And suddenly 50 is the new 18!

On Wednesday, the day after my lymphoma diagnosis, I started to feel that communication between me and the painter (he is back at his house in Baton Rouge now, two hours away) was becoming strange, confusing, and somehow very stilted. I asked him what was going on, and after some back and forth, he finally sent me a long angry email in which he unleashed many complaints about me, a lot of them things he’d never before told me. He closed by saying, “But admit it, you have been trying to mold me into something I’m just not.”

Below is the exchange between us that followed. My letters have the >> in front of them.

* * * * *

Me:

>I tried to listen to you, I really did. I read and
> reread this long rambling confusing letter many times
> over, trying to hear and understand what you were
> saying. I’m trying my best to understand what happened
> to the love between us. If I misunderstood, if this
> wasn’t about dumping anger and hostility and
> resentment on me, then please explain so I can
> understand. Every time I read it, I see a long litany
> of resentments and accusations, going back to the very
> beginning. It sounds very angry to me. Telling me to
> “lighten up” the day after I got a grim cancer
> diagnosis seems more like anger and hostility than
> love or understanding. (And saying “I’m tempted to
> tell you but I won’t because I respect you” is the
> same as telling me.)

> If I’m mistaken, and you’re not angry and
> resentful, then please help me understand what you ARE
> saying. Break it down for me. I AM listening. How have
> I tried to mold you? Spell it out for for me, please
> make a list. I’m not asking so I can defend myself
> or attack you, I honestly want to understand what I
> have done to make you feel that way.
>
> How exactly have I not allowed you to be yourself? All
> I can figure out from this email is that somehow
> because I didn’t love your white loafers, you believe
> I was trying to change you, refusing to accept you,
> “piling ridicule” on you. [Painter], that’s just about a
> pair of shoes, not about you. And I never told you not
> to wear them. I kidded you gently about them once. I’m
> sorry, I didn’t realize that would hurt you so much.
> But besides the shoes, what else? Please tell me
> exactly how I’ve tried to mold you into something you
> aren’t, how I’ve tried to make you change. When did I
> dismiss you as feeble? I can’t read your mind. I don’t
> understand and I want to.
>
> I’m genuinely trying to listen, and honestly willing
> to hear your feedback, and I want figure out what I
> need to do to stop making you feel like I’m not
> accepting you, because I always have accepted you.
> More than just accepted you, I’ve celebrated you,
> loved you, told the whole world how great you are. I
> don’t know what more I can do, so I’m open to
> suggestions.
>
> Tell me, how can I ask for what I need, things like
> kindness, emotional support, less yelling, etc.,
> without it seeming like I’m trying to mold you into
> what you’re not? Is it possible?

The painter:

I can’t make a list of 10 things you want to change about me. It’s one big thing. I feel what you want me to be is some whimpering little weasel who bows down to every complaint you make about me or my behavior. It appears that you want a spineless wimp. Your method is “you’re not hearing me”. That is a predetermined discussion terminator and a hands-down argument winner every time. I don’t like to argue any more than most people, but a defense doesn’t mean I don’t listen to you. It means I act in certain ways naturally and, though I’m often willing to change some of that, I’m not going to stop being me and become a drooling wimp. I’m not one. I don’t know if those sort of men choose to be that way or if it comes naturally. But I’m not going to choose to become one, and I sure wasn’t born to be one either. If you don’t like the vocal, forceful man I am, you should look for a different sort of man.

(Another list of complaints about me followed. From here on, this isn’t a back and forth exchange, it’s the painter replying to my letter, with his replies interspersed between what I said.)

Me:

> Hi, thank you for taking the time to put this together
> and express these things. I know it isn’t easy, but
> this letter is very helpful for me. I never realized
> how you felt about some of these things, and now that
> I do, we can maybe work towards a solution that will
> make us both happier.
>
> We do have a big problem. It seems that maybe when I
> have tried to express my needs, when I’ve asked you
> for empathy and kindness, to care about my emotions,
> to rein in the anger and yelling when you’re around
> me,  somehow you heard me demanding that you be “some
> whimpering little weasel who bows down to every
> complaint” and “a spineless drooling wimp.”

