Tuesday we went back to the cancer center after only three weeks in order to see how I was doing on the new regimen of two weeks on the Votrient, one week off.  In the interim, there had been one slight scare.  I hadn't had much pep (or "many peps," as one of my French friends used to say), so a week ago Monday, we had decided to out for dinner.  By 7:30, I was ready to go.  "Are you ok?" Mohamed asked.  I said yes; he said no, as blood was running out of my nose.  The 1350 morning shots that Mohamed has given me over the last 3½ years are Lovanox, a strong blood thinner.  It obviously was working, as it took an hour for the nose bleed to stop.  Mohamed left to get take-out, and I ate well, but by 9:30 the bleeding had begun again, and we couldn't get it to stop.  Big, stringy, gross globs of blood ran non-stop down my throat.  Although it seemed silly to go to the ER for a nose bleed, by 11:30, when it was still bleeding, we decided to go.  We spent two hours there.  The doctor cauterized an artery in my nose, but I didn't have to have the inflatable balloon they sometimes have to use.  Since then, there haven't been further problems, though yesterday we had a humidifier installed on the furnace.

Tuesday the blood work went smoothly, and there were no new problems.  During the three weeks of the new schedule, the G-I problems had improved, and my blood pressure was relatively normal.  The new regimen, however, meant that I was taking 1/3 the dosage of Votrient as I had taken when all this began.  Mohamed was worried about the diminution, so during the consultation, we proposed increasing the dose by going to three weeks on, then one week off.  So rather than this being a week without chemo, I'm still taking it.  Next week will be the week off.  As long as the three-week regimen doesn't have more serious side effects, we'll stay on it until the end of January when we have our next series of tests, including the CT scans.

Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year that brings all of you health, prosperity, and joy.

It's been almost a month since I posted anything, a month when I went back on the Votrient.  At first, the resumption of side effects was very gradual.  But by now they've all returned.  First to make a comeback was the loss of ability to taste and the accompanying loss of appetite.  Before I was in the hospital in October, I had never had a sandwich from Jimmy John's.  Mohamed brought me one (a #12), and, off the Votrient, I thought it was the most delicious food I'd ever eaten outside of France.  As long as I wasn't taking the chemo, I scarfed down at least two of them a week.  And then suddenly, once back on the Votrient, the sandwich lost its taste, and finishing one seemed an ordeal.

We'd cut the blood pressure meds down to two, rather than the three we'd been using to counter the effects of the chemo, which raises blood pressure dramatically.  (One of the causes of the hospitalization last month was that while I had stopped the Votrient, I forgot to reduce the blood pressure meds, so I was reading 80/40 when I entered the hospital.)  But now the blood pressure was high again--not dangerously so, but consistently above what is desirable. 

The last symptom to return was the diarrhea.  It took a while, but when it returned, it did so with a vengeance.  Imodium is back on my regular rotation of meds. 

Yesterday we went to the KU Cancer Center.  Usually we go every six weeks, but to check more closely, we went after four weeks.  Blood work went quickly, but there was an uncharacteristic wait for Jennifer, the physician assistant we see on every other visit.  There were the usual anomalies in the blood work, but most of the discussion concerned the chemo schedule.  What we've settled on now to help alleviate the consequences of Votrient is a schedule of two weeks on, one week off.  I started the week off yesterday.  We're going to try one blood pressure med while I'm off the chemo, and we'll go back in three weeks after the first of this new cycle.  Meanwhile, I hope the diarrhea abates and my appetite returns, especially in time for Thanksgiving dinner.

Since the last post, the Royals have lost the last game of the World Series, though what a thrilling post-season they gave us.

The election has passed and gloom reigns supreme.

The Supreme Court has legalized same-sex marriage in Kansas, though our dreadful governor, secretary of state, and attorney general are doing everything they can to create hassles, e.g. forbidding the DMV to allow changes in a driver's name after a marriage.  Presumably, we'll be able to file the same federal and state income tax forms this year.

Happy Thanksgiving.  We'll be spending it among friends, the same group as for the last three years, though in a different location.  I'm making a pumpkin cheesecake, which is always delicious, though I'm ashamed to admit it's a Paula Deen recipe.

And since it's a Thanksgiving tradition to say what one is thankful for, I'll jump the gun and say that I'm most thankful for Mohamed, who is unfailingly loving and caring and who, after four years of this, has never once complained.

our good news day

Yesterday was our long day of tests and decisions at the KU Cancer Center.  Normally, after all these visits, Mohamed and I are rather blasé about these days, but I'll have to admit that this time, after the full month's break in chemo, we were both a little apprehensive.  We were up at the crack of 6 a.m. and out the door an hour later.  It was still dark when we left, which meant that driving into the rising sun wasn't fun for Mohamed, especially in the morning KC rush hour traffic.

The first stop is drawing blood and putting in an IV, which I need for the part of the scans with "contrast."  I had an unfamiliar phlebotomist, a woman named Ted.  Her real name, she said, was Edwina, but she'd early chosen to go by Ted.  She was efficient and chatty and said that I was "fun" and "a tough old bird."  Fun--not so much these days; tough old bird, a phrase I've been known to apply to myself.

Next we descended to the basement, where I changed into hospital pants, which promptly fell down the first time I walked down the hall with them, removed my shoes and shirt, and began drinking the two large, cold cups of water.  Rather quickly, I was called for the x-rays--19 of them in all from head to toe.  The technician was impressed with the size of my titanium femur.  Then there seemed to be a long wait for my turn in the CT scanner.  Because of the heat the various machines in that part of the center generate, the temperature is kept very low.  I always shiver, despite the warm blanket they give me.  The scans went quickly, and shortly before 11 we were done.

We met our friend TJ at Stroud's, home of the world's best pan-fried chicken, to say nothing of their cinnamon rolls.  The restaurant has been featured several times on the Food Network.  For years, the only location was in North Kansas City--an old house mobbed on weekends. Some time ago, they opened a branch near the cancer center, and since my appetite was still good, I figured I should take advantage.  TJ sings with and is marketing director for KC's gay chorus, the Heartland Men's Chorus.  They're part of the T-Mobile commercial montage of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," which runs right after the "God Bless America" seventh inning stretch during the World Series.  Since no food is begun before the order is placed, we had a nice, long time to chat, and TJ is always an entertaining conversationalist.

At one o'clock we were back at the center, ready for our consultation.  And the results were all good.  Despite the month's respite, the primary tumor hadn't grown at all, not one millimeter.  What a relief!  We ruled out switching to another chemo treatment: why start all over again with no specific idea of the side effects of the new drug or of its efficacy?  Dr. Van asked if we wanted to try another month without chemo, but both Mohamed and I had already decided that we weren't ready to push our luck, so last night, for the first time in a month, I swallowed two pills of Votrient.  Hello, old friends.  One of the immediate side effects is that Votrient raises blood pressure, and so for the past three years, I've been taking three anti-hypertension meds.  We'll go with just two meds for the moment, but with daily monitoring and we'll go back to the center in a month, rather than the normal six weeks, to see how everything is going.

All in all, it was a great and comforting trip to KC.  I crashed when I got home, but that's normal, and then watched the Royals demolish the Giants.  Just for a little class, tonight the national anthem will be sung by one of the world's greatest mezzo-sopranos, Joyce DiDonato.  Go Royals!

It's been 12 days since I stopped taking the chemo and three days since I came home from the hospital.  I've been feeling much better--still some fatigue, but not nearly as much as before and generally able to function somewhat normally.  Monday we went out to do some errands, and then in the afternoon had two sets of visitors, including Doug and Raylene, who brought a delicious pot roast and dinner rolls.  My appetite has returned, and food tastes good for the first time in a long time.

