Little Pete.

I was thinking about Little Pete this week; I don't know why. 

He was a nice guy. Older, in his retirement. Little, as the nickname would indicate, maybe five five. Big glasses and slightly wild white hair. Loved his motorcycle. I used to see him occasionally down at the church group I sometimes attended, when my schedule permitted and he wasn't off somewhere exploring the roads of America. I didn't and don't even know his last name. Just one of those guys who was glad to see ya, and was glad to be seen. 

He got very involved in that group, as I recall, going from an occasional newbie to one of the leaders. He even chaired it at some point. I can say that I had been working in Manhattan when he was new, only seeing him on days off; when I was no longer in that job and was able to go more often, he was suddenly an important figure. It was like seeing a kid you hadn't seen in a while -- one day a toddler, next day doing long division. We seem to expect people to stay exactly as they are until we see them again, like toys we put away and then take out of the box years later. "My, how you've changed!" Well, of course, they did. So did we. 

Once again my work situation altered, and I didn't get down there much for a couple of years. The next time I saw him, he too had altered, unfortunately.

Little Pete didn't mind talking about the big black binder he was carrying. It was everything he needed to have with him for his cancer treatment. Test results, medications, appointments, insurance forms, Medicare forms, charts of diet and exercise. He was organized and determined. I don't know what he did before he retired, but if he brought that kind of organization and drive to his job, he must have been successful. He still had a smile, but it was a little more guarded, a little less likely to be seen through the glass of his spectacles. We all prayed for him, of course. 

Some months went by before I saw him again -- same place, same group, same black looseleaf binder. But I noticed, coming in late, that there was a pained look on his face, that there seemed to be a distance between himself and everyone else. They didn't want to cross to him, or know how to, and he seemed unable to connect to them, either. It was like he knew he was being ripped away from everyone, and no one knew what to do except to pretend it was not happening. He just clutched his now-thicker book tighter, like a totem that could make all this go away somehow -- a totem that he didn't believe in anymore, but one he grabbed because he had nothing left to grab. That was the last time I saw him.

Honestly, I don't know for sure what happened. I didn't know whom to ask -- so many members of that group moved away or otherwise left. I don't see any of the regulars anymore. I guess it's been ten years or so now. Maybe he had a miraculous bounce back with one of those new biologics, then moved to Florida to ride his bike all day, every day, summer to winter and back again. I hope so. 

Little Pete -- thanks for being a decent guy. I'm sorry I didn't get to become your friend. I'm sorry we're all so weird about sickness and death, like if we shy away from it, it will look us over. God bless you, wherever you are.   

Hailstones the size of kumquats.

Monday turned into a dark and stormy afternoon. 

Suddenly, a shot rang out! 

No, that's not right. What happened was, we were warned that there might be strong winds, and hailstones up to 1" in diameter. Which is great if you own a Safelite franchise, but not too good for the rest of us. Later the hail forecast was revised down to maybe hail the size of peas, but as it turned out we just got wind and heavy rain. All gone in three hours. 

But I have to say: What is wrong with these people? Don't they know that meteorological phenomena are supposed to be compared to sporting equipment? It's tumors that get compared to fruits and vegetables. 

I've seen that remark elsewhere, but I am dead certain I first heard the observation out of George Carlin, then America's foremost observer of cultural language oddities, speaking with Don Imus on the latter's radio show. Carlin also noted how bizarre it would be if things got mixed up, like if the forecast called for hailstones the size of testicles. I think we can agree that would get our attention, though.

I have found that this observation holds true almost 100% of the time. People mentioning their operations say that the tumor or cyst of whatever that was removed was the size of a grape, an orange, a grapefruit, etc. But hailstones, which really are the only meteorological items that fit, come in sizes such as golf ball, baseball, and so on. 

This does put our local forecaster in a spot, though, because what sporting good is the size of a pea? What could he have told us Monday? Hailstones the size of the top of a golf tee? That doesn't do it. Sadly, small hailstones defy the common naming conventions. 

If you have any ideas for other small sizes in which hailstones may occur, please note them in comments. As for me, the day it's raining watermelons is the day I hide in church and wait for Jesus to come back.  

Cruel to be kind.

I poisoned one dog on Saturday, and I'm turning the other over to strangers to be cut up on Friday.