The painter:

Yes, that is correct.  That’s it pretty much in a nut shell.

Me:

> I’m not sure if this is a misunderstanding, a
> miscommunication, a projection, or just a basic
> disagreement about the definition of wimp.
>
> Just out curiosity and maybe clarification, tell me
> something. You may have observed a little bit of the
> way Finnie, for example, is able to tune in to
> emotional needs, to express his own emotions and
> listen with kindness and understanding to others. He’s
> extremely gentle with animals and small children, he
> doesn’t raise his voice in conversations, and he
> listens very carefully to Lia (and to me) when she has
> a complaint or request. He cares about how the people
> around him feel, and about how his words and actions
> affect them.
>
> Do you think of Finnie as a “spineless whimpering
> drooling little weasel”? Is he incapable of also being
> vocal and forceful, is he a failure at accomplishing
> what he sets out to do, is he a “compliant little
> weakling” because he is gentle and and kind and
> sensitive to the emotional needs of the women around
> him: his wife, his mother, his friends, his
> self-defense students, and rape victims everywhere?
‘
The painter:

I am not saying that everyone who behaves in ways that I don’t is a wimp. But make no mistake about it, for me to behave in the way you suggest, a behavior which is the only way I can show empathy and kindness, and to help you, I would have to become a wimp. Worse, if I were to try to keep up this charade, I would eventually come unglued. I can not be something I’m not.

Some people handle things differently than others. Who is to say one is better than the other. Your comments suggest that one is, at least when you are involved. I don’t have any problem with that. If that is the only way you can be helped, if any other way is unacceptable, then you should know that I am not the guy for the job. I’m not, never have been, nor ever will be passive about such things. I take charge. I’m very good at it, and it has never failed me. Not one time. If a member of my family (that would be you) needs help and isn’t getting it, tell the persons who should be responsible to look out. If they don’t shape up, I’ll not only be on the warpath, I’ll do everything in my power to get them fired. I’m not joking. I’ve done it before, and doubt that could be stopped if I decide such action needs to be taken again. I just may prevent someone else from suffering in the future. I get things done.

I have no doubt that Finnie is a wonder, caring, loving, helpful young man. He may be wiser than I could ever be. He owes that to you, I suppose. Obviously, he and I have very different styles. If you can only accept a man who is similar to Finnie, again, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I’m 59 years old, I have had my successes, and I’m not interested in changing my ways one iota, not now. It’s worked very well for me up to now. I’m certain it will continue to work for me in the future.

Me:

> Do you think that I am a spineless wimp because my body
> doesn’t make testosterone?

The painter:

I use that term because it had started to feel like you expect me to check my balls at your door before I come into your house and your life. It’s really starting to drive me away. I tried to comply, but it just felt so wrong, and it got worse every time I came over. But I tried to be delicate, knowing how much you meant to me and of course in light of your condition.

Me:

> It may be that we’re not in total disagreement, just
> misunderstanding each other. In that case, we can work
> constructively to clear it up and set things straight.

The painter:

I’m not unwilling to work on a solution as long as the solution isn’t an attempt to change who I am. I’m not sure what will work. I figure that is the point of going to a professional. I’m not even sure anything will work. I know I’m terribly uncomfortable with the current direction I feel I’m being pushed.

Me:

> So let me see if I understood your other points.
>
> I hear you say you wish I would participate more often
> in political discussions about the topics that
> interest you. I see no problem there, all you had to
> do was ask. I already read the news without prompting,
> and will be happy to work on fixing that problem.
> Thanks for letting me know how you feel, and please
> keep offering feedback when you feel it’s needed. I’m
> sorry I never understood that this was something you
> felt was missing.

