My neck wear had another growth spurt on Thursday.
Co-workers surprised me with a dandy blue viscose scarf for my birthday, bringing my collection of scarves to five. Only a month ago, I owned just one scarf, and that was one that I had forgotten that I owned.
Scarves allow me to conceal my trach in style, although at 51 I'm not sure I will ever get used to this concept of accessorizing my outfits. Gimme a pair of pants and a shirt and, hey, I'm golden.
But I instantly fell in love with the blue scarf my colleagues gave me. It simply screams, "Look at me, world. I'm a rock star!"
To be more specific, this scarf shouts, "I'm Mick Jagger!"
And the scarf's arrival into my wardrobe could not have come at a better time.
Today, I'm heading to the Norris Cinema Theatre at USC for a series of films about the Rolling Stones, including the classic documentary of the Stones' 1969 tour of the United States, "Gimme Shelter."
In 1969, Jagger was almost never seen on stage without a long, silky scarf, like the crimson number shown in this photo.
So I'm wearing my new blue scarf to today's showing of "Gimme Shelter," and I plan to hang out in the lobby, acting as Jaggeresque as I can. My swollen tongue, which pushes my lips out into a pout, only enhances the Jagger illusion.
I'm not expecting to get approached for an autograph, but I just might get some nods, winks and thumbs up from fellow Stones fans. I only wish that I had time to hit some thrift stores in search of slinky leotards and an Uncle Sam top hat.
There's just no telling where my new awareness of fashion accessories may take me. Yesterday, someone at the office actually told me that I looked "rakish."
One day I'm "trach-ish"; the next I'm "rakish."
It's a slippery slope into foppery.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
"It's 3:24, Serchia. You're up!"
When I pulled into the entrance of the parking garage for Kaiser's 4950 building shortly before noon today, I took my place in a line of cars 10-deep.
After a minute, I realized that the line wasn't budging. So I stuck my head outside the window and saw that the motorist in the No. 1 position of the line was pounding the machine that, in theory, spits out parking tickets.
Before anyone pulled up behind me and boxed me in, I put my car in reverse and got out of the queue.
I had a noon appointment in Radiation and Oncology, and I could see that it could be hours before someone arrived to fix the broken machine. Off to the side, in a section of the lot adjacent to the garage, I spotted a sight as welcome to me as the Hudson River appeared to the pilot of Flight 1549.
It was a vacant parking space.
I tried to ignore the bold, blue sign above the space that read "High Profile Vehicles Only."
In my heart, I knew that my 1996 Toyota Tercel does not fit the traditional definition of a "high-profile" vehicle. On the other hand, my car is more battered than most vehicles on the road. I'm always being hounded by strangers to have them do body work for me. That should count for something.
Besides, if there had been a sign on a buoy in the Hudson that read "No Airliners Allowed," I doubt that Captain Sullenberger would have continued scouting for other landing options. I parked my car in the space and headed to check in for my appointment.
Today's visit was a dress rehearsal of sorts for the radiation therapy that begins on Monday.
I was reunited with the ThermaSplint mold of my head that was created a while back –it was barely a week ago but seems much longer– and directed to lay down on a platform, perfectly still, with the mask pressed tight against my face.
It's a good thing I have no voice.
As the two radiologists were locking me into position I thought I must look like Hannibal Lecter to them. If I had the means to hiss like Anthony Hopkins, I probably would have tossed out some wisecrack about eating liver with fava beans and a nice chianti.
Only after I got home and logged on to Google Images did I realize my radiation mask bears no resemblance to the mask that Hannibal Lecter wore in "The Silence of the Lambs."
Then I was led to a counter by a young man who gave me my appointment times for my Intensity-Modulated Radiation Therapy (IMRT).
My first treatment takes place at 3:24 p.m. Monday. Tuesday, I'm up to bat at 3:48 p.m. Then on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I'm on at 4:36 p.m.
Then my schedule gets less taxing on my brain. The remaining 28 sessions all take place at 5 p.m.
My job is based near Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega. My daily radiation gig takes place on Sunset Boulevard, a few blocks west of Vermont. The two points are only 6 miles apart, but in the late afternoon, that commute can be brutal.
Finally, I have an opportunity to benefit from the sacred wisdom that Elizabeth Taylor once handed down to actors of tomorrow: "Take Fountain."
As I returned to my car and saw that Kaiser's parking enforcement squad had bought my canard that I drive a high-profile vehicle, I realized the next time I return to the Radiation and Oncology Department, it won't be for another assessment, more X-rays, or a second dress rehearsal for radiation therapy.