Yesterday, a beautiful fall day with the leaves beginning to turn, we drove to KC to have a consultation with Dr. Van, the oncologist.  We had already scheduled a series of tests--full skeletal x-ray, CT scans, etc.--for October 28, so we decided that I'll stay off the chemo till then.  That means I should also be able to skip the three blood pressure meds.  So with a full month with no Votrient, my body should have time to return to "normal."  And then after the time off and the results of the tests, on the 28th we'll make the hard decision of what to do next:  should I return to 400 mg of Votrient and just more carefully monitor what's going on?  should I reduce the Votrient to one pill of 200 mg?  (No one seems excited by that prospect.)  should we switch out the Votrient for another medication (Sutent) of the same class of drugs unsure of what would the efficacy and the side effects of that decision?  or should we try another class of chemotherapy that generally has fewer side effects but is also generally less efficacious?  In the meantime, there are fewer pills, fewer naps, and a new obsession with the Beach Club sandwich from Jimmy John's.  What the cancer cells are doing inside my body without their toxic enemies fighting back is, for the moment, an unanswered question.

It's amazing how a relatively intelligent person--in this case, me--can be so dense about important matters.  After endless complaining about lack of energy, by last Wednesday things had reached a turning point.   I couldn't dress myself without resting between each item of clothing.  I'd be thirsty, have a glass of water on the table in front of me, but not be able to summon the energy to bend forward and pick it up.   I could talk only in a raspy whisper.  Luckily, I wasn't alone, and Mohamed insisted that we go to the ER.  I called the oncologist in KC, but we agreed that a trip to KU Med would be too much, so we went to the ER at Stormont-Vail, Topeka's largest hospital, where I began a three-day stay.

Saying the words 'stage 4 cancer' got me to the front of the triage line in the ER. Since I had had uncontrollable diarrhea for several days, the first test was to eliminate clostridium difficile (or C. diff), a dangerous infection that is common in some cancer patients.  The tests for that were negative, which was good news indeed.  I was suffering from acute kidney failure and severe hypotension (80/40 when I entered the hospital).  Because of the diarrhea, the kidneys had nothing to process and had shut down.  For the next three days, I was pumped full of various fluids.  I kept thinking of the scene in Catch-22 with the soldier in white who has one bag of fluid pumped in, one drained out, and the two bags exchanged every several hours. 

Once the diarrhea had stopped (I'd quit taking the chemo), the kidneys began to respond, and after a couple of days, they were functioning normally again.  The blood pressure was a little slower to respond, but it's now back at normal levels.  The Votrient raises the blood pressure so much--this an immediate effect over three years ago--that I've been taking three different anti-hypertensive meds to keep it under control.  For the moment, I'm off both the chemo and the blood pressure meds.  Tuesday we go to KU Med to consult with the oncologist and see what the next steps will be.

Wednesday was an extremely scary day.  Even the normally unflappable Mohamed was alarmed.  As always, he took good care of me, beginning with his insistence that we go immediately to the ER.   The hospital experience was decent enough.  The bed was too short ("it doesn't fit anyone 6' or taller," said one of the nurses).  The food was passable when Mohamed wasn't bringing in nourishment from outside.  Friday night, our friend Laura brought in lamb biryani for me, so at least I had something spicy, and my appetite seems to have improved, as has my energy level. 

Saturday was frustrating as I waited all day for discharge, getting testier and testier as the day progressed with no sign of the doctor.  Finally, around 6 p.m., I was leaving when I felt warm liquid running down my left arm and hand and saw blood spots trailing through the hospital lobby.  Because I take an anti-coagulant every day (that's the morning shot to the stomach), the place where the IV port had been removed was bleeding.  That taken care of, we headed home. 

I'll blog again on Wednesday after our appointment in KC with Dr. Van.  In the meantime, we're just monitoring things like blood pressure, but I'm feeling much better and actually have a little energy.

Thursday we made our six-week visit to the KU Cancer Center for blood work, a consultation, and the $11,000 bone-strengthening shot.  Marci, the phlebotomist, was there, but luckily I didn't get her.  The blood draw went smoothly, and then, after vitals were taken (I'd lost another 4#), we talked with Jennifer, the physician assistant.  The blood results were about the same as always, so no change in medication.  There was a slight wait for the injection, but the nurse was efficient, and, although the shot often stings, it was relatively painless.  When we go back in six weeks, I'll have the whole megillah of tests: full skeletal x-rays, CT scans, and blood work.

Despite some miscommunication, we met our friend Scott for coffee at the center and caught up on what's going on in his busy family life.  And then as always, even though there had been nothing particularly difficult about the day, I fell asleep in the car on the way home and headed straight to bed once we arrived. 

I feel bad that I haven't posted more often.  My energy level has been so low and we've done so little (I went ten days without even leaving the house) that when I think about posting, it just seems too difficult.  I ought to have something to say about the races for Kansas Senator and Governor; in both cases, the incumbent Republicans are in trouble, and the campaign strategies of all four candidates are interesting.  Maybe I'll pull myself together one of these days and blog about that.

Friday it was back to the KU Cancer Center for blood work and CT scans.  Mohamed prefers early morning appointments since there's usually little waiting, so we were up at 5 a.m., out the door at 6, and in our parking spot at 7:15.  The waiting room was fairly empty, though that changed quite quickly.  I remarked that I didn't see Marci the Maladroit in the room where they draw blood, at which point Marci emerged and called my name.  She was on her game and found the vein, drew enough blood, and put in the appropriately sized IV.

From there we descended to the basement, where they do the x-rays and scans.  Again, there was very little waiting.  The most boring part usually is the 30-40 minutes when I drink the two large glasses of water necessary before a scan.  There are only three chairs in a row, facing a wall, with only a corridor separating the chairs from the wall.  It's always extremely cold, so they give you a warmed blanket.  This time, though, another guy waiting for a CT scan entered, started drinking his water, and initiated a conversation.  He too has stage 4 kidney cancer, though it was a diagnosed less than a year ago.  He was 56 and looked healthy.  He kept finding similarities between our cases: no symptoms in the kidneys, major tumors in the leg and hip, tumors also in the spine; he too takes 400 mg of Votrient and has Dr. Van as his oncologist and sang his praises.  When he said he prayed a lot, I bit my tongue, since I think he was very encouraged when I told him that in October, it would be four years at least that I've lived with the stage 4 cancer.

The tests went quickly, and then we returned to the second floor for our meeting with Dr. Van, which very uncharacteristically took place early.  The blood tests were generally fine, though the red blood count was, as always, low, as were the thyroid numbers, so we're going to increase the dosage of the thyroid med.  More important, the preliminary results of the CT scans showed that the primary kidney tumor hasn't grown.  One of the advantages of modern technology is that once the final results and the analysis are complete, I can log onto "My Chart" from the med center and read the complete results.  Now if I could only understand the vocabulary...

We left KC by 11 and were pretty much wiped out for the rest of the day.  After the scans, they always give me a yellow sheet with instructions of what to do to mitigate the effects.  I always just drop it in the waste can on my way out.  Perhaps sometime I should read it.

A year ago today, Mohamed and I woke up in Des Moines.  I had taken a break from the chemo so that maybe my stomach would cooperate during the previous day's trip and this day's events.  We drove 40 miles north to Story City, my hometown, where I discovered my childhood home had been razed, visited my parents' graves, and had lunch with a friend from school days whom I hadn't seen in the 50 years since we had graduated from high school.  Then we drove back to the hotel, where I crashed for a couple of hours before we met the four friends--two from Kansas, two from as far north in Minnesota as you can go without saying 'aboot'--who were coming to our marriage.  It was a beautiful late afternoon, and although it was too late in the season for the roses to be in bloom at the rose garden where we got married, the setting was still tranquil and beautiful. 

Who would have thought just a few years before that it would be possible for a same-sex couple to marry?  And in Iowa yet--the heart of the Midwest.  But today we celebrate our first anniversary, though in a state that doesn't recognize our union. 

