The Arctic Vortex seems to have retreated northward after several days of extreme cold, snow, and dreary skies--days when it just seemed easier to stay inside.  The next few days, however, are going to involve venturing out.

Hanging over us for several weeks have been glitches in the green card application process.  The latest one involved Mohamed's having a physical from a "civil surgeon," only one of whom existed in Topeka.  Her office seemed, according to Google maps, to be in a residential area of North Topeka.  When we called, an answering machine gave no indication that we'd reached a medical facility, just saying we reached a certain number (different from the one we dialed) and to leave a message.  After two weeks of no returned calls, we checked the USCIS website again, and suddenly there was a new civil surgeon.  Moreover, she used to run the health center at Washburn, so we knew her and breathed a big sigh of relief that we had an alternative.  When we contacted her, the office manager said that he realized that they were "still" on the list (how could it be 'still' when they had just appeared?), but they no longer offered the service.  Finally, on Sunday afternoon, the civil surgeon called back, saying she had had the flu, and advising us to contact her office manager at a different number.  We called on Monday, got the same uninformative message, left our numbers, and heard nothing.  Ditto Tuesday morning.  By Tuesday afternoon, I had worked myself into a snit and called back ready to leave a scathing message.  Instead, I actually got the logorrhea-suffering office manager, who chattered on and on:  "Now, don't worry about bringing a pocket full of change.  We don't have any parking meters."  "Our pipes froze yesterday, and that's why I didn't return any phone calls."  "We're the only civil surgeon in the state who guarantees our work.  We have a 99.97% acceptance rate, and it was only ruined by someone who put her maiden name in the box for the married name."  But 30 minutes later, we had an appointment for tomorrow at noon, so the last step before submitting materials ought to be behind us.

Richard, a friend from Los Angeles, will be here for dinner tonight.  He was a CFO who retired several years ago, but who comes out of retirement during tax season because he loves to do taxes.  He works for H&R Block, a Kansas City company, and last year they sent around an e-mail asking for volunteers for their ad campaign.  Richard answered, was chosen, and became the "star" of the campaign, which was directed by the famous documentarian Errol Morris.  The ads were in black and white with Richard in a bowtie as papers fluttered down around him.  Morris also did this year's commercials, which will be rolled out tomorrow, and Richard is in  KC for the launch.  He's driving from the airport to visit us, and we'll take him out to Topeka's one really good restaurant.

Near the beginning of my blogging, I wrote an entry on what not to say to a person living with cancer.  For several years, there was a small and strange group of people who got together once a year or so for breakfast or dinner.  At the last (in both senses of the word) get-together, Dave, one of the group, spent the entire dinner interrupting people to enumerate his list of complaints.  On and on they went.  At the end of the meal he pulled me aside to say, "Since you're not going to be alive for my funeral, I just want you to know I've never been happier in my life."  He died last Thursday.  In what I'm sure seemed a clever idea at one point, he decided to write his own obituary in the first person: "I was taken aback when I awoke this morning to discover that I was dead."  He ended with "I just want you to know that I've never been happier in my life"--a comment which had somewhat different connotations when he was writing the obituary than when it appeared.

When the group first started, the one couple among us hosted the breakfasts.  The last time at their house, the wife made pancakes at the table, transporting the batter in a rather strange Rubbermaid tray or box rather than in a bowl, thus leaving a trail of pancake batter from the kitchen to the dining room.  When breakfast was over and we were carrying things back into the kitchen, the husband looked at the bowl rather quizzically and said, "I wonder why Jean chose this for the batter.  It's normally a litter box for the cats."  After that, the meals were held in restaurants.

Friday will mark three weeks without the Votrient.  The stomach problems, as had happened with the occasional shorter breaks, cleared up almost immediately.  But the fatigue continues--three crashes a day and not much energy during the wakeful periods.  We'll see the oncologist in  KC on Friday, get the results of the echocardiogram, and decide what to do next with the chemo.  Mohamed worries when I take a break, and after a week this time, he said, "You're feeling better.  Maybe you should start taking the Votrient again."  I understand his feelings because the chemo has been very effective over the last years.  But I held out for the full three weeks.  I'll blog again on Saturday to let you know what we decide will be the next step.