. The closest I ever got to seeing flashes of Muhammad Ali in pro wrestling was Triple H and Shawn Michaels clowning around as D-Generation X, or CM Punk's amazingly hilarious ringside commentary when he was sidelined with an injury. (In my world, "float like a butterfly, sting like a bee" stands right up with "John, my diet soda!")

Ali was a superb athlete, a brilliant mind, an incredible quick wit, a kind soul, a man of conscience (who else would jeopardize his boxing career - during his prime - to stand up for African-American rights by not allowing himself to be drafted into the Vietnam War?), and an American icon. Tony Kornheiser even told a story of how Ali granted him an interview - in his hotel room, stark naked, in bed eating fruit. That was Ali - a complete original.

No, pretty lady, come sit over here. Next to my pretty face.

I bet Ali would never have any trouble finding love on Plenty of Fish.

[officialmadmagazine]

CLASSIC MAD DEPT. R.I.P. Darwyn Cooke, Artist and Writer

Keep reading

[luluxa]

[dasheight]

The Final Battle...

Hints, thoughts and allegations on a breezy April day...

Unloved by Al?!?!

The last time I updated this blog was in late February. At that time, my oncologist at Rocky Mountain Cancer Center informed me that, if I wanted to improve my quality of life over the way it was at the time - a chemotherapy filled with the most incredible side-effects, not restricted to multiple mouth sores, pants messing diarrhea, constantly being asleep, and other such crap - I'd have to put my affairs in order. I was given 6-12 months to live. Dude even recommended that I seek hospice care.

So, you’re saying I can’t go around saying “CU Sucks” any more? Sonsabitches.

I wasn't licked yet. Several friends and co-workers suggested I go in search of a second opinion. My boss, who has an elder brother fighting this insipid disease, suggested working with his peeps at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus in nearby Aurora. It was certainly less daunting than, say, flying to Minneapolis to visit the Mayo Clinic, or going to New York to visit Sloan-Kettering. My sisters, suddenly faced with the mortality of their elder brother, accompanied me on that initial visit. We were all thinking that we'd get the same prognosis, but, literally 5 minutes after sitting with the doctor, he informed us that not only would surgery to remove the Cancer from my liver would be possible... it'd be preferred.

Now, let's go back to that so-called 'Oncologist' in Boulder. Not only did he say that surgery on my liver would be impossible, it would not even be considered. Yet, here's a guy at a teaching hospital who not only felt it was possible, but it was done many times before. In fact, the day we met with my surgeon, he informed us that his colleague was performing a similar surgery right at that moment. It was almost comical. And, I left pretty infuriated, because this was a procedure that could have been performed a year earlier, without 16 chemo treatments that only served to keep the Cancer exactly where it was the day we began the treatment. Hell, in 2013, when dude told me I had two spots on my liver that I had 'nothing to worry about', the surgery could have been done then.

You know what’s more comfortable than a hospital bed? Anything.

Hospital recovery was rugged. 8 days in total, and the move from the ICU to a regular room was toughest. My body began to slowly start working again - first, my intestines announced their return to service with a series of dry-air toots, followed by ones that weren't so non-pungent. Then, the liver announced what was left of it was working fine when it expelled all it's extra bile in the form of, as Shakespeare once coined it, 'heaving the gorge'. The nurses weren't all that happy with the nearly-full throw-up bag. But if they didn't like that, they HATED that my bowels announced their return by opening up the sluices 4 times in one night - 3 while I still laid in bed.

You know what’s more comfortable than a 2004 Buick Rendezvous? Anything.

The day before I departed, I got my pathology back. The docs not only got all the Cancer, they found two benign tumors there that they also removed, fixed two hernias related to my 2013 tumor removal, and hoisted my gall bladder, too. Sent home with two different pain pills; one for nerve pain, one for pain-pain, a prescription for high-blood pressure (that only seemed to rear it's head in hospital), and pills for a phosphorus deficiency. And of all the cars in my family they chose to tote me home in, they picked my sister Julie's Buick Rendezvous, which last had shock absorbers put on it the day the car left the showroom 12 years ago. My week-old injury felt every bump, pothole and curve on Peoria Street before we finally got to the relative smooth sailing of I-70.