There was also another anniversary in July.  On July 16, 2007, after months of Skyping, Mohamed and I met face-to-face for the first time.  Thus began two years of a very long-distance relationship before May 2009 when Mohamed arrived in Topeka to stay.  Seven years since we met, five years of living together, one year of being married--a lot of blissful celebrations in July.

Last week we had an uncharacteristic break in summer heat, so I gathered all my energy, and we finally leased a new car.  I was good for about two hours at a time.  We considered buying out the Venza lease, but when you negotiate a lease, you want the highest possible residual value (so the lowest lease payments), and that figure was too high to be practical.  The Honda dealership didn't seem to be keen on negotiating a lease on a Crosstour, but the Nissan dealership was more agreeable and had a large stock of Rogues.  All the walking and getting in and out of cars was exhausting, and the final process took nearly three hours, but we ended up with a "midnight jade" Rogue at a good price.  When I drove it, it was the first time in two years that I had been behind the wheel. 

My health has been pretty much the same, except for a series of new aches that mysteriously appear and then, so far, disappear.  It's frustrating not to know which are just the consequences of old age and which may have something to do with the cancer.  But after nearly four years of living with uncertainty, there's not much to do about it except to be thankful I'm still around to celebrate anniversaries.

It was probably last year on this date that I wrote about my looking over my shoulder as I turned 68.  My father and both my grandfathers died at that age, so it didn't seem a propitious anniversary.  A number of readers responded with their own superstitious unlucky numbers.  When I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at age 65, I thought, Well, so much for having to worry about being 68.  But I just keep hanging in there, and today, as France and I celebrate our birthdays, I have a new reason for not having to worry about being 68: it's in the past. 

The ramifications of the Hobby Lobby/Conestoga case continue to spread.  Although Justice Alito wrote that it was a narrow ruling, by the next day, the Court had sent down orders broadening the implications to include all contraceptive devices.  That was followed by the Wheaton decision excepting the Christian college from even filling our the paperwork for a religious exemption. Alito's decision couldn't have been based on precedence, supposedly beloved by conservatives, because precedence was not on the majority's side.  Instead, Alito cited nearly 140 times the Religious Freedom Restoration Act passed with near unanimity by the Congress and signed into law by Pres. Clinton in 1993.  Still, a law with a name as blatantly hypocritical as RFRA might have given liberals a second thought at what the consequences were going to be. 

The five justices in the Hobby Lobby majority were all conservative and all male.  They were also all Christian.  Does anyone seriously think that if the petitioners were Muslim or Native American, the Court would have come to the same conclusion?  And not only Christian, but all five are Catholic, for whom contraception seems to have become, after fifty years, a new cause celèbre.

The ripples don't end there, however.  ENDA, the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, designed to protect that LGBT community in the workplace is the next logical target of those with "sincere," if discriminatory, religious beliefs.  ENDA passed the Senate, but in order to get the votes of enough conservative Republicans, it carved out exceptions for non-profit religious institutions, such as hospitals or universities, which would still be allowed to discriminate.  The bill, like so many, is stalled in the House.  But now that SCOTUS has blurred, if not eliminated, the distinction between for-profit and not-for-profit institutions, ENDA has potentially been eviscerated.  Liberal groups like the ACLU and Lambda Legal Defense have withdrawn support, fearing the bill makes things worse by codifying the right of corporations to discriminate at will--as long as they're sincere and do so in the name of religion.

Happy Fifth of July.  I'm always happy when the Fourth is over, not that I'm under any illusions that the fireworks will stop.  I'm not feeling particularly patriotic, especially as I watch flag-wavers stopping buses and yelling insults and obscenities at the children inside.  Nor does the Hobby Lobby decision, yet another victory for conservative Christians and another defeat for women's rights, inspire me.  Justice Alito's majority opinion was striking for what it ignored.  While Justice Ginsburg's dissent spent the first several pages focusing on the consequences for women, Alito casually suggested that other ways of paying for contraception were available and moved on.  Potential challenges about transfusions or vaccinations were just as blithely waved away by Alito and friends, despite Scalia's own warnings about ensuing confusion and law suits in Employment Division v. Smith if any religions could opt out of laws and regulations.  In his opinion, J. Alito took pains to say that this decision was a narrow one, concerned only with the specific contraceptive devices Hobby Lobby and two other corporations objected to.  Yet by the next day, SCOTUS had sent out orders to lower courts suggesting that they consider, for example, Catholic objections to all contraception in considering further cases.

The week of the Fourth is also difficult because Kimber, our 80# German shepherd, is scared to death of fireworks and cowers under our feet or hides in a windowless bathroom for most of the week.  She refuses to go out after about 5 p.m.  Luckily, she seems to have a bladder of steel.  Last night we gave her a tranquilizer, making her look like Deputy Dawg or Droopy, but at least keeping her relatively calm.  It's 8:33 a.m. as I write this, and already there are fireworks outside.

July 3rd was the worst day I've had since I got out of my abduction brace three years ago.  Suddenly at mid-morning, I developed strong pains below the ribs, from front to back, on the left side of my body.  They hurt.  And they were also frightening, since they were only on the left side, which is where the primary kidney tumor is.  Meanwhile, the normal household calm was disrupted by the arrival of two Merry Maids.  While it's nice to have a monthly deep cleaning, it's also a little awkward to have two people bustling about.  The lawn people came, and I had an argument with the owner of the service, and Kimber was, of course, under foot as the morning was marked by numerous booms.  I took an extra Percocet and went to sleep.  When I woke up, the pains were gone, only to return in a few minutes.  Another Percocet, another nap, another temporary relief.  I couldn't eat, but that didn't stop relentless diarrhea and some nausea, the latter of which is only an infrequent problem.  And then, around 7 or 8 p.m., the pains stopped as suddenly as they had appeared.  I was fine yesterday as well.

There was some good news concerning the blog during the last week.  A colleague of one of my former colleagues sent a very nice e-mail.  He had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer, my ex-colleague had suggested he take a look at this blog, and he had read his way through all 240+ entries, no mean feat, and found it useful.  I re-connected with someone whom I'd known from K-12 in my small town class of 33, but whom I haven't seen in 51 years.  He, too, was reading the blog all the way through, "crying, laughing, and taking notes."  I'm hoping there won't be a quiz.  He lives in Seattle and asked for my address so he could send me something.  He overnighted a cold pack with two dozen oysters and two pounds of Alaskan salmon.  I couldn't eat at all on the 3rd, but yesterday, I celebrated the Fourth by downing all but one of the oysters.  Mohamed tried that one.  As there is perhaps no food I love as much as oysters and as Kansas isn't exactly the seafood capital of America, I didn't even feel guilty about scarfing down every single one of the rest of them.  That did make for a happy Fourth after all.

After all the activity at the end of May and the spring semester, June has been very quiet, hence the lack of posts.  Also, I haven't felt very well for the last few weeks--nothing major or strikingly different, just an increase in symptoms, especially fatigue.  So blogging would probably have been more a list of complaints than anything interesting.

This week, however, we made two trips to Kansas City.  Yesterday was the six-week visit to the cancer center, starting at 9:30, so we didn't have to get up too early.  The Med Center initiated a new computer system about a week ago, so there were some glitches as everyone tried to adapt.  We weren't impressed, as it seemed to increase the amount of paperwork.  Each time anyone goes in (and the people who take chemo therapy two or three times a week there must do this at every visit), s/he has to fill out several pages of forms, all of which used to be entered directly into the computer.  No one seemed to be convinced that this was really an improvement.  After filling out the forms, we got directly in for the blood work, and then there wasn't a wait till we had the consultation with Jennifer, the physician assistant.  Almost everything was normal except for the hemoglobin count, which suggests a low red blood count and borderline anemia.  The only thing left after that was the bone-strengthening shot, which should have been quick, but for which we had to wait for well over an hour, sending both of us into a bad mood.  Thus, everything remains stable, and we should have left in a better mood given the encouraging news. 