I will be going to Radiation and Oncology after spending the morning in Kaiser's chemo ward, and I will be getting zapped with the real deal.
I better lock myself into my ThermaSplint mask. Gonna be a heckuva ride.
After a minute, I realized that the line wasn't budging. So I stuck my head outside the window and saw that the motorist in the No. 1 position of the line was pounding the machine that, in theory, spits out parking tickets.
Before anyone pulled up behind me and boxed me in, I put my car in reverse and got out of the queue.
I had a noon appointment in Radiation and Oncology, and I could see that it could be hours before someone arrived to fix the broken machine. Off to the side, in a section of the lot adjacent to the garage, I spotted a sight as welcome to me as the Hudson River appeared to the pilot of Flight 1549.
It was a vacant parking space.
I tried to ignore the bold, blue sign above the space that read "High Profile Vehicles Only."
In my heart, I knew that my 1996 Toyota Tercel does not fit the traditional definition of a "high-profile" vehicle. On the other hand, my car is more battered than most vehicles on the road. I'm always being hounded by strangers to have them do body work for me. That should count for something.
Besides, if there had been a sign on a buoy in the Hudson that read "No Airliners Allowed," I doubt that Captain Sullenberger would have continued scouting for other landing options. I parked my car in the space and headed to check in for my appointment.
Today's visit was a dress rehearsal of sorts for the radiation therapy that begins on Monday.
I was reunited with the ThermaSplint mold of my head that was created a while back –it was barely a week ago but seems much longer– and directed to lay down on a platform, perfectly still, with the mask pressed tight against my face.
It's a good thing I have no voice.
As the two radiologists were locking me into position I thought I must look like Hannibal Lecter to them. If I had the means to hiss like Anthony Hopkins, I probably would have tossed out some wisecrack about eating liver with fava beans and a nice chianti.
Only after I got home and logged on to Google Images did I realize my radiation mask bears no resemblance to the mask that Hannibal Lecter wore in "The Silence of the Lambs."
Then I was led to a counter by a young man who gave me my appointment times for my Intensity-Modulated Radiation Therapy (IMRT).
My first treatment takes place at 3:24 p.m. Monday. Tuesday, I'm up to bat at 3:48 p.m. Then on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I'm on at 4:36 p.m.
Then my schedule gets less taxing on my brain. The remaining 28 sessions all take place at 5 p.m.
My job is based near Beverly Boulevard and La Cienega. My daily radiation gig takes place on Sunset Boulevard, a few blocks west of Vermont. The two points are only 6 miles apart, but in the late afternoon, that commute can be brutal.
Finally, I have an opportunity to benefit from the sacred wisdom that Elizabeth Taylor once handed down to actors of tomorrow: "Take Fountain."
As I returned to my car and saw that Kaiser's parking enforcement squad had bought my canard that I drive a high-profile vehicle, I realized the next time I return to the Radiation and Oncology Department, it won't be for another assessment, more X-rays, or a second dress rehearsal for radiation therapy.
I will be going to Radiation and Oncology after spending the morning in Kaiser's chemo ward, and I will be getting zapped with the real deal.
I better lock myself into my ThermaSplint mask. Gonna be a heckuva ride.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Blend me a cake
Normally I like to let my birthday pass without calling it to anyone's attention, but breaking your own rules every now and then keeps life interesting.
February 5th is my birthday. Yep: that's today!
It's my 51st birthday, so today marks my arrival on the back end of the Paul Serchia Century.
I can hardy believe it. For a whole year I have been evading paying money to AARP for an official membership in that organization while also carrying an official-looking AARP card in my wallet that is absolutely worthless.
Does that make me a fraud? Well, AARP, if you want your card back you're going to have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
This February 5th, however, I have two birthdays to observe. Today, the very day that I am I'm turning 51, my G-tube is turning 2.
Yes, two months ago to the day I woke up in the recovery room at Kaiser Hospital and found a strange new rubber and plastic tail protruding from just north of my belly button.
Since that blessed event, I have fed no fewer than 372 cans of Isosource, and dozens of containers of Ensure, into the hungry valve of my G-tube.
My Isosource intake alone amounts to 139,500 calories. That's almost equivalent to a week of Whoppers!
Most of my meals have been in isolation. But if I were technologically savvy, I would share a G-tube feeding with you by posting a video on YouTube. (If I had beefy pecs and abs of steel, I probably would figure out a way to make that happen.)
You'll just have to imagine a 51-year-old geezer pulling a rubber tube out from under his shirt, poking it with a plastic syringe and then pouring fluid straight into the belly.