The painter:

That’s just one small example. You dismiss me almost constantly, time after time. I’ll give you a much better example. I pointed out my objection to you working sudoku puzzles when we are eating together. You never missed a lick. I’ve sat and watched you work those puzzles while I did nothing for I figure several hours now. I wish the fucking things had never been invented. But if it weren’t them, it’d be word scrambles or crossword puzzles.

Then the other day, after playing with one of the puzzles while you were in the shower, I came up with an idea that some people (I realize purists wouldn’t want to do it this way) might find helpful, a way to work the puzzles without having to make erasures, or fear of making them. I turned to a puzzle in the area of the book you had been working on and duplicated it on the mock-up I’d made. I showed it to you. We ate our meals and then you pushed it to the side, turned the page in your book and worked another puzzle. It was unquestionably the second most offensive thing anyone has ever done to me. The only way it could have been even more offensive is if you’d pushed it off on to the floor. I casually picked up my puzzle and went to the bedroom to read. Later, I took my puzzle to the car and left it there. I’d spent a little over a hour making the thing, but first chance I got I threw it away. I was trembling I was so offended. Only Louie Finklestein has ever offended me worse. I can not over emphasize how incredibly rude this act was. On a scale of 1 to 10, it was easily an 11! There have been others, plenty of them. But that was by far the worst.

It proved beyond a doubt that you think my intelligence is inferior to yours. You go girl. Have I made that clear? I’m trying to not overstate this point. You could not have found anything more offensive to do. Nothing would have served that end better. I was appalled. Unbelievable.

Me:

> And I hear you saying you are very angry at me for not
> going to the doctor sooner. Is that correct?
>
> And I hear you saying you are afraid that I won’t let
> you help me if a time comes when the medical system is
> failing me. The truth is, I do want and need your
> help, not just the standing by being quietly
> supportive kind, but the loud vocal fighting kind. But
> I need it when the time is right: if I’m not getting
> the pain meds I need, for instance, I would love to
> think that you would be exactly like the wife in that
> story by the English Patient in Philadelphia, that
> your head would explode and wipe out half of
> Lafayette. I’m not asking that you refrain from going
> into battle mode, only that you choose your battles
> wisely. And that you not totally forget about ME when
> you’re off in the glory of battle.
>
> Did I miss anything?

The painter:

Yes, something huge. You and I spent the entire night from 10 PM until 5 AM in the emergency room [at the charity hospital, several weeks ago] and then they gave you a prescription that couldn’t even be filled. On the way down to Lafayette, I told you that if it were up to me, we’d go to [a private hospital in town]. We had already determined that you were going to have to pay for the treatment either way. Then after you missed yet another entire night of very much needed sleep, you attacked me for pointing that out. If we had used my judgment, we would both have gotten a good nights sleep, you’d have gotten your shot and a prescription you could have filled. Just another failure on the part of the charity hospital system that we should have bypassed.

Me:

> What I would suggest is, rather than haggling over
> this point by point, we print out this email and take
> it to the couples therapist, if you are still
> interested in trying that. This seems like a good
> place to start learning how to communicate with each
> other better.

The painter:

I’m more than willing to do that. What that will have to entail for me to participate is this though. We must bear witness to the facts. That the failures of the system, the bureaucrats and incompetent doctors, could have been eliminated.

Me:

> I have an individual therapy appointment next Wednesday
> with a therapist who has an
> office on South Main Street. Wanda knows a lot of
> people who go to her. So slowly, I’m trying to make
> progress through this mess.
>
> Thank you again for taking the time and trouble and
> risk of being honest. I appreciate it.
>
> I want you to know that I love you very much, even
> when we’re not getting along, and I’m willing to do
> whatever I can to make things better. I am not The
> Enemy. I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me,
> with all my heart. Right now I miss my friend, and my
> lover. I want him back. I sincerely hope we can make
> that happen soon, in spite of this horrendous
> stressful nightmare we’ve been plunged into.