We had also gone in on Tuesday evening.  Our friend Richard from L.A., for two years now the spokesperson for H&R Block, which is headquartered in KC, had been flown into to make a recruiting video.  He had been accompanied by his Spanish-language counterpart, who also does the Spanish radio traffic reports for several cities, including Kansas City, though he does them all from Los Angeles.  He's friends with the Spanish-language Dodger commentator.  The Dodgers were playing in KC and staying at the same hotel, so the night before they had all gone to watch the Royals beat the Dodgers.  Richard may not be a major sports fan, but between the fountains and the fireworks and the good comped seats, he had a fun evening.

We picked Richard up at the hotel, and as we were driving up Main Street to Lidia's restaurant, Richard suddenly and confusingly said, "Here I am."  There was an H&R Block office on Main, and there was a life-sized cut out of him in one window and another poster in a second. 

Lidia Bastianich is a major TV presence and cookbook offer, and several years ago, she opened a lovely and reasonably priced restaurant in KC.  It's fun, but--and this is totally heretical--I think very uneven.  We had delicious starters: a plate of frito miso and another of the best sweetbreads I may have ever eaten.  But of the trio of pasta we had for the main course, only one seemed to me to be really good, the other two satisfactory at best.  Although the space is quite beautiful, when it's crowded as it was that night (the busiest Tuesday our waiter said he'd ever seen), it's also quite noisy.  As entertainment, it was "Dog's Night Out," and diners could bring their dogs to the patio seating, where the dogs could choose from a variety of dishes, including vegetarian choices.  I don't think any was old enough to order wine.

It was a fun evening.  Richard is always good for conversation, and it is nice to see how much he enjoys (and is good at) his new, post-retirement gig.

After the good news from the cancer center on Friday, two more pieces of happy news:

First, and most important, after five years of study, Mohamed is now officially a graduate of Washburn with a B.A. in economics.  Although he already had an A.A. degree in business from a Dubai university and although, after his transcript's having been evaluated by an independent agency, Washburn accepted 86 hours of credit, the business school here would accept none of them, so essentially he started from scratch--all the university requirements, the general education requirements, and the degree requirements.  The last course caused a bit of stress.  The professor said she would post the grades by Friday, but they didn't appear until 2 p.m. Monday.  With Washburn's new online system (this wasn't an online course, but there were lots of online components), class members can see the class roster and who's online at any given time.  There were four or five obviously scared students who were online waiting for the grades continuously from Friday.  We were checking roughly every 30 minutes during waking hours--and sometimes in the middle of the night.  Finally and suddenly the good news appeared.  So big congratulations to my husband.

Excerpts from this blog were published last fall as an article in the Oklahoma Humanities Journal.  Carla Walker, the editor, and I were nominated for best feature writing in a magazine by the Great Plains Journalism Association.  I'll just copy and paste Carla's e-mail to me about the results:

The Great Plains Journalism Awards, sponsored by the Tulsa Press Club, were held on Friday at the Mayo Hotel in Tulsa. The competition honors the work of journalists, writers, photographers, and designers among eight Great Plains states: Arkansas, Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, North Dakota, Oklahoma, and South Dakota.

 

Tulsa Press Club president Nicole Burgin says, “This event was designed to celebrate the professionals who hold people in power accountable, who expose injustice, and who use words and images to tell stories that move us to action or change how we think about important issues.”

 

And the 2014 Great Plains magazine feature writing winner is …

 

HOWARD FAULKNER, author, and Carla Walker, editor, for “Rabbit Punched: An Atheist’s Guide to Living with Cancer”!!!

 

Howard, I can’t tell you how proud I am of this award. It’s all well and good to win for “best cover” or “best page design,” but this award honors the content of our magazine—the heart of programming we use to connect citizens with the humanities. It says that among all the entries of slick magazines with hundreds of pages, multiple staff, and the advantages of ad income and high-dollar budgets, your writing was judged as not only award-winning, but THE BEST. It is, in my judgment, the most prestigious honor our publication has received. Congratulations on this recognition of your talent and the work you’re doing to share your experience. This award is tangible evidence of the value your efforts.

 

Coming your way [watch your mailbox] is a handsome oak plaque, carved with the Great Plains Journalism Awards insignia and your name as “Winner, Magazine Feature Writing.”

 

 

Carla, a Washburn graduate, has done a marvelous job as an editor of the journal, and she did great work editing my blog entries.  I turned the job totally over to her; she did all the selection and the editing of individual entries, and she created a full and representative sampling.  She also wrote a charming introduction.  Washburn (and the English department) should be very proud of her and her work.

 

Friday was the day of our regular six-week trip to the KU Cancer Center, this time for blood work and CT scans.  The first tests were scheduled for 7:15 a.m., which meant we had to get up at 5 and leave a little before 6.  It didn't seem like an ideal time to me, but it worked out well as I was first or second for each test.  Unfortunately, I got my nemesis, the incompetent Marci, for the blood work.  But she was on her game Friday, and found the vein and even put in the right-sized IV connection.  (She sometimes puts in one that's too small, so the CT people have to take it out and start over again.)  Next came the scans, after my drinking the two large cups of water.  There was only one person ahead of me.  They do three or four scans without contrast, and then they use the port to introduce the contrast, which sends a warm feeling throughout the body.  After that there was a two-hour break, when I could finally have some coffee and a bagel.

Dr. Van was even on time for the 10:20 consultation.  Everything, once again, was hunky-dory.  For the second visit it a row, I had actually put on weight.  The primary tumor had grown a paltry .1 centimeter, and none of the other tumors had grown at all.  So we'll continue on the same regime, since it has been working so well.  The ride home was uneventful.  We stopped at our go-to restaurant for lunch, during which I had a serious bout of stomach problems, which continued for the next 24 hours. 

Friday Michele Obama was in Topeka to speak to the graduating seniors from the three Topeka public high schools.  She had originally been scheduled to speak at a joint commencement the next day, which was the 60th anniversary of the Brown v. Board decision.  But there were protests, ostensibly because the individual traditions of the three high schools would be lost, so the speech, bland, but well-received, was rescheduled.

And Friday was also good in that the two robin eggs in a nest on our back deck hatched.  Three years ago, robins built a nest in the same place.  Mohamed took wonderful pictures of the nest, of the four beautiful eggs, and of the baby birds, constantly demanding to be fed.  Just as the fledglings were ready to leave the nest, I had to go to KU Med for nine days for the new titanium femur and hip joint.  When we returned, the nest had been destroyed and the young birds were gone--or at least three of them were.  One had not fared well.  This year, Mohamed is again photographing the progress of the two birds.  I sit on the deck and watch the mother bird, who watches me back.  I hope this time we'll be around to see the two young birds fly successfully away.

Yesterday was the green card interview at the Department of Homeland Security in Kansas City for Mohamed and me.  The green card, which is once again actually green(ish) after three decades of being other colors, is the informal name for Permanent Residence.  As a permanent resident, one has most of the rights of a citizen: the ability to stay in the country without further restrictions, to work, to travel abroad, but not to vote.  In most cases, including Mohamed's, the initial green card is granted on a conditional basis with all old and new information reviewed after two years to continue the validity of the card.  The results of yesterday's interview were good: my supporting material was accepted and Mohamed was granted the green card.  But the interview itself was extremely unpleasant and soured--more so for me than for Mohamed--the experience.

