Of Mice and Men

Friends and family, we are moving right along here, so just to let this accursed leukemia know that we have taken notice of its presence, we are firing a big dose of chemo right into its gut (actually my gut). On Monday, bright and early, I will check into French Hospital right here in SLO, get a PICC line inserted, and then take in a big dose of methotrexate for two days. Starting Tuesday, I will take in a dose of cytarabine for two days. I will leave the hospital on Thursday, whistling some Satchmo song and walking crookedly, F*&)&%#ing hip.

I was on methotrexate for 2 years from ’05-‘07, daily, but only 40mg/day in a pill. This will be something like 2000mg injected. They also injected methotrexate into my spine with those lumbar punctures many times. Hmmm, is that coming? I also had both methotrexate and cytarabine during the induction phase, in February ’05 and in July ’08. The big difference this time is the dosages are huge.

And who can forget the PICC (peripherally inserted cardiac catheter) line, put in there so that my veins don’t get dissolved by the chemo. Instead, the chemo blasts right into the heart and is diluted enough to not burn through my tissue. Who thinks up this stuff? There is pic of a PICC back in '05, at http://johnsleukemia.blogspot.com/2005/02/guided-imagery-i-am-board.html.

I am feeling all sorts of pains in my gut and back, and some good headaches, which makes me nervous. Leukemia likes to hide in the brain, which is why they do those lumbar punctures with methotrexate. I have been doing a bunch of PC work, so is that why I have headaches? Has psychosomosis snuck in through osmosis? Is all this pain just a function of my brain? Can I restrain from another refrain, or should I maintain with this quatrain? I sense a bad poem coming, or was that it?

So, I am very cheered by the news that we have some heavy artillery to bring to the field. Unfortunately, there are no clinical trials involving chocolate and Italian food, nor any other stuff for that matter. Since most people don’t get a third shot at ALL, after living through a bone marrow transplant, there probably isn’t much call for killing mice with new drugs.

Speaking of mice, I was having a time with the mice here, scratching around at night, adding to my sleepless moments. I thought they were trying to get in, and sealed the only point of entry I could find, and then I would find wallboard dust on the floor where the sealed hole was. They were already in, and trying to get out! I made the mistake of leaving a few Cheese Nips in a bowl on the counter, and in the morning they were gone, with some crumby evidence on the counter. I found mouse turds on the counter and the floor.

The next night I heard noises in my oven. I leapt out of bed, but couldn’t find any mice. In the morning I tipped up the stovetop, and found party central, Cheese Nip crumbs, turds, pee. Great, in the stove. I cleaned the whole mess, and disinfected everything. Later I moved the recycling bins, and found more mouse evidence. I moved the refrigerator out, and found the mouse version of Studio 54. More major cleaning, but still the question remained – how were they getting in?

I did not want to damage my karma any further, so I got a couple of live traps and baited them with peanut butter. The mice went in, ate the peanut butter, left a thank you note, and left (me wondering how they did it.) So, karma be damned, I set the snap trap and SNAP! Now there are three dead mice, my house is super-clean, and I have a hole in my karma. I felt bad, they were just being mice, and so I had to find the point of ingress.

Then I looked under the bathroom sink, and discovered the mice loved my vanity drawers. What a pain cleaning that whole mess. But this showed me their way, the tiny gap where the pipes came in under the sink. I got a can of expanding insulating foam and squirted some into the gap, and the mouse problem is solved. I tried some of that foam on the hole in karma, but no luck. I will take some down and outer out for a sandwich, maybe that will do it.

I told my landlord today that I had to leave in thirty days, and he was very understanding. I will begin the process of emptying this place today, reclaiming space in the garage at Wavertree, selling off the furniture I bought, slowly moving a carload at a time and culminating in a Uhaul and a little help from my friends.

Thank you everyone for your comments. When I started editing the blog into a book, it was over 1000 pages with pics and comments. If you ever read “Moby Dick” or “Look Homeward Angel” you can appreciate that I want to boil this down to the thick sauce. Maybe if I just drop all the vowels I cld gt t dwn t 250 pgs. Myb nt.

I love the idea of getting the Jade fountain done, it’s been in my head for years, and it might last long enough for my grandkids to break. My bucket list is a mess, because there is all this stuff I have to get done to ease the burden for those still toiling in the mortal portal, huh? Anyway, the other problem is that I am a physical mess, so I can’t get tubed, let alone go surfing, so that’s out.

I love the Writer’s Almanac, and have it delivered by email everyday. I can’t believe you did that, Pat K., but what the heck! Poor Garrison must be swarmed with poems. Janice and Craig, thanks for the offer, I may need some help in the end, not sure yet. And Cindy, I wish could come to Jamaica, but I think the travel ban is going to limit my bucket list. I have that same weird thing where I remember some plants in the latin. Insects too. And then I blurt them out like I know something, and get this look from Dana that says ‘Shhh, don’t be an ass.’ Leptinotarsa undecimpunctata, Liriodendron tulipifera, Cedrus atlantica ‘Glauca’. Shhh.

And thanks for all the positive juju flowing my way, send white blood cells too!

Today's Writer's Almanac Poem:

Vigil
by Dennis O'Driscoll

Life is too short to sleep through.
Stay up late, wait until the sea of traffic ebbs,
until noise has drained from the world
like blood from the cheeks of the full moon.
Everyone else around you has succumbed:
they lie like tranquillised pets on a vet's table;
they languish on hospital trolleys and friends' couches,
on iron beds in hostels for the homeless,
under feather duvets at tourist B&Bs.
The radio, devoid of listeners to confide in,
turns repetitious. You are your own voice-over.
You are alone in the bone-weary tower
of your bleary-eyed, blinking lighthouse,
watching the spillage of tide on the shingle inlet.
You are the single-minded one who hears
time shaking from the clock's fingertips
like drops, who watches its hands
chop years into diced seconds,
who knows that when the church bell
tolls at 2 or 3 it tolls unmistakably for you.
You are the sole hand on deck when
temperatures plummet and the hull
of an iceberg is jostling for prominence.
Your confidential number is the life-line
where the sedated long-distance voices
of despair hold out muzzily for an answer.
You are the emergency services' driver
ready to dive into action at the first
warning signs of birth or death.
You spot the crack in night's façade
even before the red-eyed businessman
on look-out from his transatlantic seat.
You are the only reliable witness to when
the light is separated from the darkness,
who has learned to see the dark in its true
colours, who has not squandered your life.