The painter:

I expect that you are reeling about now. As you must be able to see, I’m not too sure that you aren’t the enemy, and I almost positive your are your worst enemy. And I’m thinking what you are really missing is someone you can push around at will. I could not feel any worse about what has happened to you health-wise. Or us, for that matter. I’d give anything if I could change this nightmare. I’ve tried to be delicate because of it. But I feel you’ve bulldozed over me time and time again. I could try to let it pass again, but eventually, I have to be me and standup for myself. There is no way that I could keep on like this. It just wouldn’t work endlessly.

Me (in a later email, but before I had received his above reply):

> It seems to me that like many people (especially many
> men), when you’re confronted with a situation that’s
> scary, sad, painful, frustrating, one where you feel
> helpless to fix the big picture (i.e., cure cancer),
> it makes you feel better if you can at least get mad
> and put up a good fight against something. And the
> nightmare of the public health system is a very good
> target, as would be the health insurance situation in
> the US.
>
> Whereas I feel more empowered by striving for
> serenity, a quiet inner strength, and a positive
> rather than negative attitude, for you, the anger and
> fighting are more likely to help calm your anxiety,
> and help make you feel less helpless, more powerful
> and effective and in control, closer to being able to
> offer a solution. Does this sound right so far?
>
> Ok. But then a problem arises if sometimes you get so
> caught up in the blame & fight mode that your anger
> spills over onto innocent bystanders. Once you turn it
> on, it sometimes doesn’t want to be turned off, and
> suddenly everything in sight can become a target if it
> doesn’t move out of your way fast enough. This may
> result in you lashing out at people who are genuinely
> trying to help, blaming the cleaning lady for being
> complicit in maintaining The System, etc.
>
> And unfortunately it also sometimes results in you
> directing your anger full force on me. So instead of
> focusing on helping me like you originally intended,
> you end up blaming me, yelling at me, saying things
> that hurt me as you lash out against your own pain but
> end up attacking me instead.
>
> Anyway, this is what it often feels like to me. So
> when I ask you to rein in your anger and yelling, I’m
> not asking you to roll over and become a passive wimp.
> I’m just asking you to please not make ME the target.
> I know it’s often hard to carry two mindsets at once,
> so it may be challenging to direct your fury at the
> system while simultaneously being kind and gentle
> towards me when I need it. Challenging, but I hope not
> impossible.
>
> Does this make sense, does it help you understand any
> better where I’m coming from? If not, tell me and I
> will listen.
>
> I’m trying.
>
> Love,
>-L.

The painter:

I think this is the kind of thing that therapists are for. But I will say again what I said in the first message. If I’m to help, my suggestions have to be considered equally. I’m still positive (that’s with a capital P) that we should have gone to one of the closer hospitals instead of [the charity hospital]. You will undoubtedly point out that they did have your charts. That’s what took 7 hours to find. Ludicrous. I’d have gladly paid to have another x-ray to have avoided you missing another full night of sleep. And add the fight to that. Man, did that ever suck. The whole affair is so fresh in my memory. Can I make it clearer that I think it was totally uncalled for and unnecessary? And that there was an easy solution–and I had it right from the start. It’s been two weeks tonight and I’m still sure we missed a great opportunity to get you some real professional help that night.

* * * * *

My heart is breaking, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t figure out how to get through to him, how reach across this huge divide between us and bring back the love and friendship. I can’t understand why he has suddenly turned on me like this, or where all this cold anger and fury is coming from. Was it always there, and I just didn’t see it? No doubt we have both made mistakes, but I am trying so hard now to understand and find a way to work through the mess. It may be several weeks before we can arrange to see a couples therapist, and by then I fear it will be too late. He is moving away from me faster than I can try to reach out and fix things.

In many ways, this loss of my love is harder on me than the cancer diagnosis, and that they both happened at the same time is overwhelming me. I can fight against cancer, but there’s nothing I can do if the painter’s love has irrevocably turned to hostility and blame.