Saturday had been in the mid-80s, and the a/c had run full blast Saturday night.  But temperatures had fallen, the a/c had changed to heat, and by the time we drove to KC yesterday, there was snow the entire way.  Luckily, the roads were warm enough so that none of the snow stuck.  We arrived a little after 9 a.m. for a 9:40 appointment.  The waiting room was fairly empty when we got there, but quickly filled up.  Finally, about 10, we were called.  The interviewer was the worst kind of bureaucrat: he made it clear that he was in charge, he wanted no small talk or humor, and he wanted to stay on his script, letting us know that our fate was in his hands.  He said "you was" at least half a dozen times and seemed to resent the fact that I had been a college professor.  When at one point, I asked whether he didn't get frustrated with all the paper work (he had a huge file and was constantly stapling and punching papers), he said it was no different from being a college professor.  Later, trying to make a point that eluded me entirely, he said, "If I was a college English professor and gave someone an F..."  I wanted to say, "If you was a college English professor, your students should change to a different section."

He asked no personal questions about how we met or how long we'd been together.  He asked only whether we knew each other's birth dates (no sweat there) and whether we knew the other's parents' first names.  I knew Mohamed's only because I filled out so many forms; Mohamed didn't know mine, though I did manage to insert that they died in the early 1980s.  When I talk about them, I say my mom or my dad, not Ruth or Howard, so why would Mohamed know their names?  He did go through all the questions that seemed so silly on the written form (and that were already answered): was Mohamed now or had he ever been a member of the Communist party?  did he advocate the violent overthrow of the US government? did he plan on practicing polygamy? 

As he thumbed through all the papers, he said that none of our letters of support had been notarized.  "Yes, they are--all of them," I said.  He looked disgruntled and said "Well, the one from this Carol Miller hasn't been."   "Yes, it has," I said, so he moved on.  He did like the joint bank statements, but didn't seem to understand the concept of electronic bill paying and going paperless.

There had been a long list of documents that we should bring to the interview, but he wasn't interested in any of them.  When I said I had this year's tax returns, which were the first where we filed jointly and which hadn't been available when we made the green card application, he waved them away saying they were "just data" even though the last three years of tax returns were one of the specific requirements of the application.  What I needed to do, he said, was to write the IRS and get a statement attesting to my tax returns. 

The last ten minutes of the interview consisted of his saying that he would consider the application over his lunch hour and either ask for more information or grant the request.  The focus was on all that we had done wrong with this application and how to do it right the next time--either immediately if he demanded more information or in two years.  And then he showed us out.  There hadn't been one moment of any sort of real interest in us or our situation. 

The USCIS website has been very good in updating the status of the application.  Although we didn't really expect any information until today, we kept the site open and kept refreshing the page on the status of our application.  Suddenly at about 3:30, both pages changed.  Mohamed's skipped the two sections on 'decision' and 'post-decision activity' and went right to 'production of documents,' indicating that the production of the green card had begun.  (This morning it went backwards to 'decision,' saying that the application had been granted.)  Mine changed a rather cryptic message, but this morning it changed again to say that my application of support had been approved.

So the news is good, and we can breathe a huge sigh of relief.  Mine, I'm afraid, is still tinged with irritation at how arbitrary bureaucratic processes are and how easily one person could have changed our lives.

For the fourth time in the nearly three years I've taken Votrient, I gave myself a week off.  By ten days ago, my stomach was in such turmoil that I couldn't continue with the routine.  Although stopping the chemo doesn't do anything for the waves of fatigue, the effect on my G-I tract is immediate.  The first day after quitting, I had a rueben panini with pork belly, sauerkraut, and swiss cheese with no consequences whatsoever.  Two days ago, however, I went back on the chemo; we'll see how long it takes for the meds to kick in.

The switch to e-cigarettes is going well.  Mohamed hasn't broken down once--not one real Camel for over two weeks now.  I cheat three times a day, but eventually the stash of real cigarettes will run out.  Going from, say, 25 cigs a day to three hasn't been too difficult.  And when I do break down, the Camels aren't satisfying.  Still, I have those occasional urges to puff away non-electronically.

Topeka continues without Fred Phelps.  There was no funeral, since he'd been excommunicated from his church.  What must he have thought during the last few months of his life--driven from his church and from his home?  Did he still think of himself as the righteous one with all his former church members now among the reprobates?  His was a life that truly ended not with a bang but a whimper.

We have a leased Toyota Venza, and the lease is up on August 1.  It's almost impossible to believe that it's been three years since we chose the car.  I had just had my abduction cast removed and movement was painful.  The temps were in the triple digits, and I had no motivation to go car shopping--no motivation except that the lease was up in a few days.  When we finally chose the Venza, I said to myself that this was the last time I'd ever go car shopping.  We got an insurance policy to cover the lease after my death.  Three years later and I'm still kicking.  We've spent a couple of weeks looking at cars (crossovers mostly) on the road and the last two days visiting dealerships.  So far the Honda Crosstour seems to be leading the pack, but we've got three more months to decide.

We've had six consecutive months of below normal temperatures.  And April has begun on the same note.  I'm ready for spring.

The Supreme Court in McCutcheon continues politically rewarding the rich.  C. J. Roberts argued that unless there's a direct and clear quid pro quo, political contributions didn't lead to corruption--or even the appearance of corruption.  Meanwhile, potential Republican 2016 candidates and tuches leckers extraordinaire made the pilgrimage to Las Vegas to kowtow to Sheldon Adelson.  The most humorous moment was when the supposed bully Chris Christie had to return to grovel before Adelson because Christie had had the nerve to call the occupied territories 'the occupied territories.'

Tuesday was yet another six-week visit to KU Med.  This time it was just blood work, a consultation, and a bone-strengthening shot.  Everything went smoothly except that once I got there, I noticed a large blood stain on the front of my shirt.  Once in a great while, the daily morning shot will bleed a little; it is an anti-coagulant after all.  I had noticed a few drops of blood when I was in the shower, but I'd put a Band-Aid on it.  Evidently that hadn't worked.  But all the results were within normal range, so nothing has changed there.  I don't mind shots, but the expensive one that strengthens the bones sometimes hurts a bit.  This time, the nurse said, "One, two, three," and I waited for the prick but felt nothing.  When I turned to look, she was taking the needle out. 

The physician assistant didn't seem as impressed as we had thought she'd be when we told her that we had stopped smoking--or at least switched to e-cigarettes.  We're using a modular system that satisfies all the characteristics that make smoking satisfying: something to do with your hands, inhaling, exhaling vapor, and tasting.  The system comes with a variety of flavored "e-juices" that soak a wick.  It's not a perfect solution, but it's a step.  The doctors haven't mentioned giving up smoking since the beginning.  One resident mentioned it a few months ago, but then said, "Oh, well, you've got terminal cancer anyway, so I suppose it doesn't make any difference."  So far, Mohamed has been perfect: not one cigarette in ten days.  I cheat about twice a day. 

Obviously, I've lost--temporarily, I hope--the momentum for posting.  The days, especially as winter lingers, are marked more by routine than by excitement.  There's the routine of pills: I get up and swallow 8 or 9 pills while waiting for Mohamed to give me my daily shot in the stomach.  After literally a thousand shots, it's hard to find a place for the next one.  He swabs my stomach with an alcohol rub and says, "Sorry.  This is going to hurt."  It never does (or at least not very much or very often), and when he pulls the needle out, I say, "Thanks, sweetie," and the day continues.  At noon there are two pills, before dinner there are four more, at bedtime two more, and in the middle of the night one last one.  There's also the routine of sleep.  Three hours awake in the morning and then the black curtain descends, and there's 90 minutes of sleep.  Two more hours of wakefulness (lunch time) and then two hours of sleep.  Another couple of hours awake, and from 6 to 7 p.m., one last crash. 

