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