Dude, you guys can beat everyone except the effing Rockies?!?!

I've been home just over a week, now. It's the usual bad daytime TV with the occasional Cubs or Arsenal game thrown in there to put a grin on my face. I try to walk the neighborhood once a day to get my strength and stamina up - sometimes with my dog, sometimes without. Those days I putter around the house thinking I could be already back at work, I'm immediately driven back because I still hurt like a son of a bitch when I walk. I could just see me on those bumpy-assed FF1's, willing my body to get Downtown, let alone that 3-block walk from Union Station. 3 blocks may as well be 30 miles right now...

The other reason I’m glad it’s April 21st...

With the passing of April 20, I now realize that, if I had gone with RMCC's prognosis, I'd be 4-10 months away from death. Pain would most certainly begin to wrack my body. My 49th birthday would, most certainly, be my last. There'd be more tears than joy. But, instead, I listened to my friends, my co-workers and, most importantly, myself. Death was too easy an option. It's hard to believe that a member of the medical community could be that closed-minded. And, yet, I sit here as a living, breathing testament to seeking that second opinion, that doctor willing to take a chance instead of doing what 'the book' tells him to. I want to go to RMCC with a box of CU-Anschutz business cards and hand them to every patient in the infusion center, with 'get a second opinion' written on the back. I now look forward to turning 50 in 2017, because it means I will have beaten the odds by living past February 2017.

One last note: As you may or may not know, I'm Atheist, and don't believe in a supreme being. Unlike most Atheists, I feel my belief was taken from me by small-minded humans and their religions. So, imagine my shock on the first Monday night in my regular room, when I tried to turn on my side for the first time. I was struggling, but I suddenly felt a hand on my mid-back - not pushing me, but supporting me. I turned around, and the room was empty, as Michael Cole crowed on about the next scheduled WWE match on my TV. I put it up to the drugs I was on, or being tired. I attempted the maneuver again, and again, there was a hand on my mid-back. It was real as anything. I got to my side, turned around to a empty bedroom. My sisters say it was my Gran visiting me, I don't know what it was, but for a stident non-beliver to have that happen - twice - was nothing short of remarkable. Those small-minded people could take religion and belief from me, but they'll never take that moment from me. The Universe wanted me to feel better, and who am I to deny the Universe?

For now, I'm recovering, slowly but surely. Not driving yet, barely walking past a shuffle, but 25 years from now, I'll still be here. And that's the sweetest victory of them all...

Knees To Cancer: Finishing Maneuver Applied.

[wwe]

As you can see, The #NewDay are VERY excited for #NationalUnicornDay! 

[norfolksouthern]

Norfolk Southern GE D8.5-40CW number 8502 poses outside the Juniata paint shop in Altoona, Penn., in May 2015. This engine was originally built in March 1989 by General Electric in Erie, Penn., as Conrail D8-40C number 6046. It later became NS 8311, and was recently rebuilt and upgraded by the NS #Roanoke #Locomotive Shop. #norfolksouthern #pennsylvania #safety (at Altoona, Pennsylvania)

[dasheight]

A Dash 8.5? #DaddyWants

[qstation]

3985 over Tehachapi! by Mike Danneman No—not THAT No. 3985—but BNSF’s new GE ET44C4 leading a vehicle train westbound through Bealville, California, on the afternoon of February 25, 2016.

[dasheight]

I was beginning to wonder when someone would capture BNSF 3985... (FYI, Union Pacific #3985 is their ‘Challenger’ steam locomotive - which is why this number is synonymous with railfans...)