I've had many botched feedings over the past two months, but I'm getting more adept at pouring nutrients down the hose.
Here's a dilemma I'm facing even as I write: I need to drive to Koreatown to meet a friend but I haven't fed myself dinner yet.
No worries; I can do what every other Angeleno does in his or her car: chow down on the road.
One hand for the tube; one hand for the can of Isosource; two kneecaps for the steering wheel. I just went online to peruse the California Vehicle Code, and as long as I stay off my cell phone during mealtime, I see no legal reason why I cannot drive and conduct a G-tube feeding at the same time.
Don't mean to blog and bolt, but I gotta get outta here.
But before I do, join me in a little celebratory song:
Happy birthday, G-tube!
Happy birthday, G-tube!
Happy biiiiiiiiirthday, Geee-tuuube
Happy birthday, G-tube!
February 5th is my birthday. Yep: that's today!
It's my 51st birthday, so today marks my arrival on the back end of the Paul Serchia Century.
I can hardy believe it. For a whole year I have been evading paying money to AARP for an official membership in that organization while also carrying an official-looking AARP card in my wallet that is absolutely worthless.
Does that make me a fraud? Well, AARP, if you want your card back you're going to have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
This February 5th, however, I have two birthdays to observe. Today, the very day that I am I'm turning 51, my G-tube is turning 2.
Yes, two months ago to the day I woke up in the recovery room at Kaiser Hospital and found a strange new rubber and plastic tail protruding from just north of my belly button.
Since that blessed event, I have fed no fewer than 372 cans of Isosource, and dozens of containers of Ensure, into the hungry valve of my G-tube.
My Isosource intake alone amounts to 139,500 calories. That's almost equivalent to a week of Whoppers!
Most of my meals have been in isolation. But if I were technologically savvy, I would share a G-tube feeding with you by posting a video on YouTube. (If I had beefy pecs and abs of steel, I probably would figure out a way to make that happen.)
You'll just have to imagine a 51-year-old geezer pulling a rubber tube out from under his shirt, poking it with a plastic syringe and then pouring fluid straight into the belly.
I've had many botched feedings over the past two months, but I'm getting more adept at pouring nutrients down the hose.
Here's a dilemma I'm facing even as I write: I need to drive to Koreatown to meet a friend but I haven't fed myself dinner yet.
No worries; I can do what every other Angeleno does in his or her car: chow down on the road.
One hand for the tube; one hand for the can of Isosource; two kneecaps for the steering wheel. I just went online to peruse the California Vehicle Code, and as long as I stay off my cell phone during mealtime, I see no legal reason why I cannot drive and conduct a G-tube feeding at the same time.
Don't mean to blog and bolt, but I gotta get outta here.
But before I do, join me in a little celebratory song:
Happy birthday, G-tube!
Happy birthday, G-tube!
Happy biiiiiiiiirthday, Geee-tuuube
Happy birthday, G-tube!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Uneasy rider
There's nothing I would like better right now than to jump into my cycling shoes, hop on my bike and tear off into the night.
My bike is resting on the same patch of real estate in my living room where I left it late last November. If it could, I bet my bike would sue me for neglect or abandonment.
Once I got a G-tube, I got very nervous about riding my bike. For city riding, there are too many things that could happen that could result in taking a spill, and I don't want to risk damaging the tube. Long-distance rides are a problem because staying hydrated through the G-tube is too complicated to fathom.
The trach I got last month only expanded the reasons why I shouldn't be riding my bike.
Fortunately, my cycling friends haven't abandoned me.
When I was hospitalized following my biopsy and surgery, my fellow Positive Pedalers buoyed my spirits with visits and text messages and hugs. Positive Pedalars are cyclists with HIV/AIDS, and I fly a Positive Pedaler flag on my bike whenever I ride.
My AIDS/LifeCycle friends have also been keeping an eye on me, through visits, e-mails and messages on my Facebook page. AIDS/LifeCycle is a 545-mile bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles which raises funds for HIV services. I've done the past three AIDS/LifeCycles, and I'm registered to ride in ALC 8 this May.
Today, I got a get-well card signed by dozens of my ALC friends in the mail. I've missed every ALC training ride since October, the ALC holiday party and a recent ALC 8 countdown party at the Petersen Auto Museum, so knowing that my ALC family hasn't forgotten about me feels as wonderful as a swift descent on a smooth country road.
Tucked inside the get-well card was a Mickey Mouse pin with a note attached. The note read:
"Mickey heard about your eventful year when I was at Disneyland a few weeks ago, and wanted to send his best wishes and a big Mickey hug. I thought this pin would be the best way to deliver them. Hope you enjoy it! Love, Chris and Mel."