Meanwhile, over the last two weeks, the stomach problems have returned--and there's no routine for them, just complete unpredictability.  More worrisome have been pains in my right thigh and hip.  For about ten days, it was as if I'd strained all the muscles at once.  Walking hurt, standing from a sitting position hurt more, and climbing stairs was worst of all.  The surgeon who had done the operation nearly three years ago was unresponsive to my messages.  A few days ago, the pain started abating on its own.  It's not completely gone, but it's much better. 

So my health isn't exactly an uplifting topic for posts.  We go back to the oncologist next Tuesday, though just for blood tests.

In Topeka, the major news story is the death of Fred Phelps Wednesday night.  One of the disadvantages of being an atheist in this case is not believing in an afterlife.  I'd settle for just a thirty-second one, long enough for Fred to have an oopsie-moment.  While online and in town people debate whether to picket his funeral, the argument is moot, since there'll be  no funeral.  The official WBC explanation is that they "don't worship the dead," but one of his estranged sons has blogged that last August Fred was excommunicated from the church and evicted from his home on church property.  The clan was out yesterday, smiling and laughing, as they picketed on one of their favorite corners.

And now for something completely different: one of the joys of teaching was always the very bright students, the ones whose papers I put on the bottom of the pile when grading so that when I didn't think I could face another essay, there was one I could count on to be a pleasure to read, the ones who made me question whether I wrote that well when I was an undergraduate.  One such student, Melissa Sewall, has kept in touch occasionally via e-mail.  After I wrote that the tumor had grown, but we weren't going to treat either "by surgery or by ablation," Melissa wrote that she found that a particularly poetic phrase and wanted to write a poem using it.  That sounded like a challenge to me, but here's the lovely poem she produced:

By Surgery or By Ablation

for Dr Faulkner

 

Tempus fugit and does not fugit

hour by hour, month by month,

the bones eroded silent

while you gestured   chalk-dusted

Dickinson into existence

It was not Death, for I stood up

 

No point in removing the tumor

by surgery or by ablation,

scapula   femur

cells gleefully propagating new cells

grown from dime to nickel-sized

by hook or by crook

by nausea   by fatigue

And all the Dead, lie down

 

I dreamed you needed me

It was not Night

I moved two couches

organized the clutter

made the flow of space better

I forgave that one B

for all the Bells

let bygones be bygones

wrapped my arms around you

Put out their Tongues for Noon

 

sickness takes you by storm

you lose more weight

there is no hurry

we sit idly

by

 

After my last entry (an unconscionably long time ago), a thoughtful reader suggested that my listing Votrient and luck as what's kept me going was incomplete: Mohamed should definitely have been included.  And who can argue with that?  His first task every morning for literally more than a thousand times is to give me an injection in the stomach.  Three times a day I disappear into a deep sleep--not exactly a fun person to be around.  When it's time to eat, I just sit like a lump on the couch, waiting to be served.  When I wake from my third crash (6-7 p.m.), I often think we should go out for dinner, but it's cold and dark and windy, and it's just so much easier to send Mohamed for take-out.  Without Mohamed I have no idea what these last 3½ years would have been like. 

Last Thursday we drove to Kansas City for Mohamed's electronic fingerprinting at the Department of Homeland Security.  The drive both ways was horrible--winds gusting to 48 mph with a cold, hard rain on the way in.  By the time we drove back, the rain had changed to sleet, hail, and then driving snow.  The workers at the Department, even those who ran the security screening, were almost theatrically friendly.  The waiting room looked like a miniature UN with people speaking Slavic, African, and East Asian languages, many in their native dress.  The fingerprinting itself took about ten minutes, a long drive for such a short transaction.  The next step is the interview, which will take place at the same facility.  Everything should be in order; we've been together for seven years, two of them long distance.  All the financial documents are complete, and we have wonderful letters of support.  But it's hard not to worry that the differences in age, culture, and religion might make us the object of extra scrutiny.  We can check the progress of the application online, but until the interview, nothing changes there.

It's 7º here at the moment with new snow on the ground and more on the way.  Other than the endless winter as a downer, Kimber hasn't been herself.  She has a problem with her left rear leg and yelps when she has to stand or climb stairs.  She's generally lethargic and doesn't have much appetite, though since she'd gained eight pounds since her last visit to the vet, she's going a diet.  She has what we had assumed was a fatty tumor, but before we took her to the vet, I  had begun to imagine that it was cancerous and that because of my tardiness in having her examined it had spread to the leg.  But the vet seemed unconcerned.  The fatty tumor is just that.  He thinks her discomfort is just a matter of age and being overweight.  He gave her an anti-inflammatory.  If I were convinced, I'd be relieved.  But she's still lying upstairs, unable or unwilling to come down.  She hasn't gone out, and her breakfast remains uneaten.  Once outside, she runs around as usual and goes up and down the stairs to the balcony where she can keep an eye on the neighborhood without any seeming problems.  Maybe it's time to see if I can entice her to venture out.

Monday and Friday were spent at the KU cancer center.  Both days were uncharacteristically long, tiring, and frustrating.  But all was worth it once we got the results of all the testing--nothing but good news.  The primary kidney tumor hasn't increased in size, and no new tumors have developed in the rest of the body. 

Monday I had full skeletal x-rays and CT scans.  Just as we pulled into the parking garage, the phone rang.  The CT scanner was down.  Either I could reschedule or be sent to another facility for the scans.  Since I was already there and the x-ray machine was working, there was no point in rescheduling.  While I waited for the x-rays, I drank the two large glasses of "water" (they always assure me that the liquid is nothing but water, but I remain suspicious) that are necessary for a CT scan and had the IV port put in my arm.  There were 19 x-rays from my head (the first time) to my ankles. 

Then we were sent about a mile away to a new, but rather strange imaging center.  The small parking lot was made even smaller by the piles of snow from our 13" the week before, none of which had melted since we hadn't gotten above freezing in February.  Mohamed dropped me off and went in search of somewhere to park.  The clinic was overwhelmed by their own patients and everyone who had been sent from the cancer center.  We waited and waited.  The IV port bled a little when I'd bend my arm, and I worried that the liquid I'd drunk would wear off and I'd have to drink more--and then wait even longer.  But after a couple of hours in the very crowded waiting room, I finally got in, and the tests went ahead with no problems.  Neither of us had eaten (I couldn't eat before the scans, Mohamed because he'd been at school before we left).  Mohamed was worried about me, so we stopped at the McDonald's (I hadn't eaten there for years), and I scarfed down a quarter-pounder with cheese, fries, and a shake.  Mohamed ate nothing.  Once home, I crashed for a couple of hours, while Mohamed had to go back to school and then stop at a grocery store so that we (and in my view especially he, as an ex-English teacher would say) finally had something for dinner.

Friday, the technological problem was with the computer system with only a few of the computers at the Center working.  Blood was drawn, and then once again we waited and waited.  A couple of hours after the scheduled appointment we finally got in--and got all the good news.  The only anomaly was that the CT scan, but not the x-ray, showed a fractured rib--right side, rear, midway down.  Since I've never felt any pain and haven't fallen or stumbled backwards into a piece of furniture and since even if it was fractured, the doctors wouldn't treat it, it seems safe to ignore this one detail.  Otherwise, the good news was, of course, a relief.  I seem to be some sort of outlier among kidney cancer patients.  I can't attribute my status to clean living or to faith and prayer.  But whatever the cause--I'll attribute it to a combination of Votrient and luck--I'm not complaining.

The big news here, as in so many parts of the country, is the weather.  Tuesday we had exactly 13" of new snow.  Every university, school, government office, and church was closed--except Washburn.  Mohamed has an 8 o'clock class, so he, along with a few other hardy students and professors, braved the roads to go to school.  It wasn't long before Washburn realized the foolishness of staying open with ten more hours of snow on the way, so the university finally closed at midday, and those who had attended were sent back onto the roads.  Wednesday the school was more prudent and like every other NE Kansas institution canceled classes.  The wind chill was -18º yesterday morning.  Today we may hit the double digits above zero.  On the plus side, when I looked out the window Wednesday morning, our driveway had been plowed.  Neither of us had heard anything, but it was a pleasant surprise.  (I assume it was the guy who mows the lawn, since he also does snow removal, but he's never done it before, and there was no phone call.)