[dasheight]

Closing Chapters

"Six months to live, that's all they'll give him, Six months to live, not much time to live in, He may see summer, but he won't see fall - so forget about Christmas..." - Tommy Joyce, The Big Bus

Today was the visit with the doc at the Cancer center, now that he's back from his monthlong jaunt to Gabookistan, or wherever the hell he went off to. My sister, Melissa, accompanied me this morning - partially because she would be able to relay information I may have forgotten, and partially because she's a little more forceful than yours truly. (I know, I may be a blathering asshole online, but my sister is just more forthcoming in a less-of-an-asshole sort of way.)

So, as usual, I went in to get my blood drawn - why, I have no clue. Dude missed the vein. I've had my blood drawn at this place literally hundreds of times, and today is the day dude screws up. So, armed with bandages on BOTH my arms, my baby sis and I repaired to the waiting room. People who arrived before us all were seen. Then, people who arrived AFTER us were seen. We were practically the last people left when the nurse finally took us back. I have gained 10 pounds in the last two weeks, probably due to the fact that I've been able to eat like a human again for the first time since August. (Seriously, I've been eating like a horse. I found these pretzel bites with cheese in them at the local grocery, and they're the sex - which, unironically, is as close as I'll ever get to that again...) My sister met me at 9:00 for my appointment, and I should have told her to show up at 10:00.

Redefining ‘soft companionship’. With cheese.

Finally, the doc arrives. We sit down and discuss the fact that my quality of life is to a point where I'm thinking the chemotherapy isn't worth it. My sister relays the fact that I'm always asleep, full of mouth sores, and other, more yucky maladies, and I mentioned that a second abscess arrived halfway through the doc's sojourn through the Great Golf Courses of Florida. That shocked him - almost as much as me saying that I didn't wanna do chemo anymore.

Can I get a drop?

That’s when things got blunt. I voiced my wish that I wanted to seek a second opinion (my choice being the impressive cancer center at the Anschutz campus in Denver) and the doc agreed - only after telling me that the chemo I've been going through has been palliative care - meaning that the chemo wasn't to cure me of what was inside me, it was to keep me alive. He then explained some options, including some oral chemotherapies, and also talked about the second opinion option, which he endorsed.

He then, bluntly, explained option three - hospice care. While I don't need it yet, he explained that, untreated, the Cancer inside me would take my life between 6 months to a year from now.

6 months to live. The Premier League season has 3 months left in it. Pitchers and catchers barely reported today, and it'll be 9 months before we crown a champion. It's 6 months until RedZone comes back on. Hell, even WrestleMania is the better part of 6 weeks from now.

I got luckier in Houston than Dwight Howard ever did, lemme tell ya...

Unless the peeps in Denver can come up with something remarkable, I'm looking at those very words Tommy Joyce sang on the Big Bus. I may see summer, but I won't see fall. I'm pragmatic. We all die - I just happen to know how much time is left on the clock. I lived long enough to see the Windy City, and walk it's streets. I scoped out trains at the World's Largest Railyard - twice. I was married. I saw "Star Wars" rebooted. I witnessed CM Punk's wrestling career. I went to an MLS All-Star Game. I walked my niece down the aisle. I flew to Houston for a fling. I got an autograph from Tony Kornheiser. I loved and lost. Mostly lost.

If 2016 is my last year on the planet, then I've done pretty good for a schmuck. But I have a feeling that those Anschutz people will think of something Boulder didn't. And I'll get my hair back. And I'll get back to the Second City, cranking "Go Cubs Go" and "Chelsea Dagger" back to back.

The story isn't over. But the final chapters are being written.

[cubebreaker]

Cancer survivor designs the empathy cards she wished she received @Cubebreaker.com

[dasheight]

These are absolutely brilliant!

[dasheight]

A Year (End) In Review...

A personal journey...

2015 was a horrible year. The Cancer came back, I broke two ribs, and I suffered an abscess on my posterior. I lost my hair. All of it. I re-entered chemotherapy. I have suffered, battled, screamed, cried and cursed the Universe.

And yet, that wasn't the worst of what 2015 would deliver to me. No, 2015 saved the best for last.