I haven't cried in a long while –I didn't even cry when my doctor told me I have cancer three weeks ago– but I cried when I read the messages in the ALC get-well card.
If chemo and radiation succeed in knocking out this cancer, and if I can get this G-tube removed and my trach plugged up, I just may have enough time for a compressed training season before AIDS/LifeCycle 8 begins.
I don't know if I will be able to pull that off. But I sure hope I get the chance to try.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Help me raise funds for AIDS/LifeCycle 8, May 31- June 6, 2009
My AIDS/LifeCycle page
My bike is resting on the same patch of real estate in my living room where I left it late last November. If it could, I bet my bike would sue me for neglect or abandonment.
Once I got a G-tube, I got very nervous about riding my bike. For city riding, there are too many things that could happen that could result in taking a spill, and I don't want to risk damaging the tube. Long-distance rides are a problem because staying hydrated through the G-tube is too complicated to fathom.
The trach I got last month only expanded the reasons why I shouldn't be riding my bike.
Fortunately, my cycling friends haven't abandoned me.
When I was hospitalized following my biopsy and surgery, my fellow Positive Pedalers buoyed my spirits with visits and text messages and hugs. Positive Pedalars are cyclists with HIV/AIDS, and I fly a Positive Pedaler flag on my bike whenever I ride.
My AIDS/LifeCycle friends have also been keeping an eye on me, through visits, e-mails and messages on my Facebook page. AIDS/LifeCycle is a 545-mile bike ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles which raises funds for HIV services. I've done the past three AIDS/LifeCycles, and I'm registered to ride in ALC 8 this May.
Today, I got a get-well card signed by dozens of my ALC friends in the mail. I've missed every ALC training ride since October, the ALC holiday party and a recent ALC 8 countdown party at the Petersen Auto Museum, so knowing that my ALC family hasn't forgotten about me feels as wonderful as a swift descent on a smooth country road.
Tucked inside the get-well card was a Mickey Mouse pin with a note attached. The note read:
"Mickey heard about your eventful year when I was at Disneyland a few weeks ago, and wanted to send his best wishes and a big Mickey hug. I thought this pin would be the best way to deliver them. Hope you enjoy it! Love, Chris and Mel."
I haven't cried in a long while –I didn't even cry when my doctor told me I have cancer three weeks ago– but I cried when I read the messages in the ALC get-well card.
If chemo and radiation succeed in knocking out this cancer, and if I can get this G-tube removed and my trach plugged up, I just may have enough time for a compressed training season before AIDS/LifeCycle 8 begins.
I don't know if I will be able to pull that off. But I sure hope I get the chance to try.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Help me raise funds for AIDS/LifeCycle 8, May 31- June 6, 2009
My AIDS/LifeCycle page
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Best man for the Gob
I got a sneak peek at the chemo ward at Kaiser on Monday.
Dr. Gary Buchschacher, a hematology and oncology specialist at Kaiser, took me around the ward after giving me an overview of my chemotherapy treatments, which get under way on Monday.
I'll be getting chemo three times over the next six-and-a-half weeks, concurrent with the 33 radiation therapy treatments I'll be getting. Dr. Buchschacher will be directing the chemotherapy part of my treatments.
Carboplatin is the type of chemotherapy drug I'll be getting, delivered intravenously. According to the doctor, the side effects of carboplatin are less severe than the side effects of other types of chemotherapy.
Well, I hope so. I haven't upchucked since the winter of 1976, and I'm not going to allow chemotherapy to topple that record without putting up a fight.
Kaiser's chemo ward, on the 8th floor of a building on Vermont, seems to be a pleasant enough place, and Dr. Buchschacher and his team are friendly and knowledgeable.
After my appointment on Monday ended, I headed to the lab on the second floor to have blood drawn.
The guy who stuck me with a needle and drew several vials of my blood must see his career as some kind of homage to Michael Jackson.
He was wearing only one glove!
Universal precautions to prevent transmission of HIV have been a CDC standard for, what, more than a quarter-century? I guess this guy never got that memo. Shoulda said something to him, and maybe I still will. The name on his badge was the same name as a certain bawdy Southern city, except for one letter. I ain't gonna forget it.
Back on the 8th floor, I got excited when I saw signs pointing to a Cancer Library.
Before I even got discharged from the hospital last month, Kaiser had mailed an information kit about the cancer program to my home. In that kit, Kaiser's Cancer Resource Center is prominently mentioned.