I'm feeling kind of guilty over it. You can't explain it to them. But it's for their own good. 

Big dog Tralfaz, who just turned eight, got these giant lumps on him last summer. Once some initial tests and a lumpectomy confirmed that it was cancer, we started him on radioactive chemotherapy. Just two pills, once a month, for six months. The first two doses worked splendidly, and the remaining lumps receded. His liver enzymes shot up too, so the vet said give it a month off and then start it again. So, I just did.

These chemo pills cannot be chewed, of course, and getting capsules into this hairy beast is a challenge. Ultimately I have settled on tricking him with the offer of a treat and then shoving them into his throat far enough so he has to swallow them. He coughed one up anyway, so I had to repeat it--and I have to move fast because those gel caps dissolve quickly. I only have the two, specially ordered from a compounding pharmacy; I don't have a whole bottle of chemo pills like aspirin. 

Dogs will never understand that the faster you swallow something, the less you have to taste it. It's the only way anyone eats kale, or so I'm convinced. 

The pills kill his appetite for a day or two, but he's otherwise doing marvelously well on them. I am in fact poisoning him; that's how chemotherapy works. Paracelsus stated a long time ago that the dose makes the poison, thus chemotherapy's mission is to kill you just enough to wipe out the cancer without actually going all the way. Some people on it react so poorly that they prefer to just let the cancer take its course. I'm grateful that Tralfaz is not suffering this much. We had decided out the outset of treatment that if this was very hard on him, we would stop the chemo, but so far so good. 

He's an older guy, and while we can't explain it to him, presumably has that philosophical nature that older dogs get about the misfortunes and vicissitudes of life. Baby Izzy, almost but not quite nine months old, does not have this attitude. But what he does have is loose cartilage in his elbows, and hip bones that aren't quite large enough to keep the leg bones from popping out from time to time. The latter doesn't seem to bother him as much as the sound of it bothers us, but the vet assures us that his hips will be arthritic and painful when he is older unless we get him a hip replacement. He's too young for that now, but they can do arthroscopic surgery on his elbows. 

They'll probably have to keep him at least one night, and there's the rub--this is the dog who can't stand it if I go upstairs for a shower while my wife's working. He hates to be alone and isn't shy about telling us. It's made for all sorts of problems at bedtime. How's he going to take it when we have to leave him at the animal hospital overnight?

Luckily the hospital is a 24-hour facility, so there will be staff around; also, they will probably keep him doped up pretty solid from the time we drop him off Friday. But I'll worry about the little dude the whole time he's gone.

On a less sentimental note, this is costing a fortune. Tralfaz has pet insurance, which helps, but Izzy started to limp at a very young age, before he was insured; we thought he'd just twisted something, so we took him to the vet. Bam, preexisting condition, no expenses at all can be charged to his health policy. Bleah.

All this comes on the heels of losing Nipper last February. He also had cancer, but it was so incredibly aggressive that there was no treatment that could help. Poor little chap. 

I wish I could explain everything to them in a way they would understand, but of course you can't. It makes me wonder how parents with babies who need serious medical care keep from losing their minds. God bless them all. 

I heard that!

So, if you were here yesterday, and thanks for stopping by, you know that I have suffered from mild hearing loss that I have been trying to address. It's not caused by obstruction, so what could it be? Infection, like Lyme? Autoimmune disease? Benign growth? CANCER? 😲💀

Of course, you all want to know how Batman got out of being buried alive in that 1981 comic book I mentioned on Friday, contrasting such a fate with the MRI. It's amazing that I remembered this many years later, and think of it whenever the topic of being buried alive comes up, as it does when getting an MRI. I credit Gerry Conway, who wrote it, and went on to write and produce for TV.

Meanwhile, back at the doctor's office:

It was more than two weeks since the previous appointment and I had been through all the tests and taken all the prednisone. The lab was supposed to send the bloodwork results to the doctor, and the radiology clinic the MRI results. All the same I had a CD with me that contained the MRI scans. Naturally I looked at them on my laptop at home, but of course it was just scannery Greek to me. All I can say is what Dizzy Dean told reporters after he got hit in the head in the 1934 World Series: "They X-rayed my head and found nothing." And that's among everyone's favorite baseball quotes in the non-Yogi division.