I have been trying so hard to stay positive and make the best of things, to still find some joy in life. But now I don’t know what to do. I feel so hurt and discouraged and defeated, the will to keep up my strong positive attitude is slowly draining out of me. I honestly don’t know where to turn.

Ok, I swear I have never ever done anything like this before in my life. It never even occurred to me to act this way before, and frankly I’m kind of appalled at myself. What I did was, I googled Peruvian Paso horses yesterday and found the nearest place around here that breeds, trains , and sells these glorious creatures. Then totally out of the blue I called these total strangers on the telephone.

“Hello,” I said. “I just found out ten minutes ago that I have a very aggressive form of cancer, and my last dying wish is to come hang out with your horses. What’s a good time for you?”

Or something to that effect.

One of the questions Bernie Siegel asks his cancer patients is, “What does your cancer mean to you, what does it give you permission to do?” And mostly people end up tentatively suggesting daring things like, Well, maybe I could quit this job I hate now, or not have to go to my mother-in-law’s house next Christmas. But if he ever asked me that question, what does your cancer give you permission to do? Well, I have discovered in the past two days that the correct answer might damn well be: “Absolutely anything.”

“Oh, good gracious, cancer?” exclaimed the extremely nice horse people when I called out of the blue yesterday. “Maybe you’d better come soon, how about tomorrow? Stay all day! Stay overnight! Stay all weekend! Take all our million dollar championship horses home with you if you want to! Cancer? Yes, anything, anything at all! Um, and who did you say you are again?”

So. I guess this is what’s called “playing the cancer card.” And exactly how wrong was it for me to do this and enjoy every minute of it? Should I maybe feel a little bit guilty? Ok, fine, I’ll feel guilty later. Right now I want to tell you how I spent my incredibly fabulous day today.

I got up at 4 a.m. this morning and drove three hours, way up into the scenic green hilly farm country north of Hammond, not far from the Mississippi border. When I arrived at the astonishingly beautiful horse and pecan farm, I was welcomed like visiting royalty.

My horse for the day was a magnificent 13 year old Peruvian Paso gelding named Valiente, which of course means Courage in Spanish (significant much?). Valiente has the great honor of having won the 1998 AAOBPPH Champion of Champions Amateur Performance Gelding title. He is a world famous horse.

Valiente: A horse named Courage.

The Peruvian Paso is famous for having the smoothest ride of any gaited horse. At the horse shows there’s a traditional competition called the Champagne Ride: “Riders complete several laps and maneuvers with a full glass of Champagne in one hand. The competitor completing the class with the fullest glass is the winner. As the horses are so smooth, even the rider placed last has enough Champagne left to toast his competitors.”

Me riding Valiente, sans Champagne.

I hadn’t been on a horse in over 30 years, but it all came rushing back to like it was yesterday. My entire body knew exactly what to do. I’d ridden mostly English in my youth, plus a little bit of western, but the Peruvian tackle is different from either. You sit like western but rein more like English. And to spur the horse into a gait, you make little kissy sounds with your mouth. But my inexperience didn’t really matter much, Valiente was a perfect gentleman and wise enough to read my mind. He also managed to channel enough of his courage back up into me that I instantly got over my paralyzing fear of heights.

That strap that goes behind his legs was originally designed to train the horses to be accustomed to something slapping against their legs, so when the Peruvian plantation owners rode through their sugar cane fields, the horses would stay calm and not startle when the canes switched against their flanks. Now it’s just become a traditional part of the dressage.

Dagoberto training Valiente’s young nephew, Neptune

This is Dagoberto, the horse trainer who moved here from Peru to work with these horses. He speaks the language of horses, so they all understand him intuitively which makes for remarkably efficient training. Dagoberto’s beloved wife died of breast cancer a few months ago, and he’s raising their two daughters. He drove her down to the charity hospital in New Orleans for all her treatments, which often took 8 to 10 hours to complete, and never ever left her side. He has bought some land near the farm where he sometimes takes the horses that need extra work on their training, to get them ready for a big show.

