Patty Duke is gone.

I am saddened. I never thought I would lose Patty and Cathy!

I came across a tattered little book that I wrote in as a child.

I remember Mother giving it to me when we lived on River Lane Court in Brooklyn Park, MN. I probably was about 9 years old. I immediately wrote in two quotes that I liked at the time:

“A boy throws a stone at a frog in play; yet the frog dies in earnest.”

“Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.”

Pretty heady quotes for a punk kid to record. I wish I would have noted the source, but I think I got them out of Readers Digest.

Farther back in the book are a couple of quick samples of my poetry from my high school days. You will all soon understand why I am not the Poet Laureate of Oregon.

“Crayons to draw your mind.

Afraid to go out of my lines

Stay on your tower and in your lines.

I’m sorry.

I thought you understood

When you saw Paris burn.

That it is no use

My crayons melt.

When you remember me

Light a candle and cry.”

and

“When times

Come that you need

Someone to depend on

I wish you only the best of luck

My love.”

Now the book is garbage!

They say it is spring!

But, being all out of vestal virgins, I am taking it easy today.

Chemo sucks!

March Madness

South Dakota State 74, Miami of Florida 71!

Damn, where's the Jackrabbitmobile when you need it!

A day unexpected

I had chemo today. No, that was not the unexpected experience. Despite my declining memory and deteriorating mental dexterity, I did remember that I had chemo today. I even remember that I was having it in Hood River. Yeah, I’m pretty damn proud of myself!

What I wasn’t expecting was the emotional experiences of the day.

I’ve never had chemotherapy at Providence Hood River Memorial Hospital, but I have had fluid transfusions a couple of times while (or shortly after) I was doing chemo last time; times when there was no other need for me to go to Portland, so Hood River was more convenient for me.

I pretty much know the drill at PHRMH: been there done that way too much time for other purposes. I checked in at the main desk then they instructed me to toddle off to Oncology/Infusion where I pushed open to doors and stepped into a little slice of… well, we go into that later.

I was immediately greeted by Carrie, a nurse who gave me a baggy of water 18 months ago. Okay, I know they have a manifest and the can look up all the information on the patients with appointment. But that means she really did take the time to read the manifest and look up my information. And she remembered me enough to make it feel real. Do you have any idea who cool that made me feel?

I got myself seated in one of those super comfy chairs they have at PHRMH. They are way better than the inferior Brand X chairs they have in Portland. The ones in Portland you have to pull a lever to lean back and raise the foot stool, and those are the only two positions they have. Can you say “primitive”? The ones in Hood River have electronic controls that you use a remote to change it to the dozens of different possible positions. I could have played with it all day, but Carrie came over and asked me not to. It was making other patients nervous.

Surely, you know I jest.

Sort of.

Okay, I’m situated and getting cozy when Liz, who with Carrie were my co-nurses for the day came over to (and I’m going to get real technical in terms here, so those of you without the medical training I have may not understand, but) put a needle in my arm so that they could pump pounds of lethal poisons into my body. She offered me lidocaine first, something they don’t do in Portland. I accepted. It didn’t even bother me when she came in with the backhoe for explorative purposes.

So now I have a needle in my arm, and I have given blood for testing. I am ushered in to see Dr.Bernstein, the new oncology doctor at PHRMH.

(Just an author’s footnote here: I just wandered into the kitchen to… I found myself with the freezer door open. I was stunned to realize I had no clue why I was there. I came back and sat in front of the computer again. Now I need to get back into the story telling mode.)

Okay, back to meeting Dr. Bernstein, after a moderately short wait in his office, immediately adjacent to the infusion room, he walked in and said, “Hi Mac, I’m Eric Bernstein”.

Okay, Dr. Bernstein came highly recommended. He used to work at Providence Oncology in Portland with my oncologist, Dr. Sanborn. Patty, the woman who works the front desk (and I could go on for ages in praise of Patty) told me he was great and to give him a great big hug from her.