The only trouble is that no one at Kaiser seems to know where the Cancer Resource Center is located. So over the past few weeks, I had been trying to hunt it down.
The sign I spotted on the 8th floor was my first break in the case. "Cancer Library" is reasonably close to "Cancer Resource Center," right?
The arrows in the signs led me back to the waiting room of the Oncology Department, where I had just been an hour earlier. I handed a note to the receptionist, asking her to direct me to the Cancer Library.
The receptionist kind of sighed and then she said she would meet me at the window at the nurses station. When I got there, she pointed to a desk in the corner of the waiting room, with a computer on it.
"That," she explained, "is the Cancer Library."
That's a library? I thought. Where are the books on shelves? Where's the Dewey Decimal System? Where is someone with her hair in a bun shushing people for talking aloud?
I'm at the kindergarten stage in my cancer awareness, so I walked over to the "library" and sat down to see what I could learn.
The computer stored electronic modules of some cancer brochures. There were six modules in all. I decided to take a crack at "Chemotherapy and You" and "Radiation Therapy and You."
I zipped through the introductory pages of the first module, eager to start learning more about the adventure that awaits me next week.
Disappointment metastized in my heart. Each page in the sessions was illustrated with a photograph that had absolutely no relationship to the text.
In a section on side effects, I found a page describing "fatigue." It was illustrated with a photo of a well-coiffed woman in an elegant home, smiling down upon some kind of fancy dessert. The scene looked like an outtake from a Martha Stewart home entertainment guide.
Next, there was a section explaining the principle of "external beam radiation." The photo accompanying that text showed a girl and a woman working cheerfully on a jigsaw puzzle.
Then there was a page on coping with side effects. The photo showed two kindly grandfatherly types –imagine Hal Halbrook and Robert Young– playing a friendly hand of cards.
And the text? "Be gentle when wiping yourself after a bowel movement."
Never mind the threat of chemo undoing my 33-year record of not vomiting. I felt the slosh in my stomach rising up through my G-tube just by looking at the modules on the Cancer Library!
Each mouse click threw up another non sequitur on the computer screen. Going through the sessions felt like watching Greta Garbo dying in "Camille" with a Three Stooges soundtrack.
I hurriedly clicked through a few modules, printed out a couple of Certificates of Completion to stuff into my patient chart, and made a note to revisit the Kaiser Cancer Library at another time.
Say, after my cancer goes into remission. Maybe then I'll be ready to look back on all of this and have a laugh.
By the way, you may wonder why I titled this blog "Best man for the Gob."
It has nothing to do with what I wrote today. It's just the title of an episode of "Arrested Development" that I watched again the other day.
Think I have a future in making educational modules about cancer?
Dr. Gary Buchschacher, a hematology and oncology specialist at Kaiser, took me around the ward after giving me an overview of my chemotherapy treatments, which get under way on Monday.
I'll be getting chemo three times over the next six-and-a-half weeks, concurrent with the 33 radiation therapy treatments I'll be getting. Dr. Buchschacher will be directing the chemotherapy part of my treatments.
Carboplatin is the type of chemotherapy drug I'll be getting, delivered intravenously. According to the doctor, the side effects of carboplatin are less severe than the side effects of other types of chemotherapy.
Well, I hope so. I haven't upchucked since the winter of 1976, and I'm not going to allow chemotherapy to topple that record without putting up a fight.
Kaiser's chemo ward, on the 8th floor of a building on Vermont, seems to be a pleasant enough place, and Dr. Buchschacher and his team are friendly and knowledgeable.
After my appointment on Monday ended, I headed to the lab on the second floor to have blood drawn.
The guy who stuck me with a needle and drew several vials of my blood must see his career as some kind of homage to Michael Jackson.
He was wearing only one glove!
Universal precautions to prevent transmission of HIV have been a CDC standard for, what, more than a quarter-century? I guess this guy never got that memo. Shoulda said something to him, and maybe I still will. The name on his badge was the same name as a certain bawdy Southern city, except for one letter. I ain't gonna forget it.
Back on the 8th floor, I got excited when I saw signs pointing to a Cancer Library.
Before I even got discharged from the hospital last month, Kaiser had mailed an information kit about the cancer program to my home. In that kit, Kaiser's Cancer Resource Center is prominently mentioned.
The only trouble is that no one at Kaiser seems to know where the Cancer Resource Center is located. So over the past few weeks, I had been trying to hunt it down.
The sign I spotted on the 8th floor was my first break in the case. "Cancer Library" is reasonably close to "Cancer Resource Center," right?