Dagoberto on Lafayette

Marty, the exceedingly kind and generous woman who owns the farm, took a video of me riding Valiente, both at a regular walk and the famous gaited Paso pace. She narrated it by reciting Valiente’s noble genealogy as I rode round and round the corral beaming like an ecstatic little kid who just inherited the deed to Disneyland. She’s going to send me a DVD.

Marty with red boots and a video camera

So, yeah, ok, I’m definitely guilty as hell of playing the cancer card. But you know, so what, if it means my second day of officially having cancer has been one of the very happiest days of my entire life? I say cut the damn deck and deal again, I’m ready to play few more hands. My faith in humanity is running at an all time high.

Next on the agenda: Manic Panic Purple Haze, courtesy of my friend Joanne. Stay tuned!

A female Golden Orb spider hangs out at the horse farm.

Dagoberto on Lafayette

This is what a person with Lymphoma looks like:

• CT SCAN of thorax with contrast: There is a bulky soft tissue mass (”Brenda”) present in the anterior mediastinum in the prevascular space. Appearance is that of multiple matted lymph nodes, some with central necrosis.
• CT SCAN of abdomen and pelvis with contrast:
  1. Enlargement of the uterine cervix; correlation with pelvic exam suggested as cervical cancer not excluded.
  2. Multiple right ovarian cysts (”Curly,” “Larry,” “Moe,” et al.)
  3. Enlarged iliac and retroperitoneal lymph nodes.
  4. Liver appears mildly enlarged. No focal abnormalities are seen within the spleen. Pancreas, kidneys, and adrenal glands are normal.
• FINAL DIAGNOSIS Right supraclavicular mass (”Gladys”) biopsy:
  Diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, most likely of mediastinal origin.

This is what a cancer survivor looks like:

Miss Wanda came by yesterday, and we were sitting in the kitchen having milk and cookies. I had my feet propped up on the table to drain the edema and was cutting out some paper dolls that I’d colored earlier with my brand new Waldorf crayons. Miss Wanda was talking on the phone to her ex-sister-in-law Carmen, who had a stage 3 lung cancer three years ago and is in full remission now. Miss Wanda is telling Carmen about my medical situation.

Miss Wanda: Uh-uh. No, she never smoked. Hmmm? She’s only fifty-six.

Me: Fuck you, bitch. I’m fifty-TWO.

Miss W: Excuse me. She’s just a spring chicken, still wet behind the ears, not a day over 52. I don’t know why I thought she was much older.

Me: (wiping milk mustache and cookie crumbs off my face with the back of my hand) It’s probably because I’m so mature.

Carmen: Wanda? Wanda? Hello? What’s that noise? Wanda, you’re not spitting Co-Cola out your nose again, are you?

* * * * *This isn’t the kind of music I usually listen to, but lately my favorite song is a lively little a cappella calypso ditty calledOh My Goodness, Look at This Mess! from Sweet Honey In the Rock’s acclaimed children’s CD, Still the Same Me. On the surface, it’s a positive upbeat amusing little number designed to make kids think cleaning up their room can be fun. But on a deeper level, it’s really all about admitting that you fucked up, taking responsibility, and making amends.

Oh my goodness, look at this mess!
I’m the one who made it, I do confess. Yay, bo!
Oh my goodness, look at this mess,
I think I better clean it up. Wuh, oh.

But, you know what? It just makes me really happy, even if it’s only for a few minutes at a time, to regress to a simpler time when a huge trainwreck fuckup of a mess comprised little more than dirty socks on the floor, puzzle pieces under the bed, and a big handful of peanut butter smeared across the wall.

* * * * *From the Son Is Father To The Man, Loosely Speaking department:

One of the benefits of consorting with mortality is that walls often come crashing down and people suddenly find themselves feeling freer to speak openly and honestly about personal topics they would have barely broached before Death loomed so ominously near in the rearview mirror.

“Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear,” by Gary Larson.