Three of the complaints about the Sochi Olympics sound familiar to someone who has lived two years in Eastern European countries (Skopje, Macedonia; Sofia, Bulgaria).  First are the missing manhole covers.  In both Skopje and Sofia, I had constantly to watch the ground when I walked, since manhole covers were routinely missing, and the danger of suddenly plunging into the sewer system was always present.  (In Skopje, people were constantly spitting, so I also had to watch out for flying sputum.)  People would steal the covers and sell them for scrap metal.  Once I was visiting a couple who were Fulbrighters in Sarajevo.  They said they had to take a couple of hours out on Saturday morning to attend a funeral of one of their colleagues, who, not watching where he was going, had fallen through a manhole.

Sofia, like Sochi, was also full of packs of wild dogs.  There was little point in putting garbage in the dumpster, since between the gypsies who rummaged through the trash and the wild dogs, all of it was going to end on the ground anyway.  The locals used to mourn the good old days when, because of the Communist ties, there were lots of Vietnamese students who, I was assured, ate the dogs, thus solving the problem.

And then there was the fact that in most places, including the university, you couldn't flush toilet paper and had to put it in a waste basket.  I taught at the major state university in a building which had once been very beautiful, but which was in sorry shape by the time I taught in Sofia.  There were perhaps a couple of thousand students in the building every day.  In the main part of the building, there was a unisex restroom with two stalls (and no urinals) on each floor.  The doors on the stalls had no closures on them, so you had to brace the door shut.  There was a waste basket for used toilet paper.  By the end of the day, the smell was not pleasant.  There was a sink in the restroom on my floor, but the pipes underneath weren't connected, so if you did turn on the water, it just ran out onto the floor.

Skopje, Sofia, Sochi--it all sounds familiar.

When I log into my BlogSpot account to write a new entry, I can also follow statistics on pageviews.  Mysteriously to me, the entry which has been viewed by far the most times is one I wrote on Frost's "Oven Bird" some time ago.  I don't even know exactly where it is in the 220+ entries, and I have no idea how or why other people find it.  There were nine pageviews of that entry yesterday alone. 

Monday we go to the Cancer Center in KC for full skeletal x-rays (it's been a while since they've been done) and CT scans.  We go back on Friday for blood work and the results of the tests.  Usually we can work them all in in one visit, but since Mohamed has morning classes, the consultation with Dr. Van has to wait till Friday.  If I don't post before, I'll certainly add an entry once the results are in.

I haven't done a poem in a long time.  Since it's another very cold and windy time in Topeka, there's not much new to report, so today seems like a good occasion to explicate a poem.  The only real news is that classes have begun again for Mohamed and a degree audit has confirmed that this is his last semester before graduation.  And we've been notified by the USCIS that Mohamed's green card application has been received and accepted.

The last two articles I published combined my love of linguistics and literature.  The longer one was an analysis of Melville's use of nominalization in his strange (and only heterosexual) novel Pierre (despite the subject, the article was somewhat light-hearted--or as much so as one can be in a discussion of Melville).  The other was a very brief explication of a sonnet by Gwendolyn Brooks:

A Note on Sonnet 2 of Brooks’s THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR

 

What shall I give my children? Who are poor,

Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land,

Who are my sweetest lepers, who demand

No velvet and no velvety velour;

But who have begged me for a brisk contour,

Crying that they are quasi, contraband

Because unfinished, graven by a hand

Less than angelic, admirable or sure.

My hand is stuffed with mode, design, device.

But I lack access to my proper stone.

And plenitude of plan shall not suffice,

Nor grief nor love shall be enough alone

To ratify my little halves who bear

Across an autumn freezing everywhere.

 

The title of Gwendolyn Brooks’s sonnet sequence “The Children of the

Poor” enunciates the theme and variations of the poems. From the first sonnet

about people who have no children to the last about the death of a child,

Brooks contemplates the uneasy and ambivalent relationships in poor families.

A mother whose children, while making no demands for luxury, still cry

out for a sense of completion that the mother cannot give them narrates the

second sonnet. The octave focuses on the voices of the children; the sestet, in

three sentences, describes the mother’s frustration at having “mode, design,

device,” but lacking “access to my proper stone” (9, 10).

In the last four lines, the only sentence in the sestet to be longer than one

line, the narrative voice says:

 

And plenitude of plan shall not suffice,

Nor grief nor love shall be enough alone

To ratify my little halves who bear

 

Across an autumn freezing everywhere.

 




 

 

 

The word “ratify” echoes the other legalistic language in the poem: “adjudged”

 

and “contraband.” The alliteration of the hard p in “plenitude” and “plan” (and

“proper” in the previous line) contrasts with the liquid l sound so prevalent in

the poem. But what claims the reader’s attention is something quite different

from normal prosodic considerations.

The verb “bear” is transitive. It requires an object. And so the reader

is faced here with a syntactic interpretive choice—nd finally, as for the

narrator, an unsatisfactory conclusion. If one were hearing the poem, the

next word, “Across,” would suggest a common expression—“to bear a

cross”—ut that possibility is ruled out when the listener discovers that

“Across” is one word, not two, and a preposition, not a noun. But what

is the object of “Across”? It could be the gerund “freezing,” modified by

the adjectival noun “autumn.” That leaves the reader with two adverbials

after “bear”— prepositional phrase and “everywhere”—lthough

still without a direct object.” One might also argue that “autumn” is the

object of the preposition, so that there is a shorter, temporal prepositional

phrase (“Across an autumn”), followed by a gerund (“freezing”), which

serves as the direct object, and then “everywhere,” the second adverbial,

one of place.

The problem with that reading, however, is that it violates a constitutive

rule of English grammar. In English, unlike many languages (as any teacher of

nonnative speakers will attest), native speakers do not place adverbs, however

flexible their position otherwise, between a verb and its direct object. Those

for whom English is a first language do not create sentences like “I studied

diligently the material” or “I read carefully the poem.”

Finally, therefore, none of the three readings I have suggested is satisfactory—the first because it

 

cannot be integrated into the rest of the line,

the second because it leaves the verb without an object, and the third

because it produces a sentence that is not English.

And yet that very inconclusiveness is perfectly apt for a poem whose theme

is the failure to complete. The first sonnet in the sequence ends with this

phrase: “And makes a sugar of / The malocclusions, the inconditions of love”

(13–4). Here the reader encounters a sort of “mal-conclusion,” an altogether

fitting trailing off, leaving the reader, like the children, feeling “unfinished.”

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

  
   

Relief!  The green card application is finally in the mail.  It's not unaccompanied by self-reproach, however.  Why did we wait so long to start the process?  We were married in July, so why not begin in August rather than December?  Why, once we had begun, did we proceed so slowly?  I usually pride myself on my efficiency at this sort of thing.  I've certainly filled out enough application forms in my life.  And why did I keep overlooking requirements so that each time we thought we were done, I'd discover something else that needed to be included.  And now there's the lingering suspicion that the tiniest error or omission is going to be a new roadblock, delaying action.  For every two- or three-page form, there were a dozen pages of instructions.  Could I have missed something?  The next steps are to wait for confirmation of receipt, set up an appointment for biometrics (electronic fingerprints, eye scans), hope for an interview, and then wait for the results. 