The arrows in the signs led me back to the waiting room of the Oncology Department, where I had just been an hour earlier. I handed a note to the receptionist, asking her to direct me to the Cancer Library.
The receptionist kind of sighed and then she said she would meet me at the window at the nurses station. When I got there, she pointed to a desk in the corner of the waiting room, with a computer on it.
"That," she explained, "is the Cancer Library."
That's a library? I thought. Where are the books on shelves? Where's the Dewey Decimal System? Where is someone with her hair in a bun shushing people for talking aloud?
I'm at the kindergarten stage in my cancer awareness, so I walked over to the "library" and sat down to see what I could learn.
The computer stored electronic modules of some cancer brochures. There were six modules in all. I decided to take a crack at "Chemotherapy and You" and "Radiation Therapy and You."
I zipped through the introductory pages of the first module, eager to start learning more about the adventure that awaits me next week.
Disappointment metastized in my heart. Each page in the sessions was illustrated with a photograph that had absolutely no relationship to the text.
In a section on side effects, I found a page describing "fatigue." It was illustrated with a photo of a well-coiffed woman in an elegant home, smiling down upon some kind of fancy dessert. The scene looked like an outtake from a Martha Stewart home entertainment guide.
Next, there was a section explaining the principle of "external beam radiation." The photo accompanying that text showed a girl and a woman working cheerfully on a jigsaw puzzle.
Then there was a page on coping with side effects. The photo showed two kindly grandfatherly types –imagine Hal Halbrook and Robert Young– playing a friendly hand of cards.
And the text? "Be gentle when wiping yourself after a bowel movement."
Never mind the threat of chemo undoing my 33-year record of not vomiting. I felt the slosh in my stomach rising up through my G-tube just by looking at the modules on the Cancer Library!
Each mouse click threw up another non sequitur on the computer screen. Going through the sessions felt like watching Greta Garbo dying in "Camille" with a Three Stooges soundtrack.
I hurriedly clicked through a few modules, printed out a couple of Certificates of Completion to stuff into my patient chart, and made a note to revisit the Kaiser Cancer Library at another time.
Say, after my cancer goes into remission. Maybe then I'll be ready to look back on all of this and have a laugh.
By the way, you may wonder why I titled this blog "Best man for the Gob."
It has nothing to do with what I wrote today. It's just the title of an episode of "Arrested Development" that I watched again the other day.
Think I have a future in making educational modules about cancer?
Monday, February 2, 2009
A church with benefits
I've been giving serious consideration to weaseling my way into the Church of Scientology.
Dunno if you have to apply for church membership, wait to be invited to join, or born into Scientology like Suri Cruise. I'm just thinking that as I get deeper into this cancer thing, there's something about the Church of Scientology that is very appealing to me.
The Church of Scientology's Los Angeles headquarters is located at 4810 Sunset Blvd.
Kaiser Permanente's sprawling Los Angeles Medical Center occupies a string of buildings from 4700 Sunset to 4950 Sunset, with the Church of Scientology smack dab in the middle.
So if I were a member of the Church of Scientology and housed at the massive Los Angeles facility, I would live just a short stroll away from all of my doctors' offices, my pharmacies, the radiation and oncology services, and the hospital.
That would be so cool.
Take today, for example.
Too cheap to park in the main parking facility on Edgemont Street, when I have an appointment at Kaiser I typically tool up and down the side streets searching for free parking or a meter flashing "FAIL."
Today the Parking Gods were smiling down upon me: One of the two free parking spaces designated for patients on the Kaiser Kampus was available to me. (Actually, a Shelter Clean truck was parked illegally in one of the two spaces but I just waited for its driver to return to the truck and exit the lot so I could claim the space for myself.)
I had no fewer than four appointments or tasks to handle in my visit to Kaiser today, and by the time I had completed them, it was the middle of the afternoon.
What a score: Five hours of parking in Los Angeles for free!
But if I were a Scientologist living at the Sunset compound across from Kaiser, I could have rolled out of bed, threw on a shirt and pulled up my trousers, and found myself sitting in an exam room having my blood pressure taken in a matter of minutes, without having to contend with the hassle of driving a car, dealing with traffic, and parking.
It's significant that my appointments today spanned the breadth of the Kaiser Kampus.
I began at the pharmacy at Edgemont, hopped across the street to my head-and-neck surgeon's office, walked a few blocks east to the Insurance Department, walked several blocks west to the Radiation and Oncology department, where I was told I needed to be on the 8th floor of a building all the way at the eastern limits of Kaiser's property.