It should be noted at this point that Dr. Bernstein and I decided, with this being our first encounter maybe a big hug was over the top, but it immediately broke the ice.

I was comfortable with him quickly. We talked about my medical past, but he knew all the general details. I think he was trying to get into my mind and see if I was doing okay. We ran the gambit of conversation, from Richard’s diagnosis to his death to my diagnosis to my lobectomy to my adrenalectomy to my reactions from my last two sessions of chemo. Dr. Bernstein was as compassionate as my general practitioner, Dr. Foster. And everyone knows I shout her praises to the moon. He has the technical knowledge of my oncologist, Dr. Sandborn, and everyone know I adore her, and he has the down to earth advice of Michael Dupré, Nurse Practitioner who has guided me through with such amazing counsel.

I know, I’ve written damn near a novella and you’re all thinking, “Hell, good experience with nurses, comfy chairs, toys to play with, good food” (remind me to tell you about the amazing lentil soup and sandwich they gave me for lunch) “incredible doctor; where the hell is he leading with this piece?”.

As my visit with the doctor was winding down, we were talking about future appointments and that kind of crap when an obvious question came to my mind, “Are you my new oncologist?”

“I would like to be. I know you have a long past with Dr. Sanborn, and I respect that and understand if you would like be her patient, but you are welcome to call me you oncologist.”

And I paraphrase freely, despite the quotation marks. I got the drift. He was cool with talking with Dr. Sanborn, or me getting a second opinion from her. His ego seemed in check.  I’ll see him in three weeks at my next infustion.

Maybe the thud didn’t hit you like it hit me. Dr. Sanborn has been my oncologist for almost three years. Okay, for the first year she was technically Richard’s, been same damn difference. This would be a life changing change; convenient, comfortable, caring, but different. Okay, on Dr. Sanborn downside, there is that unfortunate fact that Richard did die. That is something that is a trifle difficult for me to overlook.

But still, THUD. Do I make the change?

Woo-Hoo

Ducks go dancing!!!

The battle begins. Again!

Yesterday, I began the arduous and seemingly impossible task of collecting benefits from my cancer insurance. Less the 24 hours into the war and I am already contemplating admitting defeat and slipping away into the void.

I thought, innocently enough, that I would try the online process. I even watched the tutorials they posted on their website. My god, it looked easy as pie. And they say they will pay within one business day and deposit directly to my bank account. I was heady with confidence and excitement. I plunged into the course with glee and self-assurance. I knew this time was going to be different, I wasn’t going to deal with the frustrations and disappointments that I encountered last time around.

The claim started with some simple questions: a true/false portion and a multiple guess portion. The true/false part was fairly straight forward, and I’m pretty sure I aced it! Lordy, was I feeling buoyed. I was damn near cocky. The multiple choice portion was a little more daunting. For a number of the questions, there was no answer that fit my circumstances. I began to lose my poise, but I pressed forward. I answered as close to the facts as I could. But I knew this wasn’t going well.

I then began to scan the 22 pages of documentation to attach to the online submission. At page 12 my scanner died. This is the same printer/copier/scanner/fax machine that had already decided not to print or copy. This is the machine that is now in the back of my car awaiting a trip to the recycling station.

As much as I try, as many facts and realities as I distort, the demise of my scanner is not the insurance company’s fault. It is just a tragic coincidence.

I have two critical messages from the insurance company in my in-box this morning. They are so critical and vital that I don’t know how to open them. I remember this from last time: there is some trick you need to know, but I don’t remember what it is. It may include sacrificial goats. I do recall that last time, after repeated efforts to get it right, I finally gave up before it was accurate.

Supreme Being, give me strength and courage to navigate the seeming impossible web of an insurance claim. I need divine intervention.

It is official: I am retired.

The fête is done. It was a great party. It is well documented on Facebook.

To all who attended, thank you. For those who couldn’t, you were missed.

I feel honored.