Yesterday I received a long, sweet, supportive, compassionate email from my 24-year-old son that knocked me over like a ten-pin with its astonishing wisdom and expressive understanding. Among other veracious gems, it contained this 24-carat piece of advice:

“What you’re asking for is perfectly reasonable, and it’s sad that he doesn’t know how to give it to you. That doesn’t invalidate all the nice things he’s doing for you, nor do the nice things invalidate your frustration at his lack of emotional support for you. Keep asking for what you need, and if he can’t hear you, try asking a different way. Change is hard, and I have to imagine that changing in the context of this awful, stressful situation is even harder, but it’s never impossible. Reward him for things he does right. Reward yourself for things you do right. Don’t beat yourself up for things you don’t get right.”

I mean, excuse me, but where did my youngest baby child learn how to talk like this? At Berkeley High? Harvard? Oh, somehow I don’t think so. Could the fact that he’s happily married to the world’s fiercest, most indomitable Goddess whose honesty and kick-ass relationship skills make Dr. Fucking Phil sound like the social and emotional equivalent of the Unabomber possibly have anything to do with it?

As much as being sick sucks slimy rotten ass eggs, I can’t even begin to tell you how touching and delightful it’s been for me to watch the way my sons have rallied round and reached out, sending me daily messages of love, comfort, and support that more often than not bring tears of astonishment and awe to my eyes. They’re paying me back I guess, by being such loving moms to me now in my hour of near-infantile need. Thanks, guys, both of you. From the bottom of my eternally childlike heart.

Now pass the milk and cookies, and let’s all color!

Visualization du Jour: I am strolling along beautiful Holly Beach one morning when suddenly I spy an ancient copper lamp half buried in the debris. I pick it up and rub it, and of course a magic genie appears. “Mais cheh,” he says. “You done got youself tree wishes now, you. But only tree, yeah. So watchoo wont, eh?”

I think and I think, and finally I decide. Here they are, these are my three ultimate wishes for the magic genie in the lamp:

1. That once, just one fucking time, Ilse would refuse to get on the damn plane with Victor, and stay on the ground with Rick instead.
2. That Dilsey would quit her job with the Compsons, get a degree in Constitutional Law at Southern, become a US District Court judge in Meridian, and convict all 18 defendants in United States v. Cecil Price, et al.
3. That Billy Bibbit would grow balls the size of grapefruits, murder Mildred Ratched when nobody’s looking, and dispose of her body with a wood chipper.

So how’d I do? What would yours be?

Speaking of crayons! My beautiful thick brilliant beeswax Stockmar block crayons arrived today. Serious flashbacks to the long ago days of homeschooling, when I brutally forced my innocent young lads to churn out reams of Rudolf Steiner approved artwork even though they weren’t remotely interested, just because I was the one who longed to spend my entire life going to Waldorf kindergarten.

Sorry bout that, guys. But now it’s my turn to draw, and yall’s turn to put MY drawings on YOUR damn refrigerators! Ahahaha.

Anyway, if I recall, the admissions “test” the Waldorf schools administer to kids hoping to enroll in their kindergarten is to have them draw two things: a self portrait, and a picture of a house with a tree. So here I am at 52, applying for admisson to kindergarten. It’s as good a place as any to start over.

Self Portrait With Blue Band-Aid

Portrait of the Artist With Floating Eggplant

Self Up Close

Little House On The Prairie

Self Alone

So what does all this really mean? The answers are in the comments.

Not having a good day today. I have a killer migraine and was up all night vomiting. Don’t know whether it’s from the migraine or a delayed reaction to the anesthesia once the anti-nausea drugs wore off. Either way, I’m still dwelling in the land of the Big Ick.

So to tide you over today, may I refer you with enormous pride to this peice on Resisting Self Defense, written by my son Finnegan. Is there anyone on earth who wouldn’t be proud to have raised a kid like this? The world desperately needs more men like him. Keep up the good work, kiddo!

Broncothingie bong!

Cute guy in rroom?!?