I did a lot of walking and dragging my heavy backpack, and spent a fair amount of down time waiting for my name or number to be called.
If I had my own nest on Scientology's real estate, I could have slept in later and spent some of that downtime between appointments in the Scientology rec room, watching "I Love Lucy," "The View" or educational videos about L. Ron Hubbard.
If I seriously want to join the Church of Scientology, I better move quickly. I'm going to need to be at Kaiser every weekday for six and half weeks, starting Monday, for radiation and chemotherapy treatments.
Just think of the time and money I would save if I could walk to and from my radiation and chemo sessions.
Problem is, I would want to resign from the church no later than after my final chemo treatment at the end of March.
That could trigger a tsunami of unpleasantness. I have read that leaving the Church of Scientology is a tad more complicated than, say, dropping out of the Ralphs Club or telling a Pilates instructor you don't need him anymore.
Well, then, here is money-saving Plan B: snare a Metro pass for the months of February and March, and travel to Kaiser on the Red Line, which stops at practically the front doorstep of the Los Angeles Medical Center.
Or just bite the bullet and drive myself to my radiation and chemotherapy appointments, tithing occasionally to the Gods of Parking for benevolent treatment.
In the long run, that might be in my better interests than joining any church that has the word "Science" contained in its name.
I never was a very good science student.
---
My hometown paper is evaporating before my very eyes –next, I expect Sam Zell to save on the cost of newsprint by ordering Cathy & Irving to move into the Bumstead household– but The New York Times still manages to maintain independent specialty sections. Here's an interesting report from the Science section of Tuesday's New York Times: New Oral Cancer Tests: Crucial or Wasteful?
Dunno if you have to apply for church membership, wait to be invited to join, or born into Scientology like Suri Cruise. I'm just thinking that as I get deeper into this cancer thing, there's something about the Church of Scientology that is very appealing to me.
The Church of Scientology's Los Angeles headquarters is located at 4810 Sunset Blvd.
Kaiser Permanente's sprawling Los Angeles Medical Center occupies a string of buildings from 4700 Sunset to 4950 Sunset, with the Church of Scientology smack dab in the middle.
So if I were a member of the Church of Scientology and housed at the massive Los Angeles facility, I would live just a short stroll away from all of my doctors' offices, my pharmacies, the radiation and oncology services, and the hospital.
That would be so cool.
Take today, for example.
Too cheap to park in the main parking facility on Edgemont Street, when I have an appointment at Kaiser I typically tool up and down the side streets searching for free parking or a meter flashing "FAIL."
Today the Parking Gods were smiling down upon me: One of the two free parking spaces designated for patients on the Kaiser Kampus was available to me. (Actually, a Shelter Clean truck was parked illegally in one of the two spaces but I just waited for its driver to return to the truck and exit the lot so I could claim the space for myself.)
I had no fewer than four appointments or tasks to handle in my visit to Kaiser today, and by the time I had completed them, it was the middle of the afternoon.
What a score: Five hours of parking in Los Angeles for free!
But if I were a Scientologist living at the Sunset compound across from Kaiser, I could have rolled out of bed, threw on a shirt and pulled up my trousers, and found myself sitting in an exam room having my blood pressure taken in a matter of minutes, without having to contend with the hassle of driving a car, dealing with traffic, and parking.
It's significant that my appointments today spanned the breadth of the Kaiser Kampus.
I began at the pharmacy at Edgemont, hopped across the street to my head-and-neck surgeon's office, walked a few blocks east to the Insurance Department, walked several blocks west to the Radiation and Oncology department, where I was told I needed to be on the 8th floor of a building all the way at the eastern limits of Kaiser's property.
I did a lot of walking and dragging my heavy backpack, and spent a fair amount of down time waiting for my name or number to be called.
If I had my own nest on Scientology's real estate, I could have slept in later and spent some of that downtime between appointments in the Scientology rec room, watching "I Love Lucy," "The View" or educational videos about L. Ron Hubbard.
If I seriously want to join the Church of Scientology, I better move quickly. I'm going to need to be at Kaiser every weekday for six and half weeks, starting Monday, for radiation and chemotherapy treatments.
Just think of the time and money I would save if I could walk to and from my radiation and chemo sessions.
Problem is, I would want to resign from the church no later than after my final chemo treatment at the end of March.
That could trigger a tsunami of unpleasantness. I have read that leaving the Church of Scientology is a tad more complicated than, say, dropping out of the Ralphs Club or telling a Pilates instructor you don't need him anymore.