But seriously, there's stuff up in my head, but I had no idea what it was. Stuff. So, leave it to the doctor.

First, I had another hearing test, which showed some improvement over the previous one. Yay me! But not much. Boo me! Then it was time to wait and wait and wait for the doctor. And then wait some more. Now, at this point I still didn't know what the results of my tests were and, being of a pessimistic bent, was inclined to assume the worst. So while looking at the above illustration, I was planning how to get rid of my books and clothes and other things that are of no use to my wife so she wouldn't have to get rid of them at the funeral.

Then the doctor joined me. I might have thought that the doctor would have done doctor homework, my test results having arrived at some point in the previous two weeks. Or perhaps he'd kept me waiting now because he was examining them and wanted to break it to me gently. But no, not only hadn't he looked at anything ahead of time, it turned out that the clinic hadn't even gotten the MRI results. Oh, sure, I had a disc, but what good is that? What am I, a crazy person to think that would help? No, they wanted to have the scans e-mailed from the radiologist. Exact same scans, mind you, that I held in my hand. So that kept us waiting. And it proved to be the case that, as far as the doctor was concerned, I had not existed between the time I'd last left his office weeks earlier and the time he finally got to me that day. He looked at the test results as I sat there. I'm sure he was able to read the results accurately in little time -- but hell, if I were him I would have wanted to see what they were before seeing the patient. What if the patient had a giant tumor? I wouldn't want to see that for the first time while the patient was sitting right in front of me. ("Well, Mr. Key, let's just look at this HOLY CRAP THAT THING IS HUGE!")

Okay, enough with the krexing. Was it a tumor?

Sorry, what'd you say? "Was it a tuba?"

No, it was not a tuba. Or a tumor. The fact is, they still couldn't figure out what was causing my hearing problem.

Oh, and he did not want to try to give me another round of prednisone pills. Why do that, when you can inject it right into the eardrum?

Yup.

Okay, so, I know peer pressure can be tough, but if your cool friends ever say one night, "Hey, let's all go downtown have someone stick a needle in our eardrums!" please take it from your old Uncle Fred and just say no. This is one of those things that can happen to your ear that you would not wish to have happen to it. The very act of putting a so-called topical anesthetic on the eardrum was more painful than anything the dentist has ever done to me. It did help keep the needle from being as horrible as it would have been, I suppose, but that was a fully bizarre feeling, of fluid being injected into the ear and seemingly along the inside of the jaw. Then I had to sit back with the head tilted just so for fifteen minutes and reflect on the many sins that had led me to this place and time.

The well-known God-hating novelist Kingsley Amis was a big fan of James Bond; it is not generally known that he was the first writer commissioned to write a Bond novel after the death of Ian Fleming. Colonel Sun was published in 1968, and I read it decades ago. In the book Bond is captured by the titular villain, and apparently Colonel Sun's theory on the importance of torturing through the human head was good enough to be used in the film Spectre (which I haven't seen). It made quite an impression on me.

I wish I could find my copy of Colonel Sun to quote it, but I think it was stored someplace for safekeeping and vanished in the wind. The scene came to mind during this doctor's visit.

Anyway: It was not a lot of fun. Afterward, my ear was so clogged, it felt like I had a Thanksgiving turkey stuffed in it. I was allowed to drive home on the highway under the influence of this stuff. My ear hurt for a few days and didn't stop feeling clogged for almost a week.

Did it help? Oh, I don't know or even care now. I have to go back again in a little over a week and find out. I think it did, a little. But I've dropped over a grand out of my own pocket on all this so far for something that wasn't that bad before and isn't much better now. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Frankly, if the doctor says the hearing won't get worse but might get better with another shot, I'm going to say, No thanks, Doc! I think I'll just keep it as it is. I don't have a big ol' tumor and I don't need hearing aids. I can still listen to music and my wife doesn't think I have selective anti-wife hearing problems. So I'm counting it as a win and getting the heck out.

I'll let you know if there are any further complications. And remember: No tattooing of the eardrums. It's not cool.

You don't want to see the wart.

Just a friendly reminder that May is National Skin Cancer Detection and Prevention Month (also known as Skin Cancer Awareness Month). Know your alphabet!