The most running around involved Mohamed's medical tests.  It took the "civil surgeon" (a term no one I know had ever heard of) two weeks to return our calls, and she was the only one in Topeka.  The trip to her office was surreal--an old house in an industrial section of north Topeka.  On the second trip, I noticed that there were only two other houses in the neighborhood, and both of them were boarded up.  Across the street was what was once, I think, a church, converted into a nightclub, but now also boarded up with the front iron grill flapping in the wind.  The office was open only by appointment.  On the first visit, the very chatty office manager had Mohamed fill out forms, which he then typed into his beloved IBM Selectric.  The doctor started the TB test, but couldn't find a vein from which to draw blood, so we had to go to a hospital for that.  Two days later, there was the 25-minute drive to the office for a 20-second confirmation that Mohamed did not indeed have TB.  Mohamed couldn't have his vaccinations until after the TB results, so a couple of days later we went to the county health agency for three immunizations.  Mohamed didn't have to wait long (45 minutes for a public agency seemed efficient to me).  When he was done, the nurse said, "You're good to go."  Mohamed asked where he paid, and that seemed to throw the office into a tizzy.  It was obviously a question they didn't hear often.  The first problem was finding the credit card machine.  Once everything was ready, the administrator asked how much he wanted to pay and was incredulous when he said, "All."  Then we had to drive home, since the civil surgeon wouldn't be in her office till two in the afternoon.   I crashed for thirty minutes, and then it was off again.  After a few more minutes of Selectric typing, the results were sealed in an envelope, which went into the application (we were given a photocopy, so there won't be any surprises), Mohamed stuck a pin into a world map, and we were on our way.

All that was left was to write three checks for the filing fees.  This should have been the easy part, if not the most pleasant.  But I dreaded it--not for the obvious reason but because my handwriting is shaky and (and I believe this is the word most often used) spidery.  It's often virtually illegible.  I had filled out the first form by hand, and when I tried to read back a series of numbers, even I couldn't read the last one.  (Luckily, all the green card forms suddenly appeared online in .pdf format, so handwriting was no longer a factor.)  All my life I've had when used to be called an Intention Tremor but is now called a Benign Essential Tremor.  My father had it too, though you couldn't mention it to him, as his coffee slopped out of the cup, because it made him angry to have it pointed out.  My hands shake--not all the time but when I intend to do something, and the more I'm aware of the intention, the more they shake.  It's extremely inconvenient and often embarrassing.  As juniors in high school, we had to serve the seniors dinner at the prom.  While the rest of my classmates were laughingly carrying several plates, it took me two hands to get one glass of water from the kitchen to the table.  Travelers' checks were a nightmare because I could never get the second signature to match the first.  After watching something on TV, I was trying to explain to Mohamed the difference between Catholic and Protestant views of communion.  As a teen-age Methodist I dreaded the once-every-three-months communion--tiny glasses of grape juice in a metal tray.  I'd get my neighbor to hold the tray so that I could use to two hands to try to extricate the glass.  Grape juice slopped everywhere, and the glass clanked against the tray.  Macedonians and Bulgarians served coffee in tiny cups that absolutely had to be filled to the brim.  I'd have to persuade them to set the cups on the table so I could try to pick them up with both hands.  The chair of the English department in Morocco was always helpful in taking them from the hosts, though at one point he told me he thought I had probably been an alcoholic who was suffering from the DTs.  Students sometimes asked me whether I had Parkinson's disease.

Handwriting, especially signing my name, was also sometimes a problem (though I actually liked writing on black/green/whiteboard in front of class).  But who writes by hand any more?  The checks I was going to write were the first checks I'd written in two months.  ATMs, EFTs--the joys of the modern electronic world.   So I hunched over the desk, shooed Mohamed away, and gathered my checkbook and pen.  In the 'pay to' box I had to write 'US Department of Homeland Security," no abbreviations allowed said the instructions.  Steadying my left (writing) hand with my right, I filled out the first line.  It wasn't beautiful, but it fit.  Three checks later, success--of a sort. 

Now it's time to relax, if a bit apprehensively, as the process unfolds, outside of our control.  Blood has been drawn, photos have been taken, and sweaty checks have been written.

It's been a busy--and hence exhausting--last few days.  Wednesday, our L.A. friend Richard, who was in Kansas City for the rollout of the new H&R Block commercials, drove to Topeka for a visit.  As I've mentioned, Richard became the star of last year's campaign for Block after answering a company e-mail asking for volunteers for their ads.  After a lot of winnowing, he ended as the primary spokesperson in a series of black and white commercials.  He hadn't told me about his new-found job, and I remember watching TV last year and suddenly there was Richard on the screen.  And once he was there, he was there often.  This year he's the focus once again.  We went to dinner at the Rowhouse, Topeka's best restaurant by far.  I usually prefer the second floor (it's in an old rowhouse, as the name suggests), despite steep and uneven stairs, as quieter.  Wednesday night there was a large and exuberant party in the next room, and then a party of three large and very loud diners was seated at the next table.  One of them complained about the portion sizes; another watched TV on his cell phone during the meal. 

The dinner was delicious.  We always get the tasting menu: amuse-bouche, salad, soup, vegetarian main dish, two other main courses, and three desserts--all moderately small but satisfying portions.  It was fun to catch up, especially learning about the making of the Block commercials (and how lucrative they were, even though they ran for only slightly more than three months).  This year's commercials debut today, so when you see them and a bow-tied main actor (and see them you will), that's Richard.  I had my three hours of alertness, but just before the dessert course, I crashed.  Still, I managed to eat the dessert, and it was great to see Richard, whom I hadn't seen in probably six years.

Thursday morning, we went for Mohamed's green card physical to the one civil surgeon in Topeka, the doctor who had been so difficult to contact.  The office was about as far from our house as possible, one of two houses remaining in what is now an industrial section of town.  We were the only clients there, and Doug, the office manager, was just as chatty in person as on the phone.  Mohamed filled out numerous forms, which he gave to Doug.  Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound from long ago: the whirr of forms being inserted into an electric typewriter.  And then the sound of the IBM Selectric.  I hadn't heard that sound in years, yet it was completely and immediately recognizable.  Doug assured us that they kept no electronic records; everything was on paper.  The house itself looked as if it hadn't been touched since about 1955.  After the accumulation of many pieces of paper, Mohamed went in for the first step of his physical: a TB test and blood work.  Unfortunately, the doctor couldn't find a vein from which to draw blood, so we had to go to the hospital for the drawing of the blood.  Later this morning, we go back for the civil surgeon who will examine the TB test.  Next week Mohamed will get three vaccinations, and once that's done, it's back to the Twilight Zone house for the final gathering of papers, which will be given to Mohamed in a sealed envelope.

Friday we had an early morning appointment at the Cancer Center in KC--just for blood work and a consultation.  I decided that there wasn't really any point in making the journey and that we could do the consultation over the phone.  Mohamed thought we ought to go.  I cleverly forgot to set the alarm, so by the time we were awake, it was late for the appointment.  I called, and the doctor promptly called back.  The good news was the echocardiogram was normal.  I had been a little apprehensive; who wants heart problems on top of cancer?  I'm going back on the Votrient, though I've decided to try taking it in the evening rather than the morning.  I'm not sure why, since the three-week break didn't affect the fatigue at all.  We set up appointments for four weeks from now during which I'll have the full battery, including full skeletal x-rays and CT scans. 

The chemo choices involve quality vs. quantity of life.  But for the moment, though the quality isn't what I had hoped for, it's certainly not terrible.  Life is diminished; there are many limitations.  But I'm not in pain.  I have a husband who loves me and for some inexplicable reason thinks that this 68-year-old body is still sexy.  He's an attentive caregiver without being intrusive--a tricky balance to achieve.  My mind still works.  Life is still as interesting and entertaining and occasionally infuriating as ever.  I still have a wonderful network of friends, also interesting and entertaining and occasionally infuriating.  I'm greedy.  If the chemo increases the quantity of life, then I'm willing to put up with the not-so-desirable side effects.  Cancer, schmancer, abi gesund.