Well, then, here is money-saving Plan B: snare a Metro pass for the months of February and March, and travel to Kaiser on the Red Line, which stops at practically the front doorstep of the Los Angeles Medical Center.
Or just bite the bullet and drive myself to my radiation and chemotherapy appointments, tithing occasionally to the Gods of Parking for benevolent treatment.
In the long run, that might be in my better interests than joining any church that has the word "Science" contained in its name.
I never was a very good science student.
---
My hometown paper is evaporating before my very eyes –next, I expect Sam Zell to save on the cost of newsprint by ordering Cathy & Irving to move into the Bumstead household– but The New York Times still manages to maintain independent specialty sections. Here's an interesting report from the Science section of Tuesday's New York Times: New Oral Cancer Tests: Crucial or Wasteful?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A special visitor
I felt too bleech! to blog today.
I wrote something to post this morning but it put me to sleep when I read it back so I swallowed up the text with the delete key.
But despite my physical and mental lethargy, today turned out to be eventful and I didn't want to hit the sack before sharing the reason why.
My brother visited me this afternoon.
The last time I saw my brother was in September 2007, in Tennessee. He had just moved to Colorado from California when our mother died, and we were both in Johnson City for Mom's funeral and to be with family.
I had planned to travel to Colorado last month for my eldest nephew's wedding, but my doctor and I were in hot pursuit of a diagnosis of my medical problem. At the same time I expected I would be in Fort Collins, celebrating, I was in the hospital for my tracheotomy and biopsy.
From my hospital bed, I sent and received scores of text messages from people at the wedding, so I felt like I had a digital presence there.
Today, my brother flew to California for a business conference in Ventura County, and he had time to visit me at home before heading up the coast.
The last time my brother saw me, my throat was intact, I had a voice and I could eat and drink through my mouth. I was also at least 30 pounds heavier, having lost weight by not being able to swallow food.
My brother didn't seem freaked out by my trach and G-tube, and didn't have a problem reading my handwriting when I kept up my end of our conversation today. And he has lost more weight than I have over the past few months, by watching what he eats more carefully.
One of the biggest treats of his visit was clicking through photos from the wedding celebration on my brother's camera.
My brother is confident that I'm going to pull through my radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and he told me about people he knows who are cancer survivors and in good health today. He has known me as long as anybody else, so it means something to hear him tell me that I'm going to be OK.
I'm beginning the week tomorrow with another appointment in Kaiser's Oncology Department, and I'll also be seeing my head-and-neck surgeon. I still have another seven days to wait before treatment begins, but that day will arrive.
A friend told me yesterday about a dream that he had: I had completely recovered, and my friend and I and my brother were eating at the International House of Pancakes.
I'm gonna do all that I can to make that dream come true.
I wrote something to post this morning but it put me to sleep when I read it back so I swallowed up the text with the delete key.
But despite my physical and mental lethargy, today turned out to be eventful and I didn't want to hit the sack before sharing the reason why.
My brother visited me this afternoon.
The last time I saw my brother was in September 2007, in Tennessee. He had just moved to Colorado from California when our mother died, and we were both in Johnson City for Mom's funeral and to be with family.
I had planned to travel to Colorado last month for my eldest nephew's wedding, but my doctor and I were in hot pursuit of a diagnosis of my medical problem. At the same time I expected I would be in Fort Collins, celebrating, I was in the hospital for my tracheotomy and biopsy.
From my hospital bed, I sent and received scores of text messages from people at the wedding, so I felt like I had a digital presence there.
Today, my brother flew to California for a business conference in Ventura County, and he had time to visit me at home before heading up the coast.
The last time my brother saw me, my throat was intact, I had a voice and I could eat and drink through my mouth. I was also at least 30 pounds heavier, having lost weight by not being able to swallow food.
My brother didn't seem freaked out by my trach and G-tube, and didn't have a problem reading my handwriting when I kept up my end of our conversation today. And he has lost more weight than I have over the past few months, by watching what he eats more carefully.
One of the biggest treats of his visit was clicking through photos from the wedding celebration on my brother's camera.
My brother is confident that I'm going to pull through my radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and he told me about people he knows who are cancer survivors and in good health today. He has known me as long as anybody else, so it means something to hear him tell me that I'm going to be OK.
I'm beginning the week tomorrow with another appointment in Kaiser's Oncology Department, and I'll also be seeing my head-and-neck surgeon. I still have another seven days to wait before treatment begins, but that day will arrive.
A friend told me yesterday about a dream that he had: I had completely recovered, and my friend and I and my brother were eating at the International House of Pancakes.
I'm gonna do all that I can to make that dream come true.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