Cute guy meets Turkish Whorehouse rebellion

iPod up nose! Fcuk that ungly hat thign though.

Home! But left Gladys bach wiht Baby Jeesus.

I love yall all, peoples on the ninternt! Zero pukign because of yall. Yes! Just keep yalls hadns off my good durgs plaese.

So last night I was having a little trouble breathing, I was coughing when I lay down, my lungs were kind of wheezy and railing, my neck veins popped way out, there was an uncomfortable pressure in my chest, peripheral edema was making my legs look like tree trunks and my feet like footballs. Nothing to panic about, but I figured it was as good a time as any to swing by the ER and get another shot of corticosteroids, to try to help the inflammation settle down before my biopsy Monday. And to make sure there weren’t any scary clots or collapsed lungs or anything.

In hindsight, may I just say this: Ahahahahahahahaha! Yeah. Right.

The painter and I left home at 9:20 pm, arrived at the hospital at 10:00, and got through triage in about 15 minutes. I was sent in for a chest x-ray which took about 45 minutes, then we sat in the waiting room until 1 am, even though there were only about three other people there. At 1:00 I was finally called into the acute ER, which is not nearly as tv-drama exciting as it sounds. It’s a total dump, literally. The place where broken obsolete equipment is stored. And, they lock you in there with no access to a bathroom. You literally need a police escort to go in or out.

I was shuffled into a filthy little broom closet along with a broken wheelchair that said “Fatal” on the back (gotta love truth in advertising), a rather unsanitary looking cot, and a bunch of rusty lockers belonging to the cleaning staff. Twelve lockers to be exact, and I only mention this number because what the hell are the odds that one of the twelve would bear the name “Brenda,” while another one directly beneath it said “Gladys”? And what on earth could such a bizarre coincidence possibly mean??? Creepy!

Anyway, in the big room outside my broom closet a group of loud and possibly drunk nurses laughed and flirted and danced and sang and wrestled and swore and bragged and tossed a football and played video games. (Uh-huh, about half of them were male; all were young.) Occasionally some bored looking cops would wander in and hang out. Nobody seemed to be bothered by me lying on the unsanitary cot in the closet at all.

After waiting an hour I had some blood drawn, and then ended up seeing four different but equally confused doctors who apparently had no access to my records. It was 4:00 am before I managed to make anybody understand what was going on and what I needed. At 4:15 a nurse finally gave a me an injection of the Medrol I’d come for, and my release papers at 4:30 included a prescription for Prednisolone. Hallelujah! So now I’m set to go for the next ten days, and it only took six long useless hours. Which is a polite way of saying: All. Fucking. Night. We got home at 5:00 am, exactly 24 hours before I’m due back down there again for the lymph node surgery.

And the scary thing is: nothing would have been any different if I’d been bleeding, severed, obstructed, seizing, or otherwise teetering on the brink of death. Except maybe I wouldn’t have made it past the chest x-ray, and Brenda or Gladys would have found my dead body slumped over in the radiology waiting room the next morning when she came in to clean.

I swear I’m never going back to that damn ER again. Ever. They’ll kill me long before Brenda does, at this rate.

And now: it’s 6:00 and I’m finally going to bed.

The other night I slipped and took a nasty little existential plunge down into the Abyss of the Dark Side. No big deal or anything, I’m beginning to suspect this is probably just a typical little ritual people with cancer develop over the course of things. Hell, it’s probably something people with hangnails do too, they’re just usually too tasteful and discreet to splatter it all over their public blogs. But something about cancer just seems to fling the TMI floodgates wide open and let every private intimate detail hang out all over the internets. Or maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, that night the painter and I were peacefully lounging around on the bed together; he was reading something relevant and intellectual, while I was staring aimlessly at random dust motes, wondering how the hell anybody could ever know for sure that no two are alike–or no, wait, did that only apply to snowflakes? And then suddenly, without warning, I turned to the painter and announced that I no longer had a burning desire to go on liv