On December 21, I lost my beloved Gran. We knew she didn't have much time left, but she seemed to be feeling better. Mind still sharp. Said she'd light a candle for me - never mind her failing health. Then a stroke took that mind. And even she knew it was time to sign off. Only a few days later, she was gone. My employer, who was already bending over backward to accommodate my Cancer-ridden hide, had no issues with me being a part of my Gran's funeral. My body wanted nothing to do with it - for whatever reason, Christmas Eve chemotherapy was kicking my ass, and kicking it hard. But I mustered up every last bit of strength I had, and went through the Catholic calisthenics, and took my Gran to her final resting place. I even managed to keep things light at the cemetery. But once at the reception, my body crashed. But I still needed to go to Walmart for supplies. I slogged through the superstore, barely able to pick up my feet. I grabbed the case of water, the other supplies and somehow even noticed that the in-store Subway was selling rare cola Icees. I shuffled to my car, drove home, and somehow managed to unload everything. Then, I went to sleep. The next day, I went to work.

The day after was New Year's Eve. I had the day to myself, as Mom's employer doesn't give their people that particular holiday off. Not that it really mattered, chemo coupled with the events of the previous two days had wasted me. When Mom came home, she said we were going to dinner in Denver at my sister's place. I didn't want to go, but I got dressed and dutifully got in the car. We picked up my sister, and as we pulled away, my sister asked why I didn't want to go to my baby sister's place. That's when Mom snapped. Before I could explain my medical issues, all of Mom's frustration, anger and sadness poured all over me. She then exclaimed she was dropping me off - and she did. Two blocks from home. I slogged through the unshoveled sidewalks and bitter cold and made it home. And I went to bed.

For 5 days.

From December 31 to January 4, I stayed in bed, only getting up because, due to the fact that I had a huge mouth sore under my tongue that made ingesting anything a painful chore, I had to use the restroom. And as I wasn't eating or drinking, my body was eliminating... well... me. In that 5 day span, I dropped 10 pounds. I'm at 179.5 pounds as I write this - as light as I got during my first chemo run in 2013. And, considering I started this journey in May at 222.2 pounds, it's a considerable drop. I missed the first workday of 2016 due to this. I'm pretty sure I contracted a cold - or, at the very least, a cough - during the Week from Hell from a co-worker, too, so if it could go wrong, it very much did. I returned to work on January 5 only to suddenly realize I missed day one of the critical month-end process. My co-workers - once again - picked up my slack, and I did my best to help them catch up as well.

After venting a little on Twitter, I decided a little social media silence was in order. I was angry, frustrated, and feeling unloved. And I still feel that way, to a large degree. I won't speak for others, but it seems that, because my two Cancer fights were spaced two years apart, the prevailing feeling is that 'he's been through this before, he can manage'. And, in turn, I feel like I'm bothering my friends and family with updates, feelings, frustration, and whatever else I'm feeling at the moment. And it causes me to push people away, because I don't want them to spend a part of their lives looking after the sick one. I see nothing but people saying how life is such a precious thing, and it shouldn't be wasted, so why waste some of that precious time on me, I ask you?

The loss of my Gran, coupled with the holiday season, the fact that her birthday fell on New Year's Eve, and this insidious disease I carry inside me sent everyone to their various breaking points. But I'm having a horrible time putting myself back together. I don't know what normal is anymore - or how to get there, for that matter. I am in the middle of a torrential rainstorm, and the clouds don't want to part.

Which then, reminded me of a story. Jeff Lynne was in a Swiss chalet attempting to write the follow-up to Electric Light Orchestra's A New World Record. His exact words, from Wikipedia:

"It was dark and misty for 2 weeks, and I didn't come up with a thing. Suddenly the sun shone and it was, 'Wow, look at those beautiful Alps.' I wrote 'Mr. Blue Sky' and 13 other songs in the next 2 weeks."

I'm hoping the clouds part soon. Or, maybe, as Richard Tandy says on the Vocoder at the end of "Mr. Blue Sky", someone will 'please turn me over'.

Only 361